Bed of Thorns

 Hello everyone, here's my newest poem 💖💖... In class yesterday, I studied Derek Walcott's poem, 'A Far Cry from Africa': a diasporic account of the British colonial forces' atrocities in the continent of Africa. Inspired by this, my teacher asked us to write a small poem with themes of displacement and identity crisis, so I wrote the following poem. Hope you like it! 

I  stand on the thinly drawn border, 

Neither here nor there: nowhere, yet everywhere. 

Their gazes burn through me, the whispered insults slice through my defenses. 

I walk to the place I call home, and yet feel homeless. 

My tongue sounds strange to them, 

So I mutter and fumble and learn *their* strange tongue instead. 

Sometimes, my own people look at me 

As if I am an alien. 

Where do we go-- we, who are left adrift?

Our homes exist only in rose-coloured dreams. 

For us, reality is a bed of thorns. 

And so, we endure.

The Phoenix

 She was perched on a large silver branch,

A gigantic golden bird with enormous wings;

Her eyes were jade green like a tiger's, 

On her breast there was a brilliant white patch, 

And on her imperial head, a blue crest bobbed proudly. 

Her wings glinted red-gold and orange in the streaming sunlight. 

She was a marvel to look at; as pretty as a peacock, 

And probably just as proud-- her head was cocked imperiously as she surveyed her surroundings. 

She was perched there a long, long time;

Aeons, probably, silently watching 

As the world around her grew from infancy to adulthood. 

She grew, too, birthing a host of beautiful and divine children--

Tiny golden chicks with honeyed voices and blueish-green eyes. 

It was a dazzling sight. 

Alas, such beauty and tranquility is bound to attract the evil eye:

One cruel day, the sky darkened grimly 

As birds of prey, cawing and shrieking, 

Descended onto mama bird and her brood. 

She fought valiantly; her talons and beak claimed many lives, while her eyes shot holy fire. 

But even she could not hold out forever. 

Her wounds were many, but she did not give up. 

Up in flames she went, taking her brood with her; 

The fire also destroyed her enemies, and their raucous cries were mixed with her soft, melodic keening. 

Their destinies mingle here:

Legend has it that every time the golden bird is reborn, 

She is attacked by avaricious creatures, 

Demons straight from the pits of Hell:

But she is able to fend them off in a whirl of fire, 

Sleeping till it is time to rise again. 

We, her children, are reborn also, 

Protecting her as she protects us. 

This is her song. This is our song. 

This is our tribute to our valiant Mother;

Come, sing with us as she draws us all

 Under her flaming golden wings. 

The Fire Giver's Song

 Heya folksss, here's another poem! I hope you like it!! 

Part 1: Fire 

They sprang up from the clay I'd moulded,

Their hair flowing, their clothes brightly coloured. 

You are mortals, I told them. You will be called 'man.' 

(At this time, there were no women). 

Go, my children, and inhabit the earth.

That is the command of The Great and Almighty Father, Zeus. 

I bestowed the gift of speech, and wisdom, and knowledge on these newly formed humans;

My labour of love, formed by my clay and Zeus' seed. 

When Zeus saw them populating the earth,

He was well pleased: 

'Only,' quoth he, 'do not give them fire;

They will grow arrogant, and will seek to dethrone me.

You know what I will do if you disobey.' 

His eyes flashed; the clouds groaned. 

'Your wish is my command, master,' I said quietly. 

Immortals are not supposed to love. 

Well, gods aren't supposed to. 

I was immortal, but no longer a god, 

And so I was free to love:

I loved these humans, my creation. Mine!

And so, in a moment of weakness, 

I gave the humans the gift of fire:

Shining bright with Apollo's light, 

Crafted finely in Hephaestus' forge. 

I carried the fire to them myself,

And taught them how to use it. 

For a while, everything went smoothly. 

But it was foolish of me to consider myself safe:

This was the folly of mortals, 

And I paid for it dearly. 

Part 2: The Great Eagle 

When Zeus, the All-Seeing, the All-Powerful, 

Found out what I'd done, his wrath knew no bounds. 

I knew he wasn't a gentle person,

But for old times' sake, I expected a lesser punishment. 

What laughable folly that was!

Zeus had me chained to a cliff on Mount Caucasus,

And every afternoon, a ferocious eagle would come to feast on my liver. 

