Puthanai
Barren she was, barren of child,
But not of compassion or care,
Empathy, emotions, love or laughter.
Her innocent soul so intuitive to others’ pain,
Did not seek to hear hers, nor heal hers.
Hers the pain that came from her barrenness
of a womb so dry that no seed ever could merge
its tiny wriggly form upon a fertile earth and spring
a sweet bundle to life.
‘Trust her not with your babies,
Her evil eye will be cast upon them!’
‘The fever that is draining your child
and making him whimper with unease…
How do you think it came about?’
‘All because that childless witch
passed by your house last week,
And in passing, she looked about
to catch a glimpse of your healthy boy.’
‘Shame on her to be so childless…
A creature she is, so unfortunate,
A pile-up of sins from previous births,
She is destined to carry that burden
instead of a baby blessing.’
‘Come here, Puthanai, you doleful woman,
Come and sit by this sweet lady
whose womb is filled with happiness, unlike yours.
Sit beside her and regard with green longing
how we pamper her blessed fertile soul.’
‘See how we rub her body with the sweet scent
of sandal, so that the little one she is carrying
will be pleasantly lulled to sleep
in the secured cool of its mother’s confines.’
‘Envy how we tie silver bells around expectant ankles,
That when she walks, tinkles to enthuse
the life in her to kick about in joy.’
‘Behold these colourful bangles of vibrant glass
and watch with spite how we slip them
upon her wrists to the swaying of passionate song
and the beat of lively dance,
So to impress upon the growing foetus
the promise of nurturing hands when born.’
‘You wretched woman, watch and feel jealous,
And let your hardened heart feel pain
for a blessing missed out on
of caring hands and compassionate heart,
But for possessing instead a soul devoid of the joy
that fosters a baby’s home.’
‘Hey you woman, and it embarrasses me to call you that,
You must be dry of spirit, how else can we explain
your indifference to cherubic bliss—
of tiny ankleted tinkling feet, soft little spongy palms,
The supple innocent rosiness of freshly bathed baby cheeks
that melt you not with the compassion
of maternal emotion!’
Oh! But melt she did,
Layers of shame, guilt, grief and self-reproach
that clung on to her being, an unhealthy body mass.
Build she did, a wall around her love,
An impregnable fortress of bloody hate.
Hers was a pain that came from anger, angst, and age.
Baby rosiness was fetid, anklet clinks clamorous,
And soft palms nothing but a tasty lump of delicacy.
Puthanai, the once coy, graceful, dainty damsel,
Was now a grotesque insult, reeking of insecurity.
Families feared her, children dreaded her approach;
Her vicious grin lend subject to terrifying tales.
Puthanai, an innocent soul so intuitive to others’ pain,
Now revelled in hurting, immune as she had become
to Pain.
So, when she held the blue baby in her arms,
Her instruction from the cruel Kamsa to strangle Him,
Qualms she had none to trust her huge breasts
into His tender mouth to suckle,
And while pretending to snuggle,
Stroked deceivingly to strangle.
But Krishna, the blue baby, nestled in her arms
comfortably, and drew at her breast.
The merciful warmth so emanated sent out a sensation
that tugged at her heartstrings.
She screamed in pain, not of the physical,
But of a searing emotional wound,
Its depth unreachable by any human perception.
The baby at her breast was no human,
And as He sucked out the stabbing pain,
The wretchedness afflicting her transmuted
into glorious beauty.
Puthanai, the once disgusting demoness,
So unfit for maternity,
She emerged from the ashes, a godmother,
And like a flower unasked, she spread to all around her
the fragrance of fertile fraternity!
(Puthanai, according to mythology, is a fearful demoness who, under the instructions of Krishna’s evil uncle Kamsa, breast-feeds the baby Krishna with the intention of killing Him. However, Krishna sucks the life out of her. But because her act was maternalistic, she is said to have attained liberation and at her death, the air is supposed to have been permeated with perfume.
In my poem Puthanai, I have portrayed her as a very docile woman who becomes wicked because of a mean and spiteful society.)www.facebook.com
But not of compassion or care,
Empathy, emotions, love or laughter.
