Shuvashree Chowdhury's Blog, page 23

Seeking Spiritual Nourishment: The Serpent around Shiva’s neck.

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The series of little shops slowly waking up to life,

flanked the slender lane we had wandered into –

as serpent like, it wound as if around Shiva’s neck,

all the way up till the four entrances of his shrine:

They sold Benarasi silk saris, make-up, ornaments,

stone idols, wooden toys, flowers and steel-utensils,

also kumkum, sandal paste, fruits – dry and fresh;

with incense sticks and all conceivable puja items

for a visit to the famed Kashi Vishwanath temple.

Amid the shops, revered cows authoritatively roved,

thrusting their heads into tiny, grill-gated sanctuaries –

to be fed by their presiding priests out of steel buckets:

who starting their day out thus – considered it sacred.

The arterial road, Vishwanath galli branched out of

was also the busiest, commercial stretch of Banaras:

Gowdalia chowk, Gyanvapi to Dashashwamedh ghat –

where with flourish Ganga arati is currently conducted;

sunrise rites of birth, life, death, from time immemorial.

It was over a walk to this ghat we had taken a deviation

to stroll in Vishwanath galli – coming to life at eight am;

though we had no inclination to join throngs to the temple –

for at nine, with a friend we had a breakfast appointment.

But as the series of shopkeepers intoned encouragements –

‘ This Saturday, the queues to the shrine are light’, they said,

“so if you hurry, with luck you will have a peaceful ‘darshan.’

These shopkeepers obviously had a sharp business acumen,

for a cost we deposited our mobiles, shoes, bags, valuables –

then collected a set of locker keys and a pre-set puja basket;

as there were several restrictions in Kashi temple’s premises

for security reasons – due to threats from devious elements:

that in administration, pilgrims – a sense of security eluded.

After an hour of walking bare feet in serpentine queues,

we were relieved in entering the temples outer premises –

but to our immense disillusionment, also an exasperation,

the queue from here only got more taut like Shiva’s mane –

for we zigzagged on a rectangular patch through steel rails

just after we’d crossed Gyanvapi mosque Aurangzeb built

on demolishing the original Kashi temple – in his conquests.

Though the Shivling remains primary religious attraction

after it was saved by the priest – in ducking it into the well

that lies fortified in a forty pillared low-roofed colonnade

and still stands testimony to grave chronological upheaval:

Queen Ahilyabai – its current form rebuilding the temple,

where now a seven feet high stone statue of Nandi the bull –

gifted by Raja of Nepal, sits adjacent to east of the arcade.

Standing in queue amid Kashi temple and Gyanvapi mosque –

both heavily guarded by army task forces around the clock,

many pilgrims, especially ladies burst forth singing bhajans:

in the name of Shiva, inspiring themselves for his presence.

The numerous monkeys here prance as if to their rhythm –

with red bottoms they swing around trees and steel bars gaily;

their pint-sized babies bending low, deftly drinking from taps

from which you may quench your thirst, fill your containers –

if you haven’t brought along water samples from the Ganges:

to pour over the Shivling to appease the lord, thus your soul,

along with milk, sprinkled with rose petals – sold in paper cups

handed out deftly by their staff – from out of the Amul caravan.

After a two hour queue, in February the weather still cool,

I find myself inadvertently shoved to the attendance of Shiva:

Before I have a presence of mind to offer the milk I’ve bought –

as in the harried crowd I’ve been pushed to reach this podium

that has several altars; doors, windows ushering in sunlight,

whereby I just manage to offer the milk over the pious Shivling –

I’m curtly indicated the way and urged to step out the door,

not a minute to rest my weary mind at the shrine of the lord.

I’m now walking back to gate four, with my mind in a furore,

my heart disappointed at this momentous, perfunctory call;

when to my left I see an engraved door – past its porch an altar

I am enthused to find, so I may rest my fasting, seeking mind:

as it leads to Parvati or Annapurna – goddess of nourishment,

in whose sanctuary I pray unobstructed by the jostling crowd –

intent on drowning the Shivling in milk to appease their soul –

while like Parvati, I prefer to feed the starving with a purpose.

I feel I’ve been brought to Annapurna by divine intervention –

craving a spiritual experience, dissatisfied in ritual excursion;

so I may go back to work and spread intellectual nourishment,

thus be blessed with a meaningful life in tune with my vision.

PS: This is in continuation of my Kashi/Varanasi Chronicles from the previous posts…And it took the longest time, and the most effort, over any poem I’ve ever written.

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Published on March 13, 2019 02:15

‘A Woman I am’: International Woman’s Day.

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A WOMAN I am –

today I say it with élan,

for a lifetime I spent

living it up to any man:

I don’t need

to show you my muscle power,

or cover my love

for lipstick, diamonds, flowers.

I’d still appreciate

your romantic gestures –

over moonlight walks, surprise gifts,

candlelight dinners:

And won’t hide my tears,

sensitive or feminine side either,

even if I’m now ready and able

to pay for all you might offer.

