Life in Quarantine: Witnessing Global Pandemic is an initiative sponsored by the Poetic Media Lab and the Center for Spatial and Textual Analysis at Stanford University.
And Then This Shraadh
roopali sircar gaur
“These poems are drawn from human experiences during a global pandemic like one that none of us have experienced before in our lifetimes. They particularly take into account the condition of women in India. Wives, mothers, sisters, friends, mythological goddesses, demonic manifestations, mad women, insignificant women, important women”
These quiet prayerful days when to light an oil lamp
Is to walk inside memory lane
beside those who passed over the rainbow a long some time ago.
A time to know the bones and the muscles, which are yours now
were theirs too.
That smile, the twinkle in the baby’s eyes,
seem like the fading sepia photograph
framed on a neglected damp wall.
This time of the year when the sun’s rays slant away
and the torrential monsoons go away
they say our ancestors visit us.
These are those days when ghosts walk about
casually dropping in just when it is dinner time.
Or you may see one under the tall mango tree.
The one who had so lovingly planted the mango seed
whose sweetness you had sucked.
Most times the ghost ancestors are men…
fathers, grandfathers, their fathers,
and sometimes that bachelor uncle who romanced the village girls.
Stories abound of war, bullets and bravery.
Of the Yeti on the mountainside
his lock of hair still preserved.
Feasted and feted in their lifetime
these extraordinary men, are just a ghost of themselves
Hungering and longing for earthly food.
Curried chicken or mutton roasted on a spit.
A sweet and sour pumpkin with puris fried in oil.
Rice boiled slowly in milk for hours, with jaggery and nuts
all Pitaji’s favourite.
A patriarchal ghost indeed.
He will watch in ghostly silence, as the raggedy poor will eat.
And Mother? What should we cook for her?
Ask the girls! They were always with her.
Her helping hands until soldiers in uniform
came on horses and took them away to bear their sons.
Ammi? What did she like to eat?
Who? Ammi? Frail Ammi.
No one seemed to know.
She ate after her husband and children had eaten, they said.
Whatever little remained.
Sometimes nothing at all.
Perhaps, just a cup of tea?
Bittoo's Mother
Bittoo’s mother washes dirty dishes
in Lalaji’s house.
Chewed chicken bones
and left over potato pieces
on the nausea piled plates
she takes home with her
wrapped in her damp saree
the stale stench of last night’s food.
Some smells bring memories
of her clinging to mother’s saree
and the never-forgotten angry voice
“again you have brought her with you!”
The voice echoed her sad childhood
never allowing her to bring
the weeping pleading Bittoo along.
Lalaji’s wife was kind
she sometimes gave her the broken biscuit pieces
left in the tin. And on Diwali, a box of laddoos.
Her mother had also collected smells.
The Sudarshan Chakra looking Corona
chased thousands like her over
many barefoot miles towards the
the yellowing sugarcane fields.
In the smoke of the dusty city
she had forgotten home.
Bittoo fell asleep on Lalaji’s
battered red suitcase, trundling wobbly wheels
singing a lullaby on the melting hot tar road.
Whirring TV channels, like alien flying saucers
brought the stoic exodus into our air conditioned homes
making us very angry,
and the hungry thirsty days
on the road gave way to oily fried puris and
cool bottles of mineral water!
When the gaunt faces and
shrunken bellies could not smile for the smiley selfies
we muttered “ungrateful wretches”.
The sleeping child on the suitcase
had become the brand ambassador
of an exhausted Pandemic panic.
Nobody knew it was Bittoo.
His mother’s saree no longer smelt of Lalaji’s dirty dishes.
The hot summer wind had blown it all away.
They were going home.
Rape and the City
Woman! Walk wearily
your honour lies between your legs
One act of vengeance will ravage forever
your beauty of mind and face
Blood trickling, your accomplishments ground to dust
you will be disrobed, dishonoured, dismembered
ceasing to exist – no longer a woman – a cipher.
Your izzat your honour looted by brigands
A leper-stoned out of the city walls.
