Guftagoo

By Ananya Mukherjee
Singapore


Bandhh almariyon ke peeche se do udaas ankhein taakti raheti hain; 
akelepan mein apne aap se poochti hain kai mushkil sawaal...

Ek arsa ho gaya hai tumse mulaqat hue; 
Kya itni badal gayi ho ya phir koi aur parr leta hai tumhari khamosh zubaan?
Ab zehn ke aag ko thandak ki bhi zaroorat nahin parti? 
ya phir kahin aisa to nahin ki tum bhi shaamil ho gayee ho uss bheer mein jisse kabhi tumhe darr lagta thha?
Tumhare ungliyon ke nishaan bade yaad aatein hain mujhe,
oss ke moti jaise bikre kalikh ke daag un tamam gili raaton ko dauhrane lagte hain jo humne sath lipat kar bitaye thhe..
siski ho ya sannata, haath nahin chora thha kabhi tumhara..
gusse mein bhi mujhpar hi barasti thhi, aur mohabbat ka afsaana dil jalakar mujhe hi sunati thhi..
gulab ke sukhe patton ke sath kahin mere panno mein tum aaj bhi mehekti ho
Kabhi besabab aakar mujhse milo kisi din uss bachpan ki tarah
rubaru baithho, apni sunayo, meri suno...
Ek umr ho gayee guftagoo kiye ..

Tumhari Diary

In other words....

They stare at my face from behind the dust laden cabinets

Sighing, whispering, contemplating in the silence,

The quiet eyes pose a thousand unanswered questions :

It’s been eons since I met you

Have you changed so much with the times or have you found someone who can read your unspoken unsaid words the way I would?

Or is it that no fire burns in your soul anymore, and that you have transformed as one of the many in the herd, led by instincts that you so once dreaded?

I remember the way your fingers lingered over me,

The dew drops smeared over all of me, blotted smudged ink marks all reminisce the nights when we lay woven in each other’s arms

Sniffles or silence, I never parted with you,

You showered your wrath on me, you told me a thousand heart burning tales of infatuation,

Like the dried rose petals concealed in my pages, somewhere within me your fragrance has remained

Come to me someday without inhibitions, like your childhood faith,

Sit with me and talk, tell me  about yourself, learn about me again…

It’s been ages since we spoke.  

Africa

Rabindranath Tagore


Translation by Bina Biswas , Secunderbad, India


In those flustered days of the primeval age
when the Maker frustrated with himself
was ravaging the new creation again and again,
In those days of His impatience, the frequent tossing of head,
The enraged arms of the ocean snatched you from
the breast of the Eastern mother-earth, Africa,
and tied you down under the thick watch of foliage
in the inner quad of stingy light.

There in the solitude of leisure
you accessed the mysterious remote
besought to learn the obscure notes of
water, land and sky.
The nature’s imperceptible wonders
aroused spells in your cataleptic mind.
You scorned the dreadful
in the appalling guise,
yearning to beat the terror,
by making yourself grotesque in stern grandeur
to the drumbeats of the divine dance.

O the shadowed one,
beneath the dark veil,
unknown was your human form
to the hatred's blurry eyes.
Came they with iron manacles
their claws sharper than your wolves,
Arrived the human-trappers
More blind with pride than your
your sunless woods.

The savage hunger of the civilized
bared its brazen inhumanity.
The forest paths moistened with
muted sighs, the dust was mucky
with your tears and blood.
Crushed under the nailed boots of the bandits,
on the ugly lumps of clay
left their stubborn scripts
in your insulted history.

Across the ocean, all the while, in their towns
bells chimed in their temples
morning and evening in the name of all merciful God.
The children played in their mothers’ arms;
the poets’ songs rang with the adulation of beauty.

Today, when on the western horizon
The evening is breathless in the windstorm,
the beasts emerge from the hollow caves
Announce the end of the day with their ugly howl,
Come , O poet of the eon,
in the approaching gloom of the dusk,
Stand at the doors of the slighted woman,
Say, ‘Forgive us’.
Amidst delirious raving,
Let these be the last hallowed words of your civilization.

60 and Still the Most Thrilling of It All!