A feminist I am,

so like my own I’ll respect

your time, success, endeavours:

But don’t underestimate

the power of my perceptive mind –

for it’s steely, however kind:

I’ll dare you to stand up

to my discerning might,

also can beat you at a marathon,

without dropping my baton –

for I’m self-assured in my stride.

“I’m a feminist. I’ve been a female for a long time now. It’d be stupid not to be on my own side.” – Maya Angelou: Everything I’ve written, particularly the four new books, (ref previous posts) upkeeps this view…in respecting men equally and always keeping their perspectives in mind alongside woman’s. As I firmly believe…just like success, respect begets respect – we have to not only learn to respect ourselves but also men’s perspectives – which we women tend to forget in our feminist assertions.

WISHING YOU ALL A HAPPY WOMAN’S DAY.

#womansday #womansday2019 #genderequality #feminism #selfrespect #selfassuarance #respectyourselffirst #respectmen #respectwomen #authorlife #powerofpositivity #writerslife #poetry #poetrycommunity #poetrylovers #internationalwomensday2019 #powerofwords #womensempowerment

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Published on March 08, 2019 00:25

‘Serving Shiva’: Shivratri (today) thoughts.

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I stand at the Assi Chowraha in Banaras

with my vendor’s open cart;

equipped with a cylinder of LPG gas

and a stove over which stands –

an iron karhai with steaming cooking oil,

also a square wooden board and staff

to roll out the puris I serve.

I also have some vessels on my cart –

in one I store the damp-cloth wrapped puri dough,

another holds the rose flavoured sweet syrup

into which the piping hot jalebis I ladle out.

Then there’s a big basin of the subzi –

of potato and peas in thick gravy,

with liberal dashes of soya beans and paneer:

as I believe, breakfast is the most important meal –

that I serve with utmost care in paper bowls

with the four pieces of puri per paper plate.

You cannot miss my presence at this chowk,

along with my friend who assists my work –

as I’m here from eight in the morning till noon,

always wearing my Chennai-checked apron:

for it’s after a compulsory sacred Ganges bath

that I’ve applied sandal paste on my forehead.

My skills at my work I’ve honed with my father –

who at Kachowari Gali Chowk had his setup;

on whose demise I set up this cart,

that I nurture and serve at, with all my heart –

which people of the locality reciprocate

and passers tend to stop by, taste and promulgate –

on seeing people sitting with their plates at doorsteps.

This morning when you first passed me by,

I noticed you hesitated to stop and try –

the first batch of my puffed puris and jalebis

peeking out of the vessels they were contained in,

even as a few people had started to stand around

for their helping of traditional Banarasi food.

But after a walk of our neighbourhood – you returned,

though street food isn’t your preferred patronal:

and with my warm smile and gracious encouragement

you hesitantly took a seat at a nearby doorstep –

on which I’d spread plastic runners for my patrons.

After a plate of four puris, you savoured two jalebis,

and seeing your face glowing with a deep satisfaction –

from its rose essence transporting you to heaven,

I offered to get you a cup of curd from the lassi shop

with which like us Banarasi’s – you relished more jalebis.

Then much to my satisfaction, a deep pride in my occupation,

you asked me, after a brief and casual conversation –

“What do you do once you close this shop”?

“I go home at noon”— I cheerily blurted,

“as I’ve to be early at the evening’s arati at the ghat –

for there I play the dumroo – that’s closest to my heart”.

You then attributed all this to my sensitivity and warmth –

the smile that never fades serving even in a rush,

and the passion I have for my simple mundane job,

yet in the evenings forgoing good business from this shop –

as my entire life is dedicated to Shiva – My one and only Lord:

But drowning his head with milk doesn’t appease my soul –

It’s through serving people I actually serve my inner God!

“The meaning of life is to find your gift. The purpose of life is to give it away.”

— Pablo Picasso.

PS : I told you here, that I’m working on a book of poems on Benaras that these series of last poems will go into soon…Yet I have no qualms in sharing it all here…there’s a deep satisfaction in giving away what you have to give…And no, I’m not crazy…just try it!

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Published on March 03, 2019 22:39

The Eternal Fire: Kashi

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That evening at eight

we walked the narrow trail

via the river path,

that led to the Manikarnika ghat:

Serenading us was a chilly breeze

as we doubled our speed –

once the burning pyres were visible.

There were several men and women,

mostly of foreign origin,

and rest from the crematorium –

who intently watched the proceedings

as though it were a circus game of cavorting,

with men transporting logs to blaze fire-rings:

Viewers squatted or stood on their toes

alongside the cows and buffaloes

who had the relaxed ringside view,

in between local dogs seemingly rare

but nevertheless always present there.

We crossed a large iron scale

standing tall by piles of logs they weighed,

that did abundant business here;

as for every lit pyre

350 kgs of wood was required –

to ensure the human body dessicated

with no trace of a lifetime’s existence,

to a mere handful of ashes –

whose material source is indistinguishable;

to be immersed into the Ganges below

so it be relieved from the tedious cycle

of several births and deaths

with the furore of achieving Moksh

In the chilly breeze we walked up close,

feeling the sweltering heat of fires below

to where two men sat on an elevation –

from where they kept the scale in their vision,

to supervise a proprietary system,

of allowing the pyre bearers to decide,

till what extent – they would allow to burn

if they couldn’t char the whole human form:

For if you’re in a hurry to leave the ghat

and have a train or flight to board,

or simply cannot afford more wood,

you could ask that the unburned parts

comprising the last to burn female hips

along with the naval, intestines,

and the sturdy chest bones of the male,

remain unburned – to be beaten down

so as to be taken to a holier bay or confluence

or be immersed in the Ganges with the part ashes.