Woman! Fix blades on your breasts
Strew nails in your vagina
Let your crimson manicured fingers
Dig out those sin-filled lustful eyes
Restrain with poison teeth those groping hairy hands
Savour the blood on your tongue
Scatter dismembered manhood pieces across the earth
Let no prostrate Shiva stop you
Nor a shamed Earth swallow you
Allow no fire to consume you
Let no Gods shelter you
Woman! Walk naked to the temple
Drag the dripping garland of demon heads
and lay them at the altar of the dark Goddess Kali
Light the incense stick and pour oil into the earthen lamp
Lift the Conch shell high and blow into it your fire spitting breath
The siren just sounded its trumpet
The factory doors have opened
The city sounds are jostling
“Hurry up please, it’s time.”
Daughters of India
Draupadi, Sita, Savitri and Putna the Rakshasi
Ahalya Manthra and Kaikeyi
walk alone in our stories and our crowded cities
with fired brains and fire in their belly
Daughters of Gods and Goddesses
Kings and Sages, Farmers and Snake Charmers
They do what their womanhood bids them do
from none other but self, seeking applause
Prophets and oracles, hunters and archers
leaders and decision makers, enchantresses and apsaras
war lords and swordswomen
swift of mind and body, filled with curiosity and desire
spurning virginity and chastity
defying restrain, refusing containment
Each day in farms and fields, carrying spades as their shields
braving the desert sand, Trident in hand
on ramps and in studios, in hospitals and in morgues
in boxing rings, and on wrestling mats
in offices and factories, changing fearless trajectories
From villages and towns in search of golden crowns
leaving the stench of the ghettos, in buses, trains and metros
pushed and shoved, scrambled and trampled
they defy patriarchal laws, with self-sharpened claws
hidden in powerful tiger paws, fighting deathly cannibal jaws
Abandoned and cursed, damned and demonised
violated and beheaded, branded and brutalised
Medusa’s snake hair flowing, turning men into pigs and stones
Kali’s tongue lapping blood, and a garland of red hibiscus
Our Battles yet to be done
Our Trophies yet to be won
Our Songs yet to be sung
Holi Hai
Tonight when the sun sets and the evening sky is aflame
the rich and the poor, women and men and children
in villages and cities across India will burn a woman on the pyre,
she will be set on fire
this beautiful sister of wicked King Hiranyakasyap
Holika a demon woman with magic powers.
Goodbye winter, welcome spring.
The rhythm of the dholak and those Bollywood songs
makes us all gyrate and thrust gyrate and thrust.
The excited fire leaps high in the air
as the woman we have only heard of is turned to ashes.
Tomorrow Bunty, Babli, Bholu and Sonu
will colour camouflage their faces, and smear colours
green blue yellow and pink,
touching any face groping any breast.
Holi Hai Holi Hai
Bura na mano Holi Hai.
It was all in fun and such fun, they will say.
In not so far away Hathras,
they burnt a woman’s body
after sunset.
The dholaks were silent.
Only the Devil danced.
Dreaming of Dhaka
When you grow up hearing the boat swain
singing as he plies his boat down the river
singing his plaintive Polli geet
a lone voice, a flowing river and a lone moon
and you hear of it from your father
then your dreams are filled with longing
and your sleep is filled with dreams
of a river called Buriganga.
When you leave behind a piece of earth
the glowing warmth of a familial hearth
the cradle swings slowly , slowly singing
a lulaby at your birth
Then your father’s dreams are filled with longing
and his sleep is full of dreams.
of a river called Buriganga.
Did I dream or did I hear of boats carrying to doorsteps
the sugar dripping sweet rossogollas?
Of the Eeleesh whose scent sends your senses reeling
and the the tree climbing koi fish in earthen pots?
In Venice
dreams of Dhaka floated in lapping waters
of the Mediterranean Sea
touching the steps of
noblemen’s homes.
In father’s unfulfilled dreams lies
the delicate shuktoh mother refused to cook
while I run my fingers through snowy rice
and take a second helping.