By Ananya Mukherjee
Monte Casino, Johannesburg, South Africa 

What differentiates an ordinary crime thriller from a piece of theatrical history that has captivated audience, retained its original flavour and overwhelming suspense for six decades over 24,000 performances? Two words. Agatha Christie. Period.

Written by the greatest crime writers of all times, the Mousetrap, West End’s longest running whodunit is currently in its 60^th year in 2012. What started as a 30 minutes radio play called Three Blind Mice on BBC and evolved as the Mousetrap, has mesmerised thousands of theatre lovers over the years. Although periodically the cast is changed, bringing in freshness and variation to the play, the basic structure and treatment of the two-hour high-intensity drama remains unaltered. And so enthralling is the experience that the audience spontaneously engages and warms up to the characters, almost trying to solve the country house murder mystery as the scenes unfold.

The setting is the Great Hall of Monkswell Manor in Berkshire soon to be cut off from the rest of the world due to an impending snowstorm. The curtain is raised with the announcement that a murder has been committed in Paddington. The Police is looking for the suspect on the run dressed in a coat and a hat.  

The long opening scene sets the pace as each guest arrives shaking snow from his/her hat and winter coats, blissfully unaware that  they and the young proprietors of the Manor will soon fall under the deepest suspicion of guilt and threat of sudden death. 

The action kicks into gear when the earnest Detective Sergeant Trotter arrives with the disquieting news that the suspect who committed the London murder may be amongst the guests of the now snowed-in Manor. Furthermore, clues carelessly discarded now point to the Manor as the killer's next stopping place in pursuit of two more victims of vengeance . But who are they? No one knows.

The lurking danger is well enhanced by a realistic rural English Manor with doorways, staircases, scones and dim lights that accentuate the suspense as the tension builds and the secret finally unlocks.

By tradition, at the end of each performance, the audience is asked  not to reveal the identity of the killer to anyone outside the theatre to ensure that the climax of the play is not divulged and future productions remain as mysterious as ever. 

Mousetrap comes forth as a beautifully preserved example of a country house murder mystery and the cast does excellent justice to Agatha Christie's characters. Needless to say, the production's historic credentials make the experience both entertaining and exciting right till the end. 

  

Sholay Revisited

By Anindita Baidya
Anand, Gujarat, India

Thakur Baldev Singh, the Head of Ramgarh Food Supplies Ltd. was more than eager to have a detailed study on the ‘Role clarity’ in his organization.  No, he did not trust Gabbar, his Senior Supervisor-Supplies department, to do that internally.  Gabbar did not particularly have very impressive ways of gathering supplies.  Thakur needed to outsource the study, for the benefit of an ‘outsider’s view’ on the role played by each of his team members.

So he hired Jay and Veeru, two brilliant C-grade B-school interns and entrusted them with the job.  They would spend a month at Ramgarh Food Supplies and draw an organogram with clear roles.

Jay and Veeru valiantly arrived at the organization, was received by the vivacious Ms Basanti, who later on went on to be Veeru’s life partner and business consultant; well, that is a different story. 

The under-grads spent days beating their head in getting to understand what the entire team was actually doing.  Gabbar was the most dreaded Supervisor, one could have ever imagined and made the life of his team, a hell.  In addition to being a veteran in supply procedures, he was an amateur self-proclaimed homeopath consultant.  So anyone who crossed his path was tortured to death by his, ‘Abb goli khaa’…his (homeopathy) goli was the most dreaded stuff in the office. 

Kalia, one of his trusted team members, the fat, curly, cute little thing was the worst hit.  He had been administered some homeopathy mineral, which Kalia termed, for pure fun, as ‘Namak’ but in spite of doses of the medicinal namak, Kalia’s trouble did not decrease. So Gabbar ruthlessly prescribed some Goli for him and in spite of poor Kalia’s vehement pleadings, ‘Sardar, maine aapka namak khaayaa hai..”, the affectionate but stern Gabbar suggested, ‘Abb goli khaa’.

Gabbar spent a considerable amount of time entertaining himself on the internet viewing some item numbers by ‘Mehbooba’ and hitting flies.  ‘Sardar makhkhi maartein hain’.