One of these men who were in charge

enthusiastically invited conversation with us –

for how many – including me a woman,

care to find out what really happens

behind the scenes of a crematorium:

So he took us upstairs to meet his bosses.

Cremation in Benaras, is a family business

conducted by extended family over generations,

such that each of four real brothers

with extended ones of different fathers –

who run the Manikarnika ghat crematorium,

take ten-day turns to live here twenty-four hours,

to have their next turn come up after twenty days –

till when they go back to living in their homes

away from the constant drone of hari bol,

when even in their sleep all day and the night –

they hear the chants in the name of the lord,

that from times immemorial

remains the fine line of spiritual connect

between the Hindu living and the dead –

till they’ve been turned to ashes

with the hope they will never be born again;

as to be cremated at Manikarnika ghat

assures you that with several lives you’re done.

There’s an eternal fire here that’s kept burning,

even if it ensures that those cremated here

have completed their seven cycles of living:

on a log at the altar by the first floor window sill –

that with the owners overlooks all the proceedings

and every pyre here is lit out of this one kiln

that also views the row boats in the Ganges,

which you can use to go far out midstream

of the holy river that washes away all your sins

and immerse the ashes of your deceased kin.

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Published on February 28, 2019 03:10

The Sounds of Death: Benaras.

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The bells clanged urgently, deafeningly loud,

the brass drums reverberated wild,

as the priest stood on one foot at a time –

flailing his tiny arati with no reprieve.

The little temple was so full of fumes

that threatened to blind my sight,

but they weren’t all from the incense stand,

there were several pyres burning outside.

As the clamour of drums accelerated

and brass bells jangled with insistence and might,

the priest hopped over to shove wood from pyres

into a pit, to chase away spirits – to my right.

The four men beating bells as if death knells,

also women wriggling ten dumroos with might –

were unaffected by their handiwork in a cubby,

but my eardrums thumped as if they might burst.

Other than the crematorium staff, few westerners

frequented this temple, as they had no idea

of rituals and superstitions around Hindu deaths,

that made dying and those it enveloped – outcasts.

The westerners who came by, frequented here –

as the deafening sounds they gravitated to

wrapped them in a trance like addictive state,

seeping out negative energies – they claimed.

In front was an altar – down a short flight of stairs,

that shielded the stone Shiv ling under its tripod:

the priest chanted on one leg – flailing his arati

as fires of pyres blew high above the grills behind.

I watched fires rise as orange balloons at night

as if lifting the souls off pyres that burned bright:

on the right wall an appeased Kali painted all blue,

skipped gaily with head thrown back, tongue out.

With deep breaths, eyes closed, rooted I remained

as there’s no way I’d succumb to discordant sounds,

that perhaps dispersed souls in Kashi – never to be

reborn – in attaining moksh at Manikarnika ghat.

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Published on February 26, 2019 22:14

The Naked Holy Men: Benaras.

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I stare at you with glassy eyes over a haze of my chillum,

brandish my feather broom on you as you pass me by—

whether or not you care to bow, seek my sacred sign

to let me apply on your forehead — a pinch of my ash.

Don’t be repulsed by my earliest homo sapien like looks,

that I’ve imbibed from living in the hills and woods:

I’ve now creatively adorned to project to you a distinctive look —

Of Rudraksh beads, flowers, artefacts, my trident and sword.

.

My nudity is no concern of mine, then why make it yours!

My yoga-fit body with mud and ash I anoint – heat or cold,

to remind me — in dedication of Shiva my life I’ve renounced:

would I then for my long matted hair – crave your opine?

I squat or crouch, even sleep on the bare banks of the Ganges now,

cook in earthen pots – from alms I’m allowed, on charcoal kilns I mount:

In Varanasi I’ve only halted on return from the Khumb at PrayagRaj,

from civilization I recoil, in living in seclusion of the Himalayas long.

At the early age of sixteen I denounced the regular life you live,

all connections – family, society, I vehemently perished in my mind;

yet killing my youthful male libido was my most challenging sacrifice —

that my Akhara beat out of my phallus to attest my spiritual incline.

I now live on an extended new life after my pind daan and shradh —

my own death rituals I’ve conducted to validate total renunciation:

only then was I inducted with my guru mantra after six rigorous years;

ten more years to prove myself, so at 32 – a Naga Sadhu I was reborn.

You think my life is regressive, that it’s impossible for you to envision —

sleeping, eating, existing with no purpose in a make belief ascetic world:

but I dread the pain, strife, duties you juggle to turn like me to mud or ash –

from trust, mistrust, desire, jealousy, love, hate; trivial rivalry over all else!

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Published on February 26, 2019 00:24

The Naked Holy Men