BONDED BY FIRE

It

Happened then,

When we all,

Women!!! Old and Young,

Fat, Thin, Black to White,

Confused, Ashamed, Shy, Confident, Angry, Sad,

Met

In a

tiny space; HOME,

we called it then.

Colours, Fears, Strengths, and Weaknesses,

United us in the Bright Day

And

In those

Dark, hopeful Nights.

Two days and nights

We bonded – stories, nature, art

saw the moon, felt the sun.

Became

One Woman.

One to Many;

Many women, different women

We became one, breathed, existed;

United by the fire in Women.

This is a small attempt at capturing the essence of emotions, shared by few women, across all spectrum of culture, profession and roles; when we met at a small gathering, where we

“Had faith in the strength of the feminine collective…

And send love and light across many realms…

Believing in the power of the Wild woman”,

according to one of the fellow participant, who calls herself Earthling. This was facilitated and arranged by the Ecofemme team at Auroville, Pondicherry, India.

Note: I have tried to write my thoughts as a poem; where each line has one word more than what appears in the preceding line. I have followed this pattern till the it reaches six words, and again started back at one word. I chose 6, because it is the highest single digit number that is a factor of 360, which signifies a circle;  the beginning of an end of a beginning.

The milkmaid; by Raja Ravi Varma

Red and gold fading zari, still she holds it good

Her mistress gave it with loving eyes.

The scent of milk, it barely should

Reflect in the picture’s lies.

The sari pallu in her mouth, lest she let out a cry;

Thus thinks she, but the painter knows best

How a maid be depicted; lest the world sigh.

Her bindi’s red in the picture,

Her husband’s dead in the fixture;

In the king’s prison for treason,

But, in not being the king’s model, she finds no reason.

The milk in the urn is pure,

The milk in her bosom’s dear;

To her children who need her for sure.

The picture’s sale is near,

The milkmaid by Raja Ravi Varma

I was imagining a particular scenario running in the mind of the milkmaid who posed for this famous painting

Undefeated Sita

The abode of purity

Tested and tried by fire;

Seven times and over,

Still nothing to declare:

But ye, am not the Sita, the defeated one of eternity,

Of times to come, For generations to speak.

 

I had my share of lust, passion and heart-breaks.

I’m never imprisoned by any society’s gaze,

I lay bare and open, the blue sky above me;

Nothing to care; Am in no despair.

Am content, ten times over more,

For within my reach is the next one more.

 

Days come ‘n’ go,

My bosom’s wanton and it cries

For not want of comrades, but lack of solace.

Oh solitude, leave me no more!!!

I want to rest my head on thine lap.

 

Of yonder days, when I had to gaze,

The shyness and crimson in my bosom

It gave me immense pleasure to dream

Of lying in another blossom

With a man of name and fame and game.

 

I’m taken back to the present

The presents of my body play before me

They bring me peace, calm and purpose,

But nay, I don’t want to be bothered.

Let me make peace with the past and present,

And with each decision that I chose to resent.

 

My children, I’ll tend for you; a decision

I ought to meet; but it will only be for a while

And then, you too go to my past, one that I call a treason.

The bitterness, it’s killing me; or am I alive anymore?

Can I think or act or express – the reality of yore

It hits me again and again and again – a new way every time.

 

I think, I dream, and I act to protect

My children, who bring in sense and make me intense,

It’s calm that I need to preserve,

For I cannot perish anymore.

Rise, fall, but rise again, every now and then

For myself, my past and my future and all that is in between.

 

I see a glimmer, a shimmer, a ray

On every dark robe that I wore till now

Of promises made and kept and failed,

Yes, everything had a reason and more

I too have, to make peace, move on, conquer and live on to tell my lore

 

I am the Sita, who had a ‘maryada Ram’ by her side

Right before birth, till just before now

Every Sita has her struggle, has her Ram till the end;

Unless, she chose to see that she is never anyone’s ‘maryada’

She can make her own ‘maryada’; she is the mother, the creator

Unleash her potential and bring a new set of traditions

 

It is hers to show the way and guide

Each Ram that is drowned

In the eternal conflict between tradition and loss.

Her’s to rebel and make the path hard for Ram

Her’s to be subtle and let Ram discover for himself

 

No, there is no right or wrong in creating new traditions

The subtlest, the rebellious, the inspiring and less daring ones stay

Stay to be aped, imitated, debated, criticised, accepted, and again aped

Then, she can choose to keep guiding and making new paths

Or let Ram drive the chariot of tradition, of future, of hope

But, me, my Sita, let me guide my ‘maryada’, let me be my guru and guide.

 

Written over a period of nearly 4 years, this poem’s close to my heart and it reflects my evolution from an angered young woman to a more stable and practical woman. This is my personal favourite till date.