The Mahatma (Gandhian Philosophy)

Geethanjali Dilip

Like the embrace of a Mother, 

Skin to skin securing the comfort of her child, 

A fabric that carries the warmth of such a love unconditional, 

That knows to protect from the biting cold and the burning heat of a peninsular sun, 

She insulates knowing that her child would weather every alien storm that hits the threshold of her beautiful home, 

Such is the fabric that has seen the blood and the pain of suppression, 

That dipped itself in the sunrise and sunset of every morn, 

The green of swaying fields of a youthful motherland, 

The white of equanimity a mother achieves with millions of her children, 

And bony but sturdy hands that spun the fluff off a blackened clay, 

Drapes the homeland with threads that are woven with the patriotism, 

Of his purpose of having appeared in this ancient land, 

daring, forthright, truthful, peaceful and forgiving, 

His birth that remains a legend as he shines a beacon in dark October skies, 

As the wheel of time spins with his eternal spirit of a free country, 

The epitome of democracy, this my land, 

His resolve of non-violence that brought home a mother alienated once. 

He led denizens with his words priceless,

Only to utter the words "Hey Ram" in his last breath, 

As bullets etched a martyrdom in his destiny!

 

Bio: Professor of French, heading Zone Francofone, in Salem, India, poet by passion, Geethanjali Dilip’s published books include, « Geethatmaa , Song of the Soul » , “ Hansa Geetham- Song of the Celestial Swan”, “ Poetry Voice- Geeth Dhvani”, «  Soul Riff «  - Atmatarang «, “ Rosée-The Dewdrop “,  with good reviews. Recipient of prestigious awards, she curates Yercaud Poetry Festival, since 2018, believing that poetry connects the world.

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Setu, October 2023 :: Gandhian Philosophy

Geethanjali Dilip, INDIA

Exclusive: Best of Women Poetry: Edited by Padmaja Iyengar-Paddy

AS SHE SOARS

Watch her kohl lined in her reddened eyes,

Although a million tears she silently cries,

Mistake not her shringaar or her alankar as vanity,

She walks on thorns bleeding her petalled heart dainty,

Surmise not the way she drapes six yards over her contours,

She wears with panache and grace her virtuosity camouflaging her fears,

Imagine not that she paints her nails to get your attention,

Her chores, her dedication and her relentless spirit need to release her tension,

Ponder not about her whereabouts when she strides with confidence,

She would walk away from distrust, so just don’t put her through that offence,

Lack not in receiving and giving her love for she will anyway bloom,

And make an oasis of arid deserts and chase away dreary gloom,

Hope not that she will avenge you for all the wrong you did,

She is after all like this Earth evolving through day and night goodbye never to bid,

Fear not her angst as she conjures up storms, floods and volcanoes,

For even in that calamity she would enrich, protecting from deathly throes,

Wonder not where she gets her strength from endlessly,

Instead walk with her undaunted gait as she treads lakes of fires fearlessly,

She is every woman yesterday, today and tomorrow,

Shower her with caring, happiness and never sorrow.

Geethanjali Dilip contributes poetry to various platforms, literary blogs, anthologies and Facebook poetry pages. A graduate in English Literature, she teaches French at her institute named as Zone Francofone, Salem. Her several collaborative anthologies are widely read and distributed. Her solo anthology “Geethatmaa” is now in book stores. Geethanjali is a recipient of The Reuel International Prize for Poetry 2017 and the Indian Women Achievers Award from the Asian Literary Society. She is also a winner of Commendable Mention Award at The Great Indian Poetry Contest 2019 conducted by the On Fire Cultural Movement.

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Best of Women Poetry -2020 :: Setu, March 2020

Geethanjali Dilip, INDIA

DUSTY GALE

The river reed bends in a grace that only the wind knows of,
To palms, and other lofty trees the reed is a vision to scoff,
But the gust knows of its supple mind that takes its gush,
The reed needs no validation of its strength, she’s in no big rush.

Bending is not submission but she wouldn’t stoop,
She cannot be that banal or the hackneyed in the group,
I try to be the river reed and know that I’m the richer,
I’ve stretched my torso to an extent when the dominant is the preying vulture,

Feeding on my gentleness mistaken for a weakness,
What does fragrance know of the thorn that injects a rose’s redness?
For both the reed and I know of tyrant scavengers,
Yet our spirits soar as we stand rooted for our soul’s adventures.

Fool not yourself misunderstanding a woman’s delicate heart,
Her resilience, grit, resolve she has mastered from the start,
Beneath her vulnerability she sniggers at a bullying male,
For she knows like that reed of noisy storms that end up in a meek dusty gale.


NIPPED YET BLOSSOMING 

Every now and then she would gaze at her gold medal,
Fighting her tears, she would bite her lips and clumsily fiddle,
All her hard work simmering on vegetable stew, this life such a riddle,
As she eked her time in drudgery, a small town, pushing time’s pedal!

Cities didn’t hold any more charm for her now,
Her frayed jeans faded with her memory somehow,
The sun shone, she didn’t make hay, but she pruned the main root,
This bonsai guava tree would sell at a fancy price and that’s a loot.

Elegantly presented through the day she was the charm of the family,
Not a fold out of place and in her poise no traces of an anomaly,
Except that her heart held deep creases only she tried to iron out,
That she was a warrior within she had never a doubt,

Sacrifices come in so many different ways,
Dousing one’s dreams and ambitions mostly never pays,
Nor did her gold medal that she earned at the university,
Marriage happened in her stars only for her it wasn’t serendipity,

There was everything she could ever dream to possess,
Yet her chest carried a boulder causing her inexpressible distress,
Slowly lines appeared on her mirror and her forehead too,
Oh, what was this lacuna they loved each other true.

She was caught in a time frame when tying the knot was inevitable,
Her talents taken for granted her stance now irreversible,
What the heck, the scissors gawked at her nonchalantly,
Ikebana and bonsai bloomed where she was planted, ironically!

So many such women out there have drowned their life’s dreams,
Some choices are made and some pushed down the throat in muffled screams,
Some run the race and leap and bound,
Some have wings all tied up and stay perched where they’re found.


CRESCENT 

Tears are never answers to suffering, nor are prayers,
When words lash at your womanhood,
When hands strike the cheek they once caressed,
And you’re left wondering which stranger you’re with when you are awake,
The pain of indignity hurts more than the thrashing,
“Abused” is no more a word for a numbness eclipses it,
The kids dare not know what goes on behind that door,
But the marks of tyranny speak for themselves,
The stench of inebriated breath floats like masculinity,
Thank God for make up, scarves and stoles,
And when water finds its level, she lifts the earth single-handedly,
Her shoulders become icy mountains,
Her feet become the hands of time she rules,
The sky and beyond is no limit,
She sports the wings of freedom and walks out of that door soaring to liberation,
Living for herself as a smile adorns her ravaged face,
So much like the moon with its pits and craters, yet smiling in a crescent.


Geethanjali Dilip is a published poet with four co-authored anthologies “Between Moms and Sons I and II”, “The Virtual Reality “, “Plant Poetry” to her credit in collaboration with several prolific and talented poets and a recipient of “The Reuel International Award for Poetry’ as well as an awardee in the category of commendable mention for her poem at “The Great Indian Poetry Contest”. She has curated “Plant Poetry Festival “at Yercaud in July 2018. She heads Zone Francofone at Salem, Tamil Nadu where she teaches French.

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Women, Power & Creativity :: Setu, March 2019