Her innocent soul so intuitive to others’ pain,
Did not seek to hear hers, nor heal hers.
Hers the pain that came from her barrenness
of a womb so dry that no seed ever could merge
its tiny wriggly form upon a fertile earth and spring
a sweet bundle to life.
‘Trust her not with your babies,
Her evil eye will be cast upon them!’
‘The fever that is draining your child
and making him whimper with unease…
How do you think it came about?’
‘All because that childless witch
passed by your house last week,
And in passing, she looked about
to catch a glimpse of your healthy boy.’
‘Shame on her to be so childless…
A creature she is, so unfortunate,
A pile-up of sins from previous births,
She is destined to carry that burden
instead of a baby blessing.’
‘Come here, Puthanai, you doleful woman,
Come and sit by this sweet lady
whose womb is filled with happiness, unlike yours.
Sit beside her and regard with green longing
how we pamper her blessed fertile soul.’
‘See how we rub her body with the sweet scent
of sandal, so that the little one she is carrying
will be pleasantly lulled to sleep
in the secured cool of its mother’s confines.’
‘Envy how we tie silver bells around expectant ankles,
That when she walks, tinkles to enthuse
the life in her to kick about in joy.’
‘Behold these colourful bangles of vibrant glass
and watch with spite how we slip them
upon her wrists to the swaying of passionate song
and the beat of lively dance,
So to impress upon the growing foetus
the promise of nurturing hands when born.’
‘You wretched woman, watch and feel jealous,
And let your hardened heart feel pain
for a blessing missed out on
of caring hands and compassionate heart,
But for possessing instead a soul devoid of the joy
that fosters a baby’s home.’
‘Hey you woman, and it embarrasses me to call you that,
You must be dry of spirit, how else can we explain
your indifference to cherubic bliss—
of tiny ankleted tinkling feet, soft little spongy palms,
The supple innocent rosiness of freshly bathed baby cheeks
that melt you not with the compassion
of maternal emotion!’
Oh! But melt she did,
Layers of shame, guilt, grief and self-reproach
that clung on to her being, an unhealthy body mass.
Build she did, a wall around her love,
An impregnable fortress of bloody hate.
Hers was a pain that came from anger, angst, and age.
Baby rosiness was fetid, anklet clinks clamorous,
And soft palms nothing but a tasty lump of delicacy.
Puthanai, the once coy, graceful, dainty damsel,
Was now a grotesque insult, reeking of insecurity.
Families feared her, children dreaded her approach;
Her vicious grin lend subject to terrifying tales.
Puthanai, an innocent soul so intuitive to others’ pain,
Now revelled in hurting, immune as she had become
to Pain.
So, when she held the blue baby in her arms,
Her instruction from the cruel Kamsa to strangle Him,
Qualms she had none to trust her huge breasts
into His tender mouth to suckle,
And while pretending to snuggle,
Stroked deceivingly to strangle.
But Krishna, the blue baby, nestled in her arms
comfortably, and drew at her breast.
The merciful warmth so emanated sent out a sensation
that tugged at her heartstrings.
She screamed in pain, not of the physical,
But of a searing emotional wound,
Its depth unreachable by any human perception.
The baby at her breast was no human,
And as He sucked out the stabbing pain,
The wretchedness afflicting her transmuted
into glorious beauty.
Puthanai, the once disgusting demoness,
So unfit for maternity,
She emerged from the ashes, a godmother,
And like a flower unasked, she spread to all around her
the fragrance of fertile fraternity!
(Puthanai, according to mythology, is a fearful demoness who, under the instructions of Krishna’s evil uncle Kamsa, breast-feeds the baby Krishna with the intention of killing Him. However, Krishna sucks the life out of her. But because her act was maternalistic, she is said to have attained liberation and at her death, the air is supposed to have been permeated with perfume.
In my poem Puthanai, I have portrayed her as a very docile woman who becomes wicked because of a mean and spiteful society.)www.facebook.com
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