The Fate of Sarpedon

King Priam’s city towers tall

Surrounded by the windy plains

Where mortal men and ageless gods

Wage war as Agamemnon reigns

Man-killing Hector thunders forth

Breaker of horses, Achaean foe

Spurred on by Lord Apollo’s will

And fired by his kingdom’s woe

Much like a lion’s mighty roar

Does Are’s ringing war cry sound

As Danaan wolves and Trojan dogs

Wreak havoc as they hunt and hound

When horses break their chariot reigns

And wounded warriors cry in pain

The blood of beast and man does mix

And mingle in the dusty plain

Amidst the chaos and the din

Of battle born of lustful sin

The lord of thunder pensive sits

In meditation grave and grim

Just like an eagle perched for prey

Surveys the ground below his bower

So deathless Zeus sits and views

The battlefield and topless towers

And in his line of sight there stands

The shepherd of the Lycian sheep

The godlike Sarpedon who sends

To Argive ranks eternal sleep

Infusing strength into his men

The Lycian leader leads them on

Towards Scamander’s hollow ships

Towards a rosy-fingered dawn

The lord of lightning knows the fate

His brave and noble son must meet

He views afar the Myrmidons

Come charging in a frenzied heat

A brazen form with horsehair plume

The mighty son of Kronos sees

Who is this armoured demigod

The brave swift-footed Achilles?

The lord of heaven wrathful grows

Olympus trembles as he quakes

Patroclus clad in gold he sees

Whose hubris paves the path he takes

And yet the fearless Lycian King

Comrade of Glaucus, Sarpedon

Stands like an oak tempestuous bound

Bright shining like the rising sun

The earth stands still as silver bolts

Like tongues of serpents rip the sky

The world will churn and Troy will burn

The blazing sun will set and die

Then ox-eyed Hera wise and bold

Laments and curbs her husband’s pain

The bloody war must run its course

And Sarpedon too must be slain

She knows the spectacle of man

Is one where each does play his part

A poignant tale scripted by Fate

A woven tapestry of art

The tide of time will ebb and flow

Into a calm and placid sea

The swimmer casts a mournful eye

Towards this vast eternity

When Fortune, courtesan of life

Does prance in provocative glee

O, who can bend or try to mend

What harlot graces do decree?

No wounded horseman’s plaintive plea

No god bellowing from the sky

Can win over her wily whims

When Fate ordains that death is nigh

When citadels come crumbling down

And spectres break and arrows rust

Colossal towers crack and char

Civilizations turn to dust

And all bejeweled spoils of war

And all the glory lost and won

Are dog-eared pages fading slow

Into a vast oblivion

The lord of thunder shakes his head

He sees the slayer of his son

He sheds a tear for him so dear

The day is dim, the time has come

Patroclus wields his brazen sword

The furies rage, the sirens sing

As Zeus almighty takes an oath

To clip the boy’s Icarian wings

A thousand carmine raindrops pour

The mighty oak uprooted falls

Surrounded by the dance of death

Prefiguring the flaming walls

The death of dauntless Sarpedon

The lion-hearted Lycian king

Shall bring about the fall of Troy

As Deimos reigns and war cries ring

Kautilya's Prophecy

O Mother – grant your son to me,

The boy will rise to glorious heights,

Dispel the darkness of the lands,

Destroy the potent Nanda might.

O Son – your future awaits thee,

Tonight, to Taxila we’ll flee.

Shatkar shall aid, and I shall guide

And you shall form a dynasty.

O King – be wary of this child,

Your kingdom’s curse, your country's boon,

For he is fated to conquer

The rolling plains of Magadha soon.

O God Almighty – bless this seed

I’ll nourish to a sturdy tree.

Rakshasa shall fret, when I shall guide

And he shall reshape history.

Letting Go

Dear LSR,

You've been like a boyfriend to me. In these three years, I've changed around you. Grown into a fuller, better person, without realising how much you've shaped me. When I first saw you, I was told it would be magical. Every woman in this country wanted you, yet I was lucky enough to be that special one. And I experienced a great sense of smugness and pride, because I knew I had deserved you. To be a part of you, and to have you as a part of my life, was truly magical.

There were, however, times you let me down. When you led me to believe you had smooth-talked me into this; that it was all a facade you had created around yourself, to get women like me to fall for your superficial charm. Where was the space you had promised to provide me, which would allow me to explore myself and my potential? There were days when I felt smothered and suffocated by your overwhelming presence. Dictating the terms, circumscribing my efforts. I would tell my friends you're fucking me over, that I want out. That it was all a big mistake, choosing to be in this, when I had had no dearth of options.

