Poetry: Snigdha Agrawal

Snigdha Agrawal

ODE TO KOLKATA 

Sweet old lady sits pretty

On the banks of the Hooghly

More than four centuries

Aged, but still a striking beauty

Unmindful of criticism levelled

Her attitude one of laissez faire 

Fiercely guards her womenfolk 

In her bosom nestled

'Don't ever mess' with Her

You're in for big trouble

Sweet old lady can turn pesky

If her feathers are ruffled

She exudes warmth always

Hospitable to whosoever visits

And once on her lap have rested

Hard to leave without offering praise

She has softness unparalleled 

She's out and out traditional 

Yet amenable to modern ways 

British India's first capital 

She's an out and out foodie

Has a sweet tooth indeed

Her sweets none can resist

‘Rossogolla’, ‘Sandesh’ don’t miss

Never flaunts her riches

Humility her second name

Raised three Nobel laureates 

Few more nearly made it

And if you think her wheels 

Of progress have been stilled

No, it's moving, moving unseen

To rise and stamp her seal

So, if cynics say otherwise, 

Listen, don't argue; not worth it!

Those who flew out of her warm nest

Love and know; she’s the best!

***

THE QUIENTESSENTIAL ‘BANGALI’  

It's okay to call us lazy bones 

Coz we sleep in the afternoons 

After 'pet pujo' of "macher jhol"

"aloo posto" ending with mishti pan

Tell me who will not doze off?

‘Siesta’ as the Italians would call

It's okay to call us "anthels"

Coz on everything, have an opinion 

After so much reading, since early age

Kafka, Karl Marx, any book you name it

It's just but natural, to be labelled

As "The Argumentative Indian"

You're spot on! We love adda sessions

Leaning on the street lamp post

Sipping on ‘chai’, making smoke circles

ITC to be blamed for this 

Opening its first office at Radha Bazar Lane

Knowing sales would take off from this place

“Smoking injurious to health”

You're bang on! About our passion

For football, cricket, all sports, all seasons

Food invariably creeps into discussions 

Foodies we are, proved time and again

Most importantly, every Bengali an artist

Known unknown, at their creative best

Kolkata nurtured us, as her children 

Some born from her womb, some adopted 

Impartial has always remained to them

Giving wind under the wings to sail

On high seas of opportunities

Returning whenever emotions 

Tugged and swayed

Children of Her soil, or visiting guests

She opens the door to her boudoir

With a "namaskar", covered bowed head

Door never slammed on anyone’s face

She’s Mother; knows nothing else

"Bhadrota", in her ingrained

Stands out for her elegance and grace

"Old" and the "new" evenly spaced

Resilience to deal with the unexpected

Rising to the occasion when warranted

Changing for a better version everyday

Without compromising or tweaking 

On values long held.

Making her unique in every respect

Much loved, much hated

Nonetheless remains centre stage 

Whether praised or subject of

Critical comments

***

CRUSHED HIBISCUS (Prose/Poetry)

Why did the red hibiscus turn into a wilted white lily, left in a vase, water unchanged, sorrow eating away at her insides? This is a story that needs to be told. And the unfairness of it all!

Within a nanosecond, the redness is replaced with look of starkness. The radiant red scrubbed of her parting again and again, till the scalp bled, looking clean. Her Bangles red and white broken, with a vengeance, to declare her changed status. Red bordered sari thrown out of her closet. White doesn’t become that woman, diktat, society laid. Nor her long silken black tresses remain; cut to resemble a pixie head. A tradition, so men find her undesirable.

Fish, meat, eggs, garlic, onions, no more form part of her diet. Bulldozed into becoming vegetarian. That food doesn’t go down her gullet, taste for fish curry with mustard sauce, clings to her palate. She is given food after the rest have eaten. Alone, hidden, left to choke on mashed rice and vegetables.
Once held and worshipped as Goddess, suddenly becomes persona non grata; invisible. They, who once bowed down to touch her feet, seek her blessings; avoid her like the plague.

Her presence is evil, forbidden from participating in religious functions. No invitations to her extended for weddings, baby showers, “Annaprashan”. Her presence considered inauspicious for auspicious occasions. Canvas of life in one brush stroke whitened.

Every month she ovulates, her hormones play havoc with her emotions. Douses with buckets of cold water, rising heat of passion, white sari clinging to her youthful form, firm breasts; so many suckled on them. Recalls his gentle fondles, resting his weary head, whenever troubled. Breasts now feel like dead weight, in his absence.

She had dreams of ageing with him, taking her last breath on his chest. Being once again, dressed in the red brocade sari worn when she had wed, and parting streaked with vermilion. Hands full of bangles, feet painted with ‘alta’ red. Women surrounding her, commenting “Oh! How lucky she died ‘Suhagan’, indeed she’s blessed”. Husband lighting funeral pyre, watching her go up in flames, red and fiery red, rising upwards to heaven.

She looks in the mirror and sees her “Other Self”, radiant as the red hibiscus. Catches her husband’s look of admiration. No one is around, except her and her image. On her naked scalp pastes a red ribbon, on her naked forehead, draws water color red circle, wraps around her the red brocade sari’s edge pulled over her head, transformed in the former Goddess. Inside her madness dwells, anger and frustrations; she tries to quell, for what fate has to her dealt. Why? Why? …she asks, is she made to feel responsible for the death of her husband? She’s unable to fathom, why she has been labelled “Widow”, stripped of all colors, stark naked.

They say, she’s gone insane. They know not her pain. They know not the dichotomy of her existence, once placed on a pedestal, next brought down and trashed aside, like rubble!
***

BIO-DATA

Snigdha Agrawal (nee Banerjee) is Bengali born, raised in cosmopolitan environment, with exposure to the eastern and western cultures, imbibing the best of both worlds. With more than two decades experience of working in the corporate sector, her outlook on life is balanced which reflects on her writings. She writes all genres of poetry, prose, short stories, travelogues, hotel/restaurant reviews on Tripadvisor; essentially a versatile writer. A published writer of two books of poems, and contribution to several anthologies, she spends time writing and travelling. She lives with her husband in Bangalore, Karnataka, India.

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Setu, March 2021