Generations

Protima (The Goddess)

The Goddess astride a lion,
spear-tip dug into the bleeding heart of
dying mahisasur, is power incarnate,
creation-destruction in female form.
The drumbeats rise above murmured
mantras. Incantations spiral like incense
smoke mixed with coconut husks,
fog up towards the heavens; the idol
takes on life for five days a year,
awakened by the drums, the chants,
a dancer’s trance. Five days,
the mother-preserver, flowers at her
feet, stands among human children.

Ya devi sharbabhuteshu shaktirupena shanghastita
namastatye, namastatye, namastatye, namoh, namah.
(O Goddess who is in every form the incarnation of strength,
I bow to you, I bow to you, I bow to you, I bow to you.)

Boroma (Great-grandmother)

You were of harlot beauty, eight years young
when old men searching youth’s choicest blossoms
crossed the cold marble halls. Your father’s house
was abuzz; frenzied flies mimicked flurried
servants laden with foods, dripping with ghee,
saffron, pistachio, milk, and you were
the Sweet. You flinched in shyness when
the old man, searching for his son’s bride,
tilted your chin to peer into the flame
of your dark child-eyes and drowned; taking you.
Thus was your youth wed to old lust;
a brahmin’s will made you the third, child-wife.

You spent many nights tracing mango leaves,
the ephemeral patterns on a moonlit ceiling;
at fifteen fled your bed of want,
tumbling from the window a burgeoning bud,
then fell, three stories down. Your sari
undraped, you fled your shackles, swam
the woman-river flowing from the heavens;
the Ganges took you home.

He came for you; this time, your eyes afire,
you quietened the marble halls, the chill walls
resounded with the silence of your anger. They
called you evil for you had defied your Lord. You
had the madness of life, annihilating to create,
and from the ashes of the child-bride rose
a new relationship. When you went back
your poet-husband created art in a
tribute, immortalized your strength
in faded pages of an ancient book
treasured by my Dadu, your grandson.

Thakuma (Paternal Grandmother)

Gold anklets are sacrilegious, so your
infant feet tinkled silver. You were a
cherished child, only daughter. Cocooned,
you grew to womanhood, knowing your worth
in gold. Then shenai strains mingled with fragrant
sandalwood and rosewater, as you shimmered
in red brocade, your face glinting
with jewels, bracelets on glistening arms.
As you circled the sacred fire seven
times, your father muttered ancient
mantras, giving the gift of a virgin.

Warring nations forced you to flee the land
of your birth. You lost your husband in an
alien land, looked at seven infant mouths
and willed yourself to live. Widowed, you were
shorn of hair, arms bracelet bare, vermilion
scraped, your color pale white as your
widowhood. Those were desperate years.
You lost a child to illness; another, seeking heat
on a chill night, crawled into the open fire.
You sifted through the ashes of burnt hopes
and survived; like rice replanted in alien
fields, you gave your children a place
to grow, creating life out of chaos.
Your fourthborn became my father.

Prarthana (a prayer)

I am restless, twenty-six years heavy
with the burden of things
undone,
unsaid.

Yet I am no phoenix to burn, burn, burn
into a glorious flame of creation.
Let that cup pass.
I want rebirth without trauma,
life without destruction.

Ya devi sharbabhuteshu shaktirupena shanghastita
namastatye, namastatye, namastatye, namoh, namah.

*Generations” appeared in Tongue’s Palette: Poetry by Linguists, Chicago: Atlantis-Centaur, 2004, 85-88.