Samba was the most trusted one, of Gabbar.  For his boss, Samba played the role of a record and appointment keeper. Not one decision was taken by Gabbar without validating with Samba.  Samba supplied all info on appointments; “Holi kab hai? Kab hai Holi”’ and Samba was his stock keeper, ‘Kitne goli hain?’

Samba sat in the office, in an aloof place, most of the time browsing through websites, claiming that he was actually, sharpening his axe.

Here our Jay and Veeru were amidst a lot of confusion about the task each of the officers did.  Basanti was a perfect professional, no unnecessary chat, no friendship; she was clear, Ghora aur Ghaas dosti nahi kar sakte. There was the surma-smeared Bhopali who spent his time chatting about how he out-smarted these two interns, Jay and Veeru. 

And amidst all these, Thakur saab and Gabbar were at loggerheads with each other and Thakur saab secretly ordered the intern duo to suggest something in the report that could usher the oust of Gabbar.

So after a lot of consultation, observation, Jay and Veeru came up with a report.  It actually suggested that in the organization, all are actually doing the same job.  Gabbar, Samba, Kalia all are engaged in the same task, ‘sabhi khayini bana rahe hain’, as Veeru put forth. And this was because Thakur, the Head, ‘khaini bana nahi sakte’, Jay explained, ‘Kyunki unke haath hee nahi hai..”

With a new feeling of powerlessness (on realizing that he had lost his hands to his junior, Gabbar), the annoyed Thakur ordered the interns to stop their research mid-way; however impressed at their efficient ways, he offered them job and free accommodation at Ramgarh Food Supplies, but having only one vacancy, he left the decision to the interns, to decide who would stay back at Ramgarh Food Supplies..

The ever protective Jay suggested a toss and thus went the coin high in the air and Jay decided, ‘Heads I go, tails, I stay’.  And as it was a ‘head’. Jay left and Veeru was inducted into the organization, must to his delight that he could be around Basati now.

It is only later that Veeru discovered that Jay had actually decided to call it quits in the organization, not for the benefit of buddy Veeru but he was allured by a fat offer from an MNC and a prospect of settling abroad.

Only later did Veeru discover that the coin which Veeru often tossed, had Head on both the sides…….!!!!

Ruuhan

By Ananya Mukherjee

Singapore

Kaaga sab tan khaiyo, mora chuun chuun khaiyo maans re,

Par do naina mat khaiyo, mohe piya milan ki aas re

   

My name is Ruuhan. Given that am not a human, it is an unusual name. The forest officer has a poetic streak about him and a special affection for my ma, and it is he who has christened me thus. Ma tells me, it means spiritual.

I don’t know if there was anything mystical or pious about my birth. Just like any other fawn, I was born amidst an immense and gory struggle of will and contentment in a little shaded corner surrounded by huge tropical trees in India’s Kanha National Park. But unlike many others in my tribe, my birth was registered; I was named and tagged. During the process, I remember overhearing something about being a handsome but rare and endangered species. I don’t know what it implied. However, right from the time that I’ve seen the light of the world I’ve known one truth. I am different, if not special.

And I have grown up with this conviction. Interestingly, this difference that I once so happily assumed, is also quite stark now. It stares me at my face when I stop by the sparkling waters of the stream for a drink. My reflection on the sweet water tells me I am beautiful, that there’s none like me, yet that is also the reason why I am usually alone. In my moments of quiet silence and respite, I have often wondered if it’s the onus of carrying a name with a meaning (something that is unheard of in my clan) or having being born with such a different psyche that I have always been a loner. Another bone of contention in my herd! A stag like me should be a leader heading a band of five hundred gazelles, not grazing around alone in the forest and wondering about the philosophical implications and divine influences of his name. But, you see I am Ruuhan, and I am different.

But there’s a story about me that I haven’t told anyone. I see strange dreams, like frames from an afterlife or one that I have been through and these dreams keep coming back to me like a deja vu. Often in my idle wakefulness, I see myself as a cosmic illusion, a golden deer with eyes like rounded gems, horns and hooves like silver, sprinting around in a forest clearing. And I know that I am here for a purpose. I am being used as a bait and there’s nothing that I can do about it. I am merely following orders with death as an inevitable reward. I vision myself as a small part of a greater plan, a bigger picture, a divine intervention in the imbalance in the law of nature. Then I see an arrow striking me, slicing into my body, and leaving me numb. Even in my hypnotic state of painlessness, I feel something piercing into a formless entity and hear someone call out a name in my mind. Mareech.

