La Mère

Vikram, the mighty King, entered the conquered city
Following him was a long chain —
Infantry, cavalry, elephants and chariots,
It was the display of his power.
Beside him, in the golden chariot, sat his lovely Queen.
People flanked the path, to welcome their new monarch
Their heads bowed in respect, or was it fear?
Suddenly, a little boy, shot out of the crowd,
He aimed a pebble at Vikram, which, luckily, missed.
There was a chaos and the guards leapt towards the child.
An old man came forward and prayed before the King,
“O benevolent Lord, please forgive this lad.
In the fierce battle, he lost his father.
The mother had died giving birth to him, he is orphaned now.”
Vikram, unmoved, thundered,
“There can be no pardon, he has assaulted the King!”
A strange sight shocked everyone, some gasped in disbelief,
As they saw the Queen descend from her seat.
Gesturing the King’s men to move away,
She walked up to the boy and took him in her arms.
The King, infuriated, was unable to speak for moments.
Then, in controlled rage, he addressed her:
“My Lady, what do you think you do?
This imp just attacked your husband.
You dwell in your bower, ignorant of the laws;
Politics and wars should not concern you.
You are my consort, the queen of all these lands.
It does not fit you to walk the streets,
And never to embrace such commoners.
Your rightful place is beside me.
He is the enemy’s son, my enemy as well!
Do you forget who you are?”

The Queen looked up at Vikram,
Her soft eyes emanating determination.
She replied,
“Your Majesty, I am a mother.”

Beauty

I made towards the bench after the morning stroll.
Shadowed by a banyan tree, it was my favorite spot in the park.
What was it on the seat? Something black and ugly was writhing and cawing.
The little crow was scared and was calling out to its mother.
A few others had already come to rest on the bench.
The sight seemed repulsive for them, as they insisted it be thrown away.
All they had for the weakling was disgust and contempt.
I picked it up, with my hands, and placed it on a branch.
Several made fun of me; some thought I had lost it.
But did it matter? Can a baby be filthy or gross?

On my way to work, I found this dog on the road.
It was lame, and had also lost an ear.
It looked ill; it was evidently in pain,
With blood oozing from the numerous wounds of its body.
I changed my mind, and picked the animal up in my arms.
I would carry it home, and treat this poor creature, and take care of it.
“The Savior!” people call me behind my back.
They taunt me for my habit of supporting the poor and the destitute
And scorn the absence of despise in me.


The church bells rang, as I came out,
Holding the hand of my newly-wed wife.
There was no one around, not a single of my kinsfolk was present.
For my family, I was an outcast, a pariah.
My people were against this marriage, “The girl is not fair,” they said.
“Nor does she belong to our caste. This relationship will never linger.”
I held her soft hands firmly in mine and together we descended the steps.
To all those, who had criticized our marriage, I say,
We did live happily ever after.


I was sitting alone in a dark room, on the eve of my life.
I was recollecting, how the world had laughed at me,
Mocked me, and humiliated me, for my abhorrence to sensual pleasures.
The world around me has become too materialistic.
How do I explain to all the people that true beauty, lies within?
Ugly, filthy, grotesque, dark, are just words for me, as
I shut my eyes in order to see!