Ah, immortal that I am, this liver of mine

Grew again each night. 

Have you ever wondered what it's like 

When Immortals bleed? 

Our blood is gold, not red; 

We feel pain, too, and it hits us even worse than mortals-- 

For we cannot even escape into blessed Death. 

I was forced to endure an eternity of pain, 

Just because I dared to love mortals. 

My shrieks rang around Caucasus, 

And Zeus, sipping purple ambrosia on his golden throne, 

Smiled grimly. 

I was chained there for aeons.

I had plenty of time to think;

In time, the mortals I loved 

Grew stupid and thoughtless and evil, 

And began misusing the gifts I'd bestowed on them. 

This hurt me more than the eagle;

But I did not stop loving them. 

I still do. 

Part 3: The Liberation 

Sometimes, the gods tire of their cruel games. 

I still do not know what made Zeus change his mind, 

But he sent his hulking son, 

The demigod Heracles, to free me from my torment:

I had not thought it possible, but this boy 

Shot the great eagle dead with just one 

silver-tipped arrow. 

He took me to see Zeus, and Zeus 

Clasped my hand and declared me pardoned;

But I saw the thunder in his eyes, and understood the unspoken implications. 

Stay in your place, Titan. 

By this time, I was tired. 

Exhausted, really, after everything I'd gone through. 

Not wishing to participate in the gods' cruel power plays anymore, 

I quietly retired to a more obscure part of history:

But I do have one consolation. 

Prometheus, fire-giver, will always be remembered

For the knowledge I bestowed on humans. 

And now, I bid thee goodbye. 

Twice-born: A Saga of Earth and Fire

 Born of the earth,

Swaddled in a star-spangled blanket, 

I lay on the ground as a babe. 

The earth was my mother, the sky my father. 

Then I was adopted by the king and queen of Mithila. 

Sita, they called me. What does that mean, you ask? 

It means furrow. 

Where did I come from, people wondered; 

But my parents-- already I called them that-- 

Considered me a gift of Mother Earth, 

And cherished me as their own daughter. 

Later, they had a biological daughter, Urmila, 

And they loved us both equally.

Some called me a miracle child, 

Others a freak of nature. 

Even I did not know who I really was. 

But does it really matter? 

You know who I am, don't you? 

If not, you'll know soon enough. 

I won't bore you with the details of my life;

My story has been recounted often enough. 

Married to Ram, sent into exile, abducted by  Ravan, rescued by my virtuous husband. 

Virtue. A double-edged sword. 

As you know, Ram demanded a purity test;

An agni-pariksha. To determine my virtue. 

Don't judge him too harshly. I suppose he did what he had to do. 

You can guess how I felt, how every woman must feel, 

And so I steeled myself. I'll triumph over all of you, I thought. 

Into the flames I went. 

As I stepped on the pyre, the flames crackled, 

Growing softer and softer with every step I took. 

The Lord of Fire caressed me like a loving parent, 

And I walked out, glowing red-gold. 

I was now Sita the twice-born,

Sita, daughter of Earth and Fire. 

What's that? 

You guessed it, my story doesn't end here. 

Ram was delighted, and accepted me; 

We returned to Ayodhya, were crowned king and queen, 

And lived merrily for a while. 

To top it all off, I was with child! 

But, alas-- as they say, 

Happiness is ephemeral. 

It certainly was for us. 

Tongues will wag, they always do. 

Even a loved queen is not safe from their sneering whispers. 

She's impure, she's unworthy, they murmured; 

Their voices crawled through the city and stabbed the palace. 

You know what happened next, but let me go ahead and say it:

Perhaps that will act as catharsis. 

I was taken back to the forest-- this time, 

I was to remain alone, away from my husband. 

My belly moved with the signs of life, 

Even as I allowed myself to wallow in my grief. 

But then-- then I wiped my tears, 

And quietly vowed that I'd live. 

I had to, for my life was no longer my own. 

Well, I was taken in by the kind Sage Valmiki;

That's right, he's the mahakavi who wrote the Ramayan--

Ram's story. My story. Our sons' story. 

Desiring to keep my identity a secret, he called me Vandevi,

Goddess of the Forest. That suits me just as much as Sita. 