But today, when I look back, I smile. I remember the winter strolls in the backlawns, the lazy summer afternoons, the macaroni and cheese at the cafeteria, the prom nights, the Nescafé dates, the class-bunks and the mass-bunks, the tea and cigarettes, and the songs I sang for you during Tarang. There were nights you kept me up, to finish off what we had started, and those nights were wonderful. Specially knowing I'd wake up in the morning to you.

Those nights may never return. Tomorrow morning, I may wake up somewhere else, to someone else. But today, when I look back, I wonder. You've been an inextricable part of my life, made me who I am today. Making me strive to excel, to live up to your expectations, teaching me, marking me, encouraging me, holding my hand. Lecturing me over marxist tenets and feminist ideals, you've influenced me considerably. In a small way, in a great way. Leaving you will be hard, and moving on, harder. Someone else will take my place, but remember me like I will always remember you.

I'm sorry for the times I've been harsh and overly critical of you. I'm sorry for the times I've asked for too much. But it’s never too late to put the pettiness behind and make up. Because I know that I may leave you, but you’ll stay with me, since I’ll carry a part of you when I go.

Yours forever

Your girlfriend

Bhavika

Branded Clothes and Fame Smiles

Delhi, just like any metropolitan city in India, is characterized by a stark inequality in income. It’s a beautiful city to be in, with its diverse traditions, multifarious cultures and rich heritage. As the political capital of the country, and the hub of economic development in India, it is the seat of power. It has managed to provide ample comforts to most of its citizens, and lavish luxuries to an elite few. However, there are still those belonging to the lower rung of society, who haven’t managed a share in what this city has to offer.

When I arrived here last year, as one of the fortunate few to have gained admission in Lady Shri Ram College, one of the most prestigious academic institutions of the country, I felt a sense of pride, which I believed to be justified. The first year went in parties and social gatherings; I was acquainting myself with the Delhi culture and its people. I still recall those late night parties at F-Bar, the fashion lounge in Delhi. I remember flaunting my Gucci bag and silver studded Jimmy Choos, experiencing a sense of smugness on being introduced to the so-called ‘socialites’ – the cream of Delhi’s society, with their genuine branded clothing and fake smiles. I recall the free mojitos at Urban Pind Lounge on Wednesdays, the silver apple flavoured hookahs at Mocha, the leisurely afternoons spent at the Delhi Golf Club over sandwiches as my friends played golf. I recall the shopping sprees at Mango, the thick crust pizza with extra jalapeños at T.G.I. Friday’s, the head banging at Cafe Morrison, and the road trips to my friend’s farmhouse located on the outskirts of the city, where we’d spend our nights over beer and poker.

This was Delhi. The Delhi I’d heard of all my life. And I was thoroughly convinced that I’d seen it all. I’d been there and done all of that, and lay comfortably deluded and blissfully ignorant of what lay beyond my senses. But when reality dawns on you, unveiling the silken curtains of illusion that shield the ugly truth, leaving it naked and exposed for you to see, it’s as though the world you created around you crumbles. And once this facade crumbled in front of my eyes, I was left inundated by questions for which answers never existed.

It all happened on that fateful Friday afternoon, when I was on my way to a particularly posh gallery to view a particular designer’s exhibition. Delhi is famous for its haute couture, and I wanted to pick up a few designer sarees for my mom’s birthday. It was a sultry day for most. But for me it was just any ordinary day, since I prefer not to expose myself to Delhi’s heat. I was in my friend’s air-conditioned BMW, and its tinted glasses cut me off from the city’s heat, squalor, sweat and grime. When our car halted at the red light of a busy crossing at Lodhi Road, we were suddenly surrounded by vendors selling packaged strawberries, garlands of white flowers or gajras, pirated books, cheap plastic toys, cut pieces of coconuts, and sundry other things.

I was oblivious to these vendors and beggars. As I sat humming Good Charlotte’s Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous, I was suddenly thrown off by a rap on my window. I saw my friend beside me scrunch up her face in disgust and turn the other way. I squinted through my tinted window at the figure of a woman draped in rags with a begging bowl and a small portrait of Santoshi Mata. These details, however, skipped my notice at first since the woman carried a mutilated baby in her arms. I was utterly horrified and unable to react.

“Ugh!” exclaimed Sonika beside me grimacing. “It’s a shame that they’re even allowed to live. Don’t bother with them, Bhavika.”

My hand had reached my purse in order to pull out a tenner, when she stopped me by remarking “They’re the scum of the earth. Absolute eyesores. Polluting our environment more than anything else.”

Her boyfriend, Ashim, who was sitting in the front seat, rolled down his window. But it was for no altruistic and charitable deed that he did. He merely wished to ash his cigarette.

“Beta, mera bachha bhookha hai (Son, my child is hungry),” she implored. “Bhagwaan tera bhala karega (God will be merciful towards you).”

Ashim smirked and replied, “Marne de (Let him die).” Then turning towards us he said, “Fuck these guys, man. They’re irksome to the core.”