What memories made him weep
as the Baul singer sang his song
what dreams of longing and a sleep full of dreams
kept him awake as he dreamed of Dhaka
on the river Buriganga?
Kanamma the Mad Woman
The large shady bargad tree
Its hard twisted tentacles
hanging low swinging free
Medusa like just outside the temple wall
where from dawn to dusk the devout
buy flower garlands at the makeshift stall.
The mud hard baked platform around it
where once sat blind musicians, whose eyes did not see
now sleepless Kanamma the mad woman waits all day
her beloved left her and she let grief take her mind away
those who bring incense and coconut for the stone god
with the elephant head say.
His fingers had run through her long black tresses
sometimes touching her breasts, stopping her breath
his dark skin shining like Krishna
they had lain supine in the tingling sands of the river Yamuna.
Her matted hair crawl full of lice
the itchy fingers throwing pebbles
at nibbling mice
the scattered puffed rice
offerings at the altar of an indifferent god.
Kanamma is waiting.
He is not coming.
He has found a pretty girl
whose skin is fair, golden hair…
Boo boo shoo shoo.
Mothers chase the jeering kids
Don’t be bad
She is mad
Can’t you see she is raving mad?
Her wild waiting eyes
Her cracked mumbling lips
Her scratched bleeding skin
Her sunken hungry belly
Her torn sari and blouse
Her hair full of louse
Her home without a house
Her mind nobody can rouse.
Will Krishna never come?
Will Radha wait forever?
The sun has dried up the river
The anklets lie broken and scattered.
The temple bells are ringing
Come, come let’s bathe with milk and honey
and dress in satin, our marble God.
Wars Begin in the Minds of Men
Rat a tat rat a tat rat a tat rat a tat.
Pain shrapnels through my throbbing head
Smoke acrid choking filling lungs
Somebody is using a rake inside me
I can taste blood dribbling into my mouth
there are shadows behind the Chinar trees
and crawling figures everywhere
my hands hurt tremble I am thirsty
bullet ridden I must drag myself into the ravine
who is shouting Shiva Shiva
who is screaming Allah Allah
oh God save us we are in hell
my ear drums will burst.
A sudden cool breeze blows over the brick terrace
the mosquito net torn where the bayonet had pierced it
a shredded fibrous webbed netted piece of claustrophobia.
A jackal howls across the vast open maidan.
Its past midnight the moon is half gone.
Like all nights since they brought him home
Sepoy Ram Singh wakes up howling
gun in hand rushing at terrorists who just won’t go away.
He had traded ripened wheat fields
for mine fields and mayhem.
It wasn’t his fault
It was for the victory of the flag.
Sometimes his leg made of wood
on which he stood
drew village louts to hear his story
full of brave battle and shining glory.
Then slowly other stories spread
about the devils inside his head
Ram Singh has gone mad, they said.
It is always good
for a soldier to be dead.
A dead soldier is covered in glory
and others will tell his true story.
Broken in limb and living with nothing more to gain
his nightmares of war and pain, are no longer fit for the sane.
Only he could hear the bullets rain
Only he could see his life wane
Only he could feel his mind go insane.
I Am the Tortoise in the Well
When the Frog who lived in the well
jumped out
I quietly slipped in to live in the well.
My well has a nice brick wall
and I can hear the eagles call
When I look up at the sky
and I see them fly.
You may think to live in a well
is pure hell
but I have my shell and it keeps me well.
Well since then I live in this well,
frequently washing my hands with soap,
water and sanitiser
following the medical advisor.
Sometimes I hear voices
some strange gurgling noises
when a bucket comes down
I get to the side
unlike that frog who took a ride
into town like a dancing clown.
Happy to meet his friends
he shook their hands
and hugged them tight
and didn’t let them out of sight
they closed the doors to keep out the bores
the bar was smokey and oh so hazy
it drove the happy frog so crazy
some wine and cheese and a cigarette later
when the music began to play
Frog began to dance and sway
and on the dance floor he met a beauty
bright and famous and a real cutie
She was very young not old
she wore a spikey crown of gold
this newly crowned Miss World he was told
was none other than her highness
in all her brightness
Was Miss Corona Devi
Frog didn’t wear a mask thinking it too big a task
his hands with soap he did not wash
sanitiser he refused to use thinking it’s a medical ruse.