The forest was my succour and hope;

My twin sons, Luv-Kush, grew up 

Surrounded by Nature's abundant love, 

Just like me when I was a babe, and then 

during those surprisingly happy years of exile. 

But this, too, was not to last. 

Don't stare at me so sadly, I need no pity. 

Let me go on with the story: 

The Ashwamedha Yagna, my sons' first meeting with their father--

You can't imagine the anguish I went through. 

Even more so when he found out they were his children

After their sweet, golden voices recited the entire Ramayan. 

Try to picture Ram's feelings-- can you? 

Because I hardly could. 

Time to come back into the picture. 

Anger and hope were battling inside my heart;

I still loved the man who chose kingship over being a husband and a father. 

I know he loved me, too. But sometimes, 

One must make difficult choices and walk on burning earth. 

If tongues still wagged, I knew what I must do. 

That brings us to the last part of my life. 

When I appeared in court for the first time in years, 

Sage Valmiki stood in front of me, while my sons clung to me. 

I blocked everything out-- I could hear Ram's heartbeat. 

I could feel his love and anguish enveloping me. 

Surely he must have felt the same way: 

But so, so predictably, he asked for another agnipariksha. 

'Proof' that these children were his. 

What would you have done in my place? 

I couldn't take it any more. 

I love you, I said, my voice resounding, 

To my husband, my sons, my sister, my parents. 

But I can't stay with any of you any longer. 

I went back to where I came from: 

My first mother, the earth. 

In her embrace I gave myself up; 

Her love was a warm golden glow. 

I heard Ram's cries of anguish, his voice mingled with my sons'; 

My heart broke, but I couldn't stop. 

Deep into the bowels of the earth I went.

Would you say this is a sad ending?

I don't really know. 

Sometimes, you have to let your loved ones go. 

Sometimes, you must walk through flames to reach the earth. 

That's what Sita did. 

The One Whose Name is Writ in Water

 Hey, everyone!! This post holds a special place in my heart 💓 I wrote this for a presentation for my poetry paper (I am a student of MA English Part-2). It was a group presentation, so I wrote the poem while my group members did a wonderful analysis ✨

My teacher as well as the whole class loved the poem!! Thank you for making this experience so memorable everyone!!! 💓💞

When I picked up my quill this morning, 

I thought, "Who am I writing for? 

Who will be here to appreciate my Art 

After I'm gone?"

For when the Lord gave us the power of creation, 

He did not tell us who it is we create for. 

Sometimes, my quill writes in blood. 

Sometimes, in tears. 

Sometimes, in honey.

Why do I do this? 

Life is but a moment in the grand scheme of the universe; 

Born one minute, gone the next.

"Dust thou art, to dust thou returnest;" 

This is the maxim we've been taught. 

Everytime I write, a little of my life 

Seeps into my Art. 

Grief, joy, love, yearning-- they're all there, 

Woven into the page like a tapestry. 

They're there for the world to see. 

Perhaps when my masterpiece absorbs me, 

I will truly understand what they meant by 

"Art is long, and Time is fleeting."

Life is not eternal, but I will give myself 

To my Art, and once I become one with it,

I will rise from the creative flames like a Phoenix,

Living on through my Art. 

For are our names truly writ in water? 

My name is writ in ambrosia. 

The Judgement of Paris

 One golden apple left by Discord 

In Olympus created chaos; 

"For the Fairest of All!" it quoth. 

Athene, Aphrodite, and Hera 

Fell to quarreling amongst themselves 

Like hissing wildcats. 

To Zeus, the King of Heaven, they went;

But he refused to honour their request, 

Fearing the wrath of the ones he spurned. 

"Only a human can make this judgement," he mused (or rather rumbled).

His eye fell on young Paris:

 Now a shepherd, 

But a prince of Troy by birth. 

Ah, of course! The perfect scapegoat. 

He turned to Hermes, his swift-footed son, 

And commanded him to take the three goddesses to Paris. 

Hermes, laughing merrily, led the goddesses to Paris. 

"This apple must go to the fairest of them all," quoth he to the dumbstruck boy. 

"But how can I, unworthy that I am, 

Judge these three beauteous, glorious goddesses?" whispered poor Paris. 

"You will be handsomely rewarded," 

Said Hermes in his silvery voice. 

"Nor will you be punished." 

The ways of the gods are strange indeed;

But Paris did not argue further. 

