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Boudhayan Mukherjee |
Boudhayan Mukherjee
I kneel down for yoga,chanting Om Arogyam
Wake up the hills, the fragrant words
For I shall chant from the Gita of Ma Sita
To please my deity . I will move towards
The Circle of Hope.At dusk Ma Sita sleeps
Poised at the feet of her forested Lord.
My heart weeps to belong to Her.
Her words keep me dim and happy, the flying Jatayu borne to earth by imagination. I can hear her talking about rice for migrant labourers, their lentil soup ,wheat broth , radish
And roots when they return to Janakpur,
Her papa's kingdom,my own childhood home.
I'll keep a pinch of lost smell of home for me,
A steam of boiling rice to soothe my eyes.
I tell you this , a Brahmin--Dwija--born twice;
I tell you all ,that sadness is not divine. Rise!
Rise of Ram temple is over
and the Lord has
Returned to Ayodhya as a child.
Ma Sita will
Arrive , patience was her forte all life.
Really?
It failed at last and she drowned
herself underground,
sans the jihad of women power.
Ma Sita to me is
the best manna of Ramayana
Queen of Ayodhya living in exile
alone like a single mother
to bring up two lovely sons.
Did Lav Kush often pester her
about their sire...
What did the forgotten woman
say to the kids
Not much to lament,but gave them
bows and arrows
Of memory silenced
by shame and disgrace.
We have millions of Ma Sitas in India
They must go and rejoice when she returns.
When her glories are templed
Next to the Ram-mandir.
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