I am thinking of that hour by the mighty river when night insects spoke of you – fervently, as if you were their common beau. Smiling, I dipped my feet in the icy waters and felt goose flesh on my arms. I should have written a verse in your name that night. But I just watched the river flow. I couldn’t let the cadence of my love be marred by mundane expressions. The words belonged to the insects. To me, the silence of thoughts about you …
It is the morning of Mahalay.
Devi opens her eyes and gives the mortals on earth a cursory glance. They are preparing to receive her. With songs and cymbals. With pomp and praise. To them she is a representation of physical might and a doughty feminine spirit. She is a warrior who killed Mahisasur and triumphed over the evil manifest.
She knows She will be invoked a million times in the next ten days and her divine power will be appropriated to make a Durga out of every earthly woman. She also knows that she will become a brand ambassador for grit and fearlessness. Her story will be told with multiple spins to suit the vicious times.
She will grace social narratives and be at the centre of debates where the mortal woman will assume Her divine power and will thirst to draw the malevolent male blood. It will be a period when her wrath will be personified. Durga will come alive and become manifest to vanquish the demon outside. The slavering man on the road, the whipping man in the house, the ubiquitous masculine threat everywhere, beware!
Somewhere in the midst of it all, I will be reading Her tale of valour over the next ten days, and saying a prayer. Imploring Her with silent thoughts to deal with the crazed demons inside, hiding in the closets of consciousness.
Mahishasur and his devious forms have been on a terror trail for a while, making mincemeat of daylight and night. Sleep has become a travesty and wakefulness a shadowed dream. There is a cacophony of discordant voices. Internal brawls have become a routine and happiness is a pretense.
Come down, Mother, wield your power over the beastly forces within me. Let me be cleansed first, before I beseech you to crush the demons in the world. There is trash in my backyard. Heaps of it.
The night has been long and dark, even the stars have begun to look too far for sight. Let there be light on my horizon. Let there be spring in my empty spaces. Let my floundering spirit thrive.
Mother, I cannot be your synonym. I cannot be your metaphor. I cannot wear your mantle divine.
You are the Durga. You alone.
I remain,
A witness, watching you wage war, and win against all that taints my existence.
1. First, drop the feeling that poetry is written by highbrow folks for an elite set of people. No, it is not written by and for scholars alone. It is for common people like you and me too. It might be profound but not always intellectual. Trust me, poetry will make sense if we allow it.
2. It’s all about taste. There are all kinds of poetry out there. There is no hierarchy in style. The delight you derive out of it is what defines it. Choose the variety that you most relate to and slowly start savouring it. It is like tasting wine for the first time. You won’t know if it is sweet, sour or bitter. Whatever, slowly you will fall in love with it.Â
3. Treat poetry gently, unhurriedly. Dwell on it, give it a few generous moments wholeheartedly. Own it, as if the thoughts were yours. The poem has left the poet’s domain. It’s yours now to relish.Â
4. Don’t read poetry like an office memo, dispassionately. Or like a Whatsapp joke, flippantly. Experience it. The essence of poetry isn’t in the lines. It is in your heart. Words are just that – WORDS. The meaning reflects inside you. Don’t let language intimidate you. We all have a decent vocabulary. It’s all you need to understand a poet’s sentiments.Â
5. Metaphors aren’t cryptic, coded things. They are drawn from everyday images, emotions and experiences. The trick is to not just see things, but to look deeper as if there is a secret waiting to be unravelled even in the mundane.
6. Read a poem, no matter how small or simple, how archaic or modern, before you hit the bed. There is no better way to roll off to sleep, except of course, with a good night kiss.
7. Try writing a poem with honesty, spilling sentiments that are brimming in a secluded moment, in words that occur spontaneously. You will realize that poetry isn’t the preserve of a select few. Just that some people are called poets. Some are not. But we are all inherently lyrical.