His eyes were blinded by the beauty of the three goddesses;

One by one, they stood before him. 

First came Hera; queen of queens, 

The supreme goddess, cow-eyed and glowing like a jewel. 

"Choose me," said she; "I will give you riches unheard of!" 

But Paris held onto the apple. 

Then came Athene, tall and broad-shouldered, 

Her grey eyes shining with grace: 

"Choose me," she murmured, " and I will make you the wisest man alive." 

A tempting offer, but the apple stayed with Paris. 

And, at last, the ocean-born goddess 

Floated up to Paris. 

Aphrodite stood before him in all her beauteous splendour; 

There were flowers in her dark hair, 

And her large eyes glowed magnificently. 

"Choose me," she sang. "I will give you the loveliest woman alive!"

There was a ringing in Paris's ears, 

And his eyes were glazed. 

He held out the apple to Aphrodite. 

She took it from him with a triumphant smile;

Her silvery laugh rang around the mountains. 

Beauty and lust had triumphed over wealth and wisdom. 

But alas! Athene and Hera had given their word;

They could not harm Paris-- yet. 

But Discord was the one that ultimately won; 

To think that a golden apple 

Would cause the Trojan war! 

If you listen carefully, 

You can still hear Discord cackling maliciously. 

The Triumph

 You stand over the bodies of those who were your brothers,

Your teachers, your grand-uncle, your nephews. 

"They are just bodies; it's the soul that matters," Keshav told you once. 

He's right. He has to be, He's Narayan. 

You know He is.

You hover over the son of the Sun God,

Once a hated enemy, that insolent son of a charioteer, 

Now your brother, watered by your mother's tears. 

You want to throw Gandiva away, but you cling to it with desperation. 

Blood seeps through your hands as your grip tightens. 

Well, let the pain come-- you welcome it. 

It drives away the aching numbness. 

Your eyes won't weep, your throat won't scream. 

Guilt, anger, pain, loneliness-- they all surge through you as you survey the carnage. 

This was a Dharmayudha, and you won, you tell yourself, 

Even as the darkness threatens to swallow you. 

Won? No, my darling, no. 

There are no victors in a war. 

There are only survivors. 

You've lost more than you can count. 

You're injured, tired, hurt, broken. 

But you're here. 

And you can hear-- 

Shrieks and cries-- of widows, of birds of prey, of orphaned sons and daughters, of bereft mothers and fathers. 

Once more, you're desperate to feel something, 

But there is only that hungry hollowness. 

And yet--

And yet there is still someone here to comfort you. 

You feel a cool hand on your shoulder,

And when you turn your head, the Light absorbs you. 

You are numb no more. 

The Mahabharata’s Gandhari: An Inversion of Justice and Fairness

 

 

Hiya, people! I’m back with another outpouring of thoughts! I bet you missed my ramblings, yes? Well, don’t worry—this post is going to be a looong ride!

I’m currently enjoying my summer vacation, which means I have a lot of time on my hands. To use it constructively, I’ve been watching the 1988 serial Mahabharat, produced by B.R. Chopra. I already know the story [I grew up listening to, and reading, these tales], but it is nevertheless an amazing experience to watch one of our greatest epics unfold before my eyes, even if it’s on television. My entire family looks forward to these sessions, and after each episode, we discuss and analyse the important events.

These last few days, a persistent thought has been nagging at me. I never liked Gandhari--Queen of Hastinapur, wife of Dhritrashtra, and mother of the 100 Kauravas [she had one daughter too, Dushala, though she is barely remembered anymore]. In case you’ve forgotten, Gandhari is the woman who blindfolded herself for life after learning that the prince she was marrying was blind—an utterly foolish gesture, in my opinion. No one truly knows her motivations for doing so, but she explained it by saying that a good wife should always share her husband’s lot, whether it be joy or sorrow. Only twice in the entire epic does she use her sight—and I’ll come to that later.