Oh, I just ramble on and I think too much like humans, my ma tells me. I am a creature of the forest. I should be led by instincts not logic, she warns me all the time. But I know I am here for a purpose like none other. I am yet to find out what that is, but I know there is a reason for my being for sure. 

One of the possibilities could be finding love. I am still on the lookout for a mate. My handsome demeanor does attract a lot of kohl smudged doe eyes. I have seen many of them cross my path, huddle up and lure me but Ruuhan as I am called, my search is somewhat different. A bit spiritual if I may be allowed to add. For me, it’s not the bark of a deer; it ought to be a call from a soul mate. I wonder why something tells me that voice in my dream that calls out my name with a desperate pain is that of a female. Maybe she was my consort, my mate in a previous life and from the jungles of Chitrakoot to the plains of the Seoni Hills by the Wainganga, I’m carrying her safely within me like my prized kasturi.

It’s getting dark and times are not as good as they used to be. My life has greater threat from men than from predators. Ma tells me there are poachers hiding in the park and I should get back to a safer location deep in the forest after dusk. I must hurry back now and take refuge in the shelter of the thickets beyond this plain. Hush, a moment…I hear something like a rumbling of the earth and before I know it…I feel something rush towards me and pierce into my smooth skin….

My hind legs feel heavy, my breaths are running short…and I know my time is out. Between the two thick forests of bamboo, just when the glorious sun dips its head into a submission to the earth, I can feel a numbness enveloping my senses and life slipping out of me. Flashes from a previous birth come rushing back ...yes, it was a female’s voice and she was calling out my name…Mareech.

I make a last attempt to rise and say, yes, my love, I am here…I can hear you now…but in my last breath all I can manage is crying out a name….hers. 

Ghazal. Someday, they will remember you and me for leaving our legacy behind.   

PS: This writing was inspired by my own passion for music and poetry. Not too long ago, Ghulam Ali Sahab shared a story about the origin of ‘ghazal’. The Arabic word originated from gazelle, he said. Kahete hain, teer khaya hua hiran (gazelle)jab akhri saansein leta hai, uske halaq se dard ki, tarap ki, ek akhri awaz sunaayi deti hai...us awaz ko ghazal kahete hain. Kya aap isse waakif thhey?

Kolkata: Half Baked Dreams

By Aritro Bhattacharya
Kolkata, India

Opposite Caffeine, Gol Park

It rained. Hard and blinding and brief. Unusual squall for a mid-May urban day. As the drops pelted down upon the rickety tin buses and the squabbling auto-rickshaws and the archaic cabs of the yore and the adolescent motorcycles, I patiently waited. As the hydrants spewed tarry sewage and the associated paraphernalia of glistening gutkha wrappers, stubs of unfiltered, carcinogenic, uncouth, cheap Charminars pulverized by the gurgling muck, a couple of earthen bhaands in aimless ying-yan swirl, and a lonely used condom sticking out like the spent phalanx of a phantasmal lovemaking, I waited. As truant love-birds, sidewalk bastards, academic discards mayhemmed, launched paper fleets, danced topless, intertwined furtive fingers which occasionally touched fiery, taboo flesh, I waited. As the feuding mini-buses, the marauding 407s, the medieval hand-pulled rickshaws writhed, squirmed and wriggled through the orgies of existence and the pot-holes and first rains and earth smells and death-raced each other to respective destinations, I waited. As Ayudh’s ashes still floated down the polluted Buriganga, cosying against drained bottles of hooch, broken kolkes, dog carcasses and the rotting tuberose wreaths of the dead, I waited. In his city which was once mine. For a girl who was once his.