He just kept hopping and hugging
laughing and talking talking and laughing
Miss Corona was a breathless beauty
to bow before her it was his duty.
She fell in love with him at once
so with him she began to dance
coat of yellow green she clung
a happy peppy song he sung
she kissed her Prince he kissed his Princess
very soon he lost his senses.
In a hospital he was found no party friends were around
a solitary doctor on his rounds
heard a frog gasp for breath
for Miss Corona he was crying
to revive him nurses were sighing
they put him later on a large ventilator.
I am a Tortoise in my shell
I am safe and staying well
I have nothing more to tell.
Oh you are asking how
Frog’s story I came to know?
It’s from my WhatsApp viral video
of a popular show.
Eklavya and Guru Dronacharya
Five thousand years ago in ancient India
in the epic times of the Mahabharata
there lived in the forest a hunter called Eklavya
son of chief Hirnadhanu of the Nishadha tribe
“Father give me your blessings
I wish to learn from the wise Guru Dronacharya
to be a warrior, a perfect archer!”
The wise father could not say no, and let his brave son go
knowing he would face rejection and humiliation
Yet not wishing to come in the way of a son’s decision
To learn skills of war with precision.
Ace archer and teacher, Guru of kings and princes
Dronacharya’s arrogance turned away Eklavya
denying him his knowledge and wisdom
calling him a low born without a kingdom
who had dared enter the princely arena
to learn to be equal with the great Pandava Arjuna.
Rejected yet undeterred, sharp as the arrow
and strong as the bow
Eklavya built a clay figure of the Guru
to practice his dharma to fulfill his karma
Arduous years later, Eklavya
excelled the prize archer Prince Arjuna
Then the learned Teacher demanded to know,
from whence for a young Nishadha did knowledge of archery flow?
You cannot be a warrior your birth is so low!
With folded hands him did a humble Eklavya greet
and the bow and arrow he laid at his teacher’s feet.
“I learnt from you, my Guru, I have only this to show,
of no other great teacher do I know.
The angry proud teacher said, “You have learnt from me! Now give me
your right thumb as Guru Dakshin – my fee!”
The stunned princely learners watched in horror
As the son of a hunter, the super archer cut his own thumb to offer
the Guru a gift of supreme gratitude, for his chance to hone his aptitude.
Thus the great teacher and archer Dronacharya
disabled his supreme shishya Eklavya.
Five thousand years later
I stepped into the sacred space of my classroom
and saw in the lone corner an eager bright curious face,
looking at me with hope, his shirt faded his shoes patched, looking out of place
In his dark eyes I saw reflected the deep forests and the running deer
and heard the rain clouds rumble.
What is your name? I asked.
In the silence of the noisy restless room, I heard his quiet voice tremble.
My name is Eklavya. To come to you, I have travelled a long way.
The sky turned blue and the sun let in a bright ray
I walked across centuries to reach this young boy
who had walked miles to learn, so some day he could earn.
I put my hand on his head and whispered,
“Eklavya, I am here. You must never fear.”
Roopali Sircar Gaur, Ph.D. is a lifelong teacher, poet-performer, writer, environmentalist, and social justice activist. Roopali retired as Associate Professor of English from Delhi University. She is a widely published columnist and writer, who has written for peer-reviewed journals, and served on academic conference panels worldwide. Her interests lie in the fields of gender studies and post-colonial literature. Her book The Twice Colonised: Women in African Literature is a seminal text on those subjects. She is the co-editor with Dr. Anita Nahal, of the poetry anthology In All the Spaces-Diverse Voices in Global Women’s Poetry, and the forthcoming Earth, Fire, Water & Wind (2021). Roopali holds a Ph.D. in Literature from Jawaharlal Nehru University, New Delhi. She graduated from the prestigious Mount Carmel College, Bangalore, and holds an M.A. and B.Ed. from Osmania University, Hyderabad.
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