So, her blindfold suddenly reminded me of the way Lady Justice is represented—with a blindfold. A pair of weighing scales, too, but that’s not relevant to this discussion. The concept of this physical representation of justice as a woman is ancient, possibly influenced by the fact that the Greeks, Egyptians, and Romans all saw justice as a Goddess—Themis/ Dike, Ma’at, and Justitia respectively. The weighing scales and sword have been used as Justice’s symbols since antiquity, but the blindfold, it appears, is a far more recent addition—it is recorded to have appeared around the 16^th century. It is said to have had highly satirical connotations initially—the interpretation is that law is selective, and has so many loopholes that crimes are easily committed. However, the current interpretation has evolved in an entirely new direction, painting the blindfold in a positive light and claiming that it represents the legal system’s impartiality, as well as the idea that everyone is equal in the eyes of the law [pun intended]. Well, the first interpretation smacks strongly of Gandhari, doesn’t it?

First off, it’s a really weird decision to blindfold herself— it’s a wasted opportunity to have seized power as not just Dhritrashtra’s queen, but his eyes. She probably did not have the foresight to realize this, and thus set in motion a lot of events that could have been prevented. I despise Dhritrashtra—he was physically as well as metaphorically blind, and using it as an excuse besides—but his physical blindness was a birth defect. Gandhari’s ‘blindness’ was a conscious choice, and both she and Dhritrashtra paid for their obstinacy and blind adoration of their sons [you can decide whether the pun was intended or not] dearly.

Gandhari made an innumerable number of mistakes during her time as queen and mother. It wouldn’t be an exaggeration to say she was no good at either of these things—interpretations can vary, but I always considered her a weak, vacillating woman, never truly knowing what she wanted and always giving in to the audacious and downright unrighteous demands of her sons, especially her eldest, Duryodhan. When Duryodhan was born, he brayed like a donkey—an extremely inauspicious sign—and Dhritrashtra’s half-brother, Vidur, who was also the Prime Minister of Hastinapur, advised that the child be abandoned or put to death immediately, because surely he would grow up to wreak havoc on the dynasty—a very clear foreshadowing of what was to come. Now, I can’t really fault parents for doting on a new-born babe, but it would certainly have been in their best interests to have listened to Vidur’s words, especially because the warning was so graphic. Instead, they spoilt Duryodhan rotten, turning him into the vile, cruel, arrogant man we all know and hate.

Gandhari may have had hidden ambitions and a deep-seated resentment for Kunti and her five shining sons—all just speculation, of course, although she masked it by loudly declaiming that her sons were unrighteous and that she loved the Pandavas very much, and Kunti was her dear sister. I don’t think she was fooling anyone—the day she blindfolded herself, the day she and her husband chose to ignore Vidur’s warning, was the day she doomed herself.

Gandhari failed in her duty as a mother because she wilfully ignored the brewing signs of discord and discontent—she knew Duryodhan and her brother, Shakuni, hated the Pandavas and were trying to kill them through a list of long and complicated conspiracies, but she pretended to be completely out of the loop. She began using Dhritrashtra’s excuse—that she couldn’t see. Goodness, the pair of them—they were blind, not deaf or brainless! They were wearing this infuriating banner of ‘helplessness’, and that’s why we blame them.

Gandhari, as a woman, a queen, and a mother, should have made more efforts to prevent Draupadi’s disrobing in court. She should have given her horrible husband a good tongue-lashing, punished her sons severely, and comforted Draupadi, but she did not. The only reason she stepped in was because Draupadi threatened to curse her sons; she said something along the lines of “I know this is horrendous, daughter, and unforgivable, but I beg you, do not curse my sons. They may be unrighteous, but they are still my sons.” Exactly, foolish woman, they are your sons. And you’re going to suffer heavily for letting such a shameful and horrible event happen.

During the Kurukshetra war, she was lost and helpless. It’s said that when Duryodhan came to her for her blessings, she responded with ‘may the righteous always win,’ but it’s clear that she was still rooting for her unrighteous sons. Towards the end of the war, despairing over the loss of 99 of her sons, she angrily cursed Lord Krishna when He came to visit her—insisting that He could’ve stopped the war had He wanted to [He did try, by the way], she declared that His Yadava clan would perish in the same brutal way that hers did. This struck me as absolutely ridiculous, but well, I don’t expect intelligence or sensibility from Gandhari. In a bid to protect Duryodhan from facing certain defeat and death at Bheem’s hands, she commanded him to bathe in the holy waters of the River Ganga and then appear before her stark naked. Lord Krishna thwarted her plans, however—He waylaid Duryodhan, convincing him that a grown man could not appear before his mother so immodestly.