I wouldn’t have recognized Saanjh if not for her characteristic Madhu Sapresque sashay which she picked up God-only-knows-how from the grainy, flickering fashion shows of 21” B-W Keltron which occupied about 1/7 of the 6 * 8 room in Chetla which she shared with her parents and a scoundrel brother. Saanjh Mitra was born out of a failed contraceptive measure, as she loved to say. She was a girl, which translated into ‘one more idle mouth to feed and get married off to someone not a pimp or a rapist’ in her environs. More so because her father, a Communist by ideal and an accountant at a local grocer’s by practice, swore upon Sukanta’s promise of making this world more habitable for the kids and decided to practice celibacy till that happened. It never happened, her wife bore his fruit twice, and he had to work his ass out to provide for them. He silently brooded over his twin failures of a broken promise and his withering utopia. He never complained though, and instead supplemented the lack of dietary proteins with mouthfuls of poetry- from Whitman to Jibanananada, his trips were eclectic. And so, born into a smoggy Kolkata twilight, into a prosaic locality of long queues at the communal tube-well, starving, littering dogs, and domestic violence and crackling radios and rowdy Kalipuja and Durgapuja and Vishwakarmapuja carousels, Saanjh was christened so by her father, who brushed aside the traditional Annapurna, Protima or Karabi.

And, as good genes and bad luck would have it, much to her mother’s consternations Saanjh loved mathematics, poetry and the colour Red. She gave two hoots to mastering the business of stitching together petticoats for a local hosiery brand that her mother dabbled in to add to her father’s infinitisemal salary, shunned the company of the soap-opera ogling girls of her colony who sighed over the chest hairs of Chiranjeet and Prasenjit and the nasal soprano of Kishor Kumar clones, never leafed through Prasad, Nabakallol or any damndest Bengali magazines if not for poetries, summarily ignored the cat-calls, whistles and sexual and romantic innuendos of drain-pipe-trousered, fish-net-vested, wiry-biceped, grease-slickened matinee Bhola, Pocha or the slightly chic Rocky of her paara.

Going much against the run of the domestic sewing-machines, she aced her class in the municipal high school where the teachers were more interested in bunking classes than the students, and gate crashed into the hallowed porticos of Presidency. On a full tuition waiver. To study Mathematics. Good she did. Where else would she have met Ayudh?

Campus folklore has it that Ayudh Sen Chowdhury, the bespectacled (the best pair of frames from G K Opticals, Ballygunge), fair-skinned, pink-lipped, guitar-strumming, Dylan-humming, Lake Place resident fell in love with Saanjh over her colourful orations in the Canteen where she borrowed liberally from her list of after-dusk expletives which would put any guy to shame, and also from nondescript little magazine ideas. However, going by his hyperactive hormones and her lithe dusk-skinned, pout-lipped, kohl-eyed, perfect-breasted figure, both of which have hordes of students vouching for, it was lust that rather paved the way for this alliance. Add to it Saanjh’s natural inclination towards numbers and Ayudh’s innate nonchalance towards anything distantly curricular, and no wonder Ayudh clung on so dearly to his lady love or lust, whatever you may term it.

“Kire Neel? Ki khobor? What’s cooking”? The reverie was broken. I could just make out a whiff of Chanel. Oh yes, Saanjh had come a long way. But more of that later.

People say grief can turn you into idiots. Standing in the rain I thought the theory was totally retro. Or perhaps it was not. We really were playing the parts of idiots. It was barely a couple of days since Ayudh had died. Yes he did. He was all of 26. More of that later.

And here was Saanjh, his muse and I, his accomplice in numerous escapades, walking in the rain towards the Caffeine nestled in between Grub Club and Amber take-away.

His favourite haunt. Across His zebra-crossings and His traffic lights. His paper-mâché coasters. His ceramic mugs. His framed Garfield strips. His Café Negro. His Cappuccino Grande. His greasy chicken nuggets. His loosely-strung guitar. His stunned hearts. His dried tears. His starched, Chanel-ed, vermillioned, impregnated ex-girlfriend. His irritated best mate. His breathing poetries. His Dylan Thomas. His Sreejato. His Saanjhbaati. His Akashneel. His broken links. He was this close to playing God. He so is not here.

“Saanjh, you should have made it to his house before they took him away. Kakima was asking for you”.

“Saanjh, you should meet at least meet with Kakima once, she needs that.”

“Saanjh, do you miss Che? Motorcycle Diaries? Boolean Algebra? Marijuana swigs? The day we decided to launch a radio station for the insomniac, suicidal and the prostitute?”

