PHOENIX FLIGHT
Has
the time come when she must kill her,
choking
all that reeks of her weak, obsessed mind,
infested
with crawling maggots of longing
that
sap her of all strength?
Should
she disown her mangled corpse,
rotting
in the wilderness called ‘womanhood’?
Having
suffered it all, fulfilling needs of the flesh
now
turn towards her bruised soul;
re-mould
the decaying remains,
carving
a new woman of substance
who
yearns not to hear, from other lips,
words
of love and caring.
Instead
within herself be so fulfilled,
as
to sublimate her very existence.
Crucified
a million times,
burnt
at the stake as many times,
from
ashes grows new wings.
Glorified,
liberated, empowered at long last
free
of fetters, severed shackles, broken bonds.
Woman,
giver of life, love, abundance and prosperity;
the
goddess showering her infinite wealth
free
to soar, soar, soar on her phoenix flight.
OH! SACRED CITY OF KASHI
That day a glorious sun rose, as I
entered this home.
Stars in ‘kohled’ eyes, hands henna dyed,
radiant in red, glowing in gold, demure
and shy,
to protect me, into his arms I was led
on a rose strewn bridal bed,
Alas today, when the death dirge knocks
winds of fate have blown
ostracized, cursed by those waiting to
disown
out of the same, so easily I am thrown.
Red raiment rent to shreds, lights the
funeral pyre
smeared vermilion lends color, fanning
flames of fire,
broken bangles tinkle one last time, fall
for me evermore only the temple’s prayer call?
Obedient to dictates, blind as can be
deserted me, to die in ‘Holy Kashi’.
Most wounding was being deserted
on these (un)‘holy ghats’ by daughters
and sons.
O! self styled guardians of my life,
how you’ve fenced me in,
widowhood, oppressive and cruel in its
sway
no
lesser than ‘sati’, will burn me.
sinking in oblivion, this puppet fades
away
No festival religious, no neighbor nor
friend
no human company, into which I can blend.
The steep climb begins, eking livelihood,
in dirt stained streets, lost,
heartbroken, alone I stood.
If I’m a ‘child woman’ the least said the
better
either they rape me or turn into a
beggar.
Acid tongues lash out orders.
For a handful of rice, I prostrate
before their Gods and many an ungodly
other.
Endless hours of chanting, my stomach
empty still
lull me to sleep, with prayers having had
my fill.
Desolate ghats or just bare ground
these pavements I now call home
any shelter, any cover to be found,
cowering under newspapers or plastic
sheets,
shivering and bone chilled, I live
through rain and sleet.
My head freezes so, oh my head freezes
so, with half a torn sheet
for my shaven head is bare, when I cover
frozen feet.
If I manage to find a roof, if ever I
manage to find a roof
there’ll be tens of us living in one
decrepit room.
I stop resisting, yet I know not
forgiving
they cripple and hound me, I still carry
on living.
Even waiting for death, seems such
cruelty
for it promises to stretch into decades
of inhumanity.
But l keep waiting and hoping, waiting
and hoping,
hoping, one day my son will come to light
the fire.
Should I then leave him with guilt or
forgiveness
as he encircles my funeral pyre?
Oh! Sacred city of Kashi!
(The
Indian city of Kashi, also known as Varanasi is an ancient city with a rich
cultural heritage, where the holy river Ganga flows. It is famous for
Manikarnika Ghat and the Harishchandra Ghat, where Hindus cremate their dead
that are believed to attain salvation upon being cremated here)
THE PERSON THAT SHE IS
Perhaps not, the woman you want -
stereotyped, boxed, suffocated,
demeaned, battered, humiliated.
Her bearers burdened, give ads in papers
that almost read
“Dowry in millions, girl free
in *donation (*kanya daan)
Two enhancing assets
salary, education”,
best investment in relations.
She hardly matters
the woman that she is!
Your adventurous youth sows wild oats,
Sita’s a trial by fire
for only your orders,
should awaken her sexuality.
Salving your ego’s wounds,
forgets her own
the woman that she is!
The wing clipped bird, caged
peers through bars, dazed
blinding dust of time, servility;
wiped from her eyes,
her palms read, tries
creating new destiny
propitiated stars perhaps, may change
the woman that she is!
A kindly star descends,
a seed sprouts in the warmth
of the primal holy crypt of womanhood.
Sadistic barbarism forced to relent its
clutch on captive freedom,
As she decides to bear her child
by choice, not compulsion
in the mirage called marriage.
The woman that she has become!
The sun’s embrace thaws the ice maiden,
as cool breezes caress heavy limbs,
lilting bird songs, buzzing bees hum a lullaby
wafting with spring’s fragrance
as she croons and red music courses
through veins of life within,
snapping self imposed shackles of
solitude
gazing skywards, starry eyed now,
becomes the woman that she is!
Dr. Sunil Kaushal, gynaecologist, trilingual
writer also writes haiku, micro-poetry and limericks. Published in a number of
National, International anthologies and magazines, has won many awards and
competitions. Her poems have been translated into French, German and Greek.
Read her in Crumpled Voices 2, Feathers, Nature Poems, Forever a Lie, Bloodshot
Eyes, Learning and Creativity, Love – A Divine Madness Vol.1&2, Episteme,
Kafiyaa, On Fire Cultural Movement, Muffled Moans, her blog
sunilkaushal44.blogspot.in In October 2017 she was honoured at the Indian World
Poetree Festival with The Enchanting Muse Award(International) and Fellow
of the Regal World of Scribes(FRWS), by The Pentasi B Poetree Group. Currently
her memoirs “Gypsy Wanderings”, her book of poems and translation of her
brother P.S.Gill’s book, “Where is The Second World?”, German to English, keep
her busy. Sketching, Yoga, meditation,
Classical and Sufi music charge this 74-year old with vitality, staying in love
with life!
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