Suitably ashamed, Duryodhan wrapped a banana leaf around his thighs before presenting himself in front of Gandhari. For the first time since her marriage, she took off her blindfold, concentrating all her devotion to Lord Shiva in her glance and giving Duryodhan a body made of steel—except his thighs, which were covered and protected from her gaze. This would cost her and Duryodhan a heavy price, as Bheem broke his thighs and killed him the very next day.

The second time her eyes play a significant role is when, after the war, the Pandavas approached her to seek her blessings. It is said that when Yudhishthir, trembling with guilt and fear, stood before her, her blindfold shifted a bit, and her hot, vengeful gaze landed on his feet, turning his pretty toenails blue. Had Lord Krishna not been watching, her eyes could’ve wreaked more havoc, but overwhelmed with her own emotions, she began sobbing and reluctantly blessed the Pandavas.

After this, Gandhari more or less faded into the background. Unable to stay on in the palace, she quickly retired to the forest with Dhritrashtra, Kunti, and Vidur. This may have been an attempt to save her dignity-- maybe she just couldn’t stand being offered charity in the palace where she’d once reigned as queen, and Kunti and her sons were the supplicants. Or perhaps she was haunted by nightmares of her sons’ deaths, and her own silent, guilt-ridden complicity in their behaviour. Who knows, really?

Hence, Gandhari is the quintessential satirical representation of blindfolded Justice—selective, wilfully ignorant, weak-willed. She may have had extreme power in her eyes, but ultimately she was unable to change anything, and she and Dhritrashtra are held largely responsible for their sons’ arrogance and cruelty. What use is such a life?

What do you all think? Food for thought, right?

 

Film Review: Good Will Hunting

 TW: Swearing, mentions of child abuse

Hiya, folks!

I recently watched Good Will Hunting (1997), and the urge to review it has overcome me!

Let me just begin by saying that I only gave it a shot because it stars Matt Damon (I love that man-- I mean, who doesn't?), and I'm really glad I took this chance, because this film is an experience.

Now, let me introduce you to the premise (without giving away too much, of course). It focuses on the eponymous protagonist, Will Hunting, a 20-year-old wunderkid with special talent in math. There's a catch though-- Will is a delinquent and has been in and out of prison for as long as he can remember. When he assaults a police officer and is arrested again, a math professor at MIT (where Will works as a janitor), having noticed the boy's staggering and unusual talent with numbers, bails him out on two conditions. The first is that he must attend regular math sessions with the professor in order to sharpen his genius, and the second is that he must see a therapist  twice a week. Seems simple enough, right?

Except it's not.

"I'll do the math, but I don't need therapy," Will declares angrily. Oh boy, is he wrong. The rest of the film is spent unpacking the cartload of issues this boy carries around with him-- and some of his therapists outright give up on him. It's the last one who sticks and makes such an impact-- on Will as well as on the viewers-- that we're all left bawling our eyes out at the end.

This therapist is called Sean Maguire, played to ultimate perfection by the late Robin Williams. His dynamic with Will is brilliant; they act as perfect foils to each other before the audience realises that they're just two sides of the same coin. These sessions are portrayed with just the right mix of sensitivity and professionalism; the charm lies in the vulnerability shown by the patient as well as the therapist.

Will has a pretty good support system overall- he has a really good bestie called Chuckie (Ben Affleck), a smart and intuitive almost-girlfriend called Skylar (Minnie Driver), and, of course, Sean and Professor Lambeau (Stellan Skarsgard; the prof isn't exactly supportive, but he does help Will acknowledge his genius). I think the film does a pretty good job of showing how a little kindness can go a long way, and how it sometimes comes from the most unexpected people.

Is the plot predictable? Yes, it is, as many people have already said. C'mon, I knew Bad Will Hunting was going to turn into Good Will Hunting at the end (excuse the bad joke). However, that doesn't change the fact that it's still a great film, and deserves its spot as one of the classics.

Besides, the fact that Damon and Affleck wrote the screenplay themselves is very impressive. The film is buoyed by its stellar performances-- especially Damon, who portrays Will with a disarming mixture of false cockiness and vulnerability, and Robin Williams.

Overall, I think Good Will Hunting was a very satisfying watch. It's the kind of film that stays with you a long time after you've finished it! I would definitely recommend this one! ❤️