“Saanjh, will you name your unborn foetus Ayudh? Even if for a second? So that he is born into poetry?”

“Saanjh, Ayudh died. I am scared. This city is no longer mine. Shred it into pieces. Distribute the pieces among the leper, the love-child and the love-lorn.”

“Saanjh, shed a tear. For God’s sake. Ayudh is dead.”

No quivering lips. No trembling hands. No choked larynxes. No nauseating longings.

The unsaid words crawled all over the place. Traipsed over the acrid coffee smell. Into the manicured nails manoeuvring the mobile phone. Whirring it, buzzing it, typing texts. The syllables animated the weary fingers rubbing the bloodshot eyes and porcupine stubble and acetic eyelids. Two mannequins, layered in Levis, Fabindia, Ray Ban, dog-eared Nike, Dr Scholl’s’ pumps. Enacting the charade of familiarity. And grief and conversation in a faux-pas bistro in a faux-pas cosmopolis. Nothing is said. Nothing is asked. The blowing AC circulates no apparent torment. Perfect harmony.

The last sip trickles down the gullet. Tasted like gasoline. Pity Ayudh can’t taste this. Would have puked. Would have been fun. Madhu Sapre in Chanel next to me stirs. Swift flick of wrists. Pays check. Tips. Plumbs deep down into the Gucci bag. God, isn’t she RICH nowadays!!! Fishes out a papyrus from the forgotten times. When Ayudh was alive.

“Neel, Ayudh wanted you to have this. I’ve been carrying this albatross for many lives now, it seems.”

“What is this”? Even though I know it in my bones.

“No idea, a letter perhaps. He wanted me to give you this if he died before you. I don’t think he meant so soon. You know, how humongous an emotional bastard he was. And how he loved writing……”

“Yes, he wanted to get published”.

“You bet. And now he’s gone! I believe his ‘omnibus’ is still hidden somewhere. For posterity. But for whom?”

Sepulchral silence. The first quiver. The first sting. The first acid rain.

We step out.

A pair of leaden Kolkata skies implode into a zillion Ayudh droplets.

The Armour of Amrapali

By Dr Bina Biswas
Secunderabad, India

A foundling at the foot of dawn -

Loveless animal couplings with

mere nightly gratification of the want of flesh

had borne this lovely fruit of 

irresponsible lust.

The mother had abandoned her 

with callous ease.

Swathing her in a spotless linen

and stowing her in a wicker basket

to be left to her own devices 

under a mango tree -

She had fulfilled her motherly obligations

and got rid of her shame.

But a divine gift she was

for the guard on his homeward way

after a nightly vigil at the House of Elders.

With infinite tenderness he picked her up

and carried her home to his childless wife,

to be nurtured and cherished.

Found under a mango tree,

her foster-father lovingly named her 

Amrapali.

The tale of Sunda-Upasunda,

warring over the peerless Tilottama

made the decision easier for the Elders.

They apprehended a blood-bath borne of lust

over the nubile beauty of Amrapali

and this they could ill afford in peaceable Vaishali.

They declared that when she came of age

she would be wedded to, not one,

but to all males of the Republic of Lichhabi,

whosoever fancied and could afford her.

They etched out a gory career of a courtesan for her.

She was to become a Janapadabadhu,

a Bride of the Republic.

A foundling could hardly expect more.

A minstrel sang in the court of Magadha.

He sang about the radiance of Amrapali,

her physical beauty, her sensuality,

her unfathomable depth of knowledge,

her bewitching music, her ethereal dancing grace,

and her prowess with the use of arms.

Bimbisara listened with rapt attention.

He was a real connoisure of beauty and art,

as he was prowling tiger in fields of battle.

A sense of want gripped his soul,

but at this moment Magadha and Lichhabi 

had their horns locked.

The merchant was handsome

and his bag of gold heavy.

Amrapali's guardian was all smiles 

to welcome him to the inner sanctum,

where Amrapali sat playing the veena.

As the tall shadow fell on her, 

Amrapali's nimble fingers missed a stroke.

The veena, not used to such lapse,

rang discordant, as if in protest.

She looked up.

He stood there in silhouette, features darkened

from the light behind him.

His stature was tall, complexion, burnt copper,

bearing regal.