I hadn’t recovered from my horror yet, and my eyes remained transfixed on the distorted child she carried. My mind was urging me to help the woman, yet my hands refused to move. It was as though something was blocking the pity from flowing to my heart. And that ‘something’ was not any innate badness that I possessed; it had been created by those around me.

Those few moments seemed like hours to me. My eyes darted to Ashim, who was now busy abusing Delhi’s congested traffic on his Blackberry. Sonika was holding out a few hundred rupees to a vendor selling her a pirated DVD of The Devil Wears Prada. My eyes then darted back to the dishevelled woman, who was now walking away, her child clasped to her breast. The traffic signal turned green, our car moved ahead, but I couldn’t tear my eyes away from her. As we drove on her figure became smaller and smaller, slowly fading into the blur of cars and smoke. I could soon see her only as a dot in the distance, a dot that stood for all women. Women who face abject poverty and vicissitudes in life. Women who are exploited and suppressed by the society they depend on. Women who need to emancipate themselves socially, economically and politically. Women who depend on us to be uplifted, but are shunned by those they rely on. The child in her arms depended on her for its sustenance, without realizing that she herself was dependent on a world too occupied by its own selfish motives to care.

I tried to ignore the guilt pangs and pacify my conscience. So what if I hadn’t offered her charity? It wasn’t as if one ten-rupee note paid to one beggar would reduce the level of impoverishment in our country, bridging the income divide. What I failed to realize (or chose not to realize), was that every drop makes an ocean. We have to start somewhere to get somewhere. One altruistic deed may not affect our country’s poverty levels; it may, however, affect someone’s life.

I admired the rich hand-stitched kantha embroidery work on the saree I picked up for my mom from Friday’s exhibition. It was a lazy Sunday morning, and I was sitting on my balcony enjoying the cool breeze and the hot aroma of my coffee. The saree was of a turquoise hue; its kantha work was intricately spread, and its motifs were elegant and beautiful. It was an expensive piece, yet it left me satisfied. I turned to the newspaper spread out on my table and the headline caught my attention. ‘Begging an Organized Crime: Child on Lodhi Road drugged and maimed by father.’ I was shaken out of my dreamy stupor, as a thousand thoughts rushed to my mind. ‘Two year old boy handicapped by his father ... used as a prop by his mother ... mother regularly beaten and sexually abused by the child’s father.’ The memory of the disfigured child and his wretched mother came back to me, a picture that had imprinted itself in my mind and would refuse to fade into oblivion, no matter how hard I tried to push it away.

The hollowness and superficiality of my life dawned on me, as I clasped the rich fabric in my hand. It suddenly felt no different from the dull and tattered cloth worn by the poor and the homeless, in a fabricated world.

A Death Foretold

On the day they were going to kill him, Mohammed Abdul Rasheed got up at five in the morning, to attend the morning prayer at the local mosque. Dressed in white, his crocheted taqiyah neatly covering his head and his prayer book tucked under his arm, he went through the house with long strides, as the shadows of dawn danced upon the earthen walls. He walked toward the winding pathway leading to the courtyard of the mosque, smiling at the little boys on their bicycles, on their way to the madrassa. He passed the khejri tree under which the village panchayat was gathering to discuss matters pertaining to the community at large. The young girls beside the pond by the village post-office, looked away coyly as he approached them, hiding their faces with the rims of their sarees. The youngest and the most beautiful of them all, lovingly called Beba by the village folk, was the only one who looked up to catch his eye. She walked with him toward the shady grove at the water’s edge, where he asked her not to entertain anyone this evening, for he would stop by at her kothi before dusk.

The air was still, and the cocks were crowing, just as they had in his dream the night before. It was a calm and quite morning, just like most mornings in the quaint little village of Samain, in spite of the revelry which had continued till the sun decided to rise on the paddy fields. Marriages were a big affair in this small town in Fatehabad, especially if one or both of the betrothed belonged to the moneyed class. So when Ramesh Tyagi, the son of a money lender from Rohtak, decided to woo and finally wed Pavitra, daughter of a craftsman in our village, the proposal was met with much jubilation. Pavitra was a distant relative of mine, and I remember her as a young girl, reticent and homely. On those few occasions when, tired of the grime and squalor of the city, I would come down to Samain to spend a few leisurely weeks in the rural countryside, I’d live a couple of days with her. She kept to herself mostly, scrubbing pots or cooking for the family. When her father went blind, her brothers Shiv and Prithvi took upon themselves the task of earning for the family’s meager wants, by raising chicken in the backyard. As for Pavitra, she confined herself to the chores, under the watchful eye of her mother.