The broad chest, bare in the mild clime,

with only an Angabastra draped loosely over it,

looking so inviting to lay the troubled head on,

tapered down to a narrow waist-line,

like that of a lion.

The arms hung loose, rippling with

taut, battle-weary muscles.

This was no ordinary merchant

as the physique spoke of a Kshatriya.

Amrapali stood up, a bit dizzy in the head,

and moved to one side,

so that light fell on his face.

She saw a strong, firm jaw, sensuous lips,

and the eyes - oh! she almost swooned.

The eyes were dark, deep, soft and searching.

The lashes were long and graceful.

The brow resolute -

For the first time in her life,

Amrapali, the courtesan,

who had sung and danced for nobilities,

who had adorned the bed-spread of countless

virile, young men,

who had, with a dispassionate ease, borne out of

rigorous training,

been able to segregate her profession from life,

for the first time, the poor girl,

fell madly in love.

Bimbisara, for it was he,

gazed enthralled at the beauty before him.

The minstrel had done scant justice 

to this nubile form.

Vaishali was no place for her.

She would have been at home

in the court of Indra, the king of gods.

Forgotten was his realm and the battle raging

a few yojanas out there.

He stepped forward to hold her hands.

When his lips met hers, it was as if

two souls met after a separation of aeons.

The single flame in the earthen lamp

wavered, spluttered and died.

In the blanket of darkness,

right there, amidst the veena and mridangams,

body met a thirsty body, as soul met soul.

Amrapali had seen lust,

Bimbisara had known love.

But nothing compared to the deluge

that swept over them now -

nothing existed, nothing could,

but a man and his woman,

and all world, a mockery.

Bimbisara had departed after a few days.

Amrapali could never again know happiness,

for he had gone.

But she was never happier, too, as he went,

for she had come to know who he really was.

Within a few days, her eyes brimmed over with

unshed tears,

as she heard that the Magadha forces

were retreating all along the border.

Bimbisara was true to his words, 

true to his love.

She knew that she'll never see him again.

But now she felt that a little part of him

was growing within her.

Her child shall keep her love alive.

II

Goutam Buddha was coming to Vaishali.

The whole city throbbed with eager expectation.

Streets had been swept clean 

and garlands adorned evey door of every dwelling

to welcome him.

Amrapali sent her son Bimala, now a fine, young man, 

to invite him to take up abode in her place.

Amrapali looked at herself in the mirror of polished metal.

The years had been kind to her.

Her hair was still black, with not a silver strand.

Her eyes had lost none of their lustre.

Her smile was still something that

men could lay down their lives for.

Bimbisara's image had faded somewhat

from her memory.

Amrapali looked up after touching the Buddha's feet

For her nothing existed anymore,

But for those almond shaped dark brown eyes.

Looking at her with soft intensity of love

for his fellow beings,

So straight was his bearing,

With long hair tied up in a knot

on his head,

That Amrapali became breathless.

Since childhood she had worshipped Lord Shiva.

It seemed as if Shiva 

Had come to her in answer to her prayers.

She wanted to be one with him

But could not utter a word.

Amrapali's yearning was apparent to him.

He placed his right hand on her head

In silent blessing.

III

Sleep eluded Amrapali that night

At the break of dawn she walked over 

To where the Buddha sat in silent meditation.

The Buddha looked at her

She sat at his feet now and begged him

To let her join the Sangha.

Gautam Buddha shook his head

In wordless refusal.

The morning sun appeared to lose its glory

The birds stopped to twitter.

'But why my Lord?" She flared up.

The Buddha pondered throughout the day

And gave his consent 

When the sun was dipping beyond

The western hills.

IV

On foot they clambered over the hilly terrains,

All of them dressed in ochre garb

with shaven pates,

Carrying a satchel in one shoulder.

A begging bowl in the left hand

A long walking stick in the right.

The column wound up the hills,

with the Buddha at its head.

The figure at the end was that of woman,

She was Amrapali

Matching her steps with her monks.

A chant filled the morning air

"Buddhang Sharanam Gacchami

Dhammang Sharanam Gacchami

Shanghang Sharnam Gacchami."


(This poem was first published in the Kritya: Poetry in our time)