I was staying at her place, when Ramesh came to town with a job at hand, and decided to inform the entire village that the pretty damsel washing clothes at the ghat had caught his fancy. The very next day, her family received sweets and bouquets of freshly pruned flowers, a fair barter for her love. Initially, the khap panchayat had annulled the marriage, holding that it violated the age-old custom defining the areas of incest, and prohibiting marriages within the same gothra. However, when they heard that Ramesh had plans of setting up a bank in the district, they blessed the couple and pronounced it a match made in heaven. So Pavitra, the new bride with vermilion on her forehead, was told by her mother that love too can be learned, and was led away like cattle.

On the day they were going to kill him, I was packing my bags and getting ready to leave for the city. The rickshaw-puller waited impatiently outside, surrounded by the village dogs, barking excitedly and pacing the yard. Away from my knowledge, Pavitra lay locked in the next room, bruised and beaten, her salty tears streaming down to her trembling lips. She had been returned that very night, similar to the cattle which the butcher deems unfit to slaughter and sell. On being asked to reveal the identity of her clandestine lover, she had looked in the shadows, only to find Mohammed's name among the many, and she nailed it to the wall with her well-aimed dart. And away from my knowledge, beside the little shop where Kavita sold milk and local brew, Pavitra’s brothers were waiting to kill him. Everyone knew that they were going to kill him. And everyone thought he knew it as well. But Mohammed Abdul Rasheed walked down the winding pathway from the mosque, at peace after the mualvi’s blessings, blissfully unaware of his impending fate. It was as though fatality makes one invisible.

As my rickshaw pulled toward the village square, the contraption creaking under the weight of my baggage, I heard a commotion in the distance. And I saw the dust rising up as numerous feet shuffled in that direction. I climbed down, and stopped a passerby to question her about the chaos.

“The Hindu men have killed the Muslim boy,” deplored the old woman, clutching her beads to her breast.

In a community where Hindus and Muslims lived in harmony, this piece of news disturbed me deeply. I turned toward Bittu, a boy working at the chai dukaan, and grabbing him by the shoulders I asked him the same question, a bit more frantically this time.

“What’s done is done,” he replied insightfully, shaking his head.

“It had to happen,” explained the village chowkidar beside me. “The panchayat believes it. So do the people. If a virgin will not bleed, then the perpetrator must.”

Gauri Behn, coming from the opposite direction, wailed aloud. “They’ve killed Mohammed Rasheed. They killed him for honour, when there is no honour in killing. We all killed him. Both you and I, and each one of us.”

Before she could complete her sentence, I found myself running toward the crowd. As I approached Mohammed, the man who we had killed off to keep alive our honour, he was in the throes of death, gasping, choking and sputtering like a fish out of water. He clutched his side, where the blood had imbrued his cotton jubbah, and was slowly forming a pool in the dusty ground.

“Allah will forgive them for their sins, for Allah is oft-forgiving, most merciful.”

With these last words, he stopped struggling, lay still and closed his eyes. I remained kneeling beside him, till his chest stopped heaving, and his head dropped to one side. The village folk soon dispersed, some grieving, some lamenting, some doubting, some believing. The sun was slipping behind a cloud, and its waning rays bedimmed the village square. Yet Mohammed Abdul Rasheed's face glowed, under the darkening sky, its expression serene and almost childlike. I looked at my hands, carmine stained, like those of the priest at the sacrificial altar. Allah, most merciful one, only you know whether this man has sinned or not. But as for our sins, would you ever forgive them?

Life

From womb to tomb doth Man traverse

The interim called life.

From dawn to dusk he journeys on

A pathway strewed with strife.

From ashes did he glorious rise

Then set the haloed sun,

To dust reduced he finds himself

Now that his task is done.

Silence

Silence - Speaks volumes,

Descending heavy around me,

Consuming me, devouring me,

I am the object of everyone's mirth.

Silence - Very soon

From its grip will free me,

In my next life, will leave me,

I have been deaf from birth.

Silence - As a child

Scared me, intimidated me,

Promised not to let go of me,

My constant cause of fear.

Silence - Driving me wild,

Surrounding me, confining me,

Hopelessly overwhelming me,

I prayed one day I would hear.

Silence - As I grew,

Befriended me, accompanied me,

Stood by me, walked with me,

No longer a part of strife.

Silence - Had a new

Meaning to me, worth to me,

Gave a new direction and path to me,

I learnt to accept my life.

Silence - Made me belong,

Held my hand to guide me,

Like my shadow beside me,

Made me brave and strong.

Silence - My soul and heart,

Is audible to none but me,

Ignored by all, cherished by me,

My deafness is my integral part.

Silence - As time went by,

In its arms enclosed me,

Comforted me, supported me,

I saw it in a new light.

Silence - Till the day I die,

Will strengthen me, encourage me,

Invaluable lessons it will teach me,

It has taught me to fight.