The abode of purity
Tested and tried by fire;
Seven times and over,
Still nothing to declare:
But ye, am not the Sita, the defeated one of eternity,
Of times to come, For generations to speak.
I had my share of lust, passion and heart-breaks.
I'm never imprisoned by any society's gaze,
I lay bare and open, the blue sky above me;
Nothing to care; Am in no despair.
Am content, ten times over more,
For within my reach is the next one more.
Days come 'n' go,
My bosom's wanton and it cries
For not want of comrades, but lack of solace.
Oh solitude, leave me no more!!!
I want to rest my head on thine lap.
Of yonder days, when I had to gaze,
The shyness and crimson in my bosom
It gave me immense pleasure to dream
Of lying in another blossom
With a man of name and fame and game.
I’m taken back to the present
The presents of my body play before me
They bring me peace, calm and purpose,
But nay, I don’t want to be bothered.
Let me make peace with the past and present,
And with each decision that I chose to resent.
My children, I’ll tend for you; a decision
I ought to meet; but it will only be for a while
And then, you too go to my past, one that I call a treason.
The bitterness, it’s killing me; or am I alive anymore?
Can I think or act or express – the reality of yore
It hits me again and again and again – a new way every time.
I think, I dream, and I act
to protect
My children, who bring in sense and make me intense
It’s calm that I need to preserve,
For I cannot perish anymore.
Rise, fall, but rise again, every now and then
For myself, my past and my future and all that is in between.
I see a glimmer, a shimmer, a ray
On every dark robe that I wore till now
Of promises made and kept and failed,
Yes, everything had a reason and more
I too have, to make peace, move on, conquer and live on to tell my
lore
I am the Sita, who had a ‘maryada Ram” by her side
Right before birth, till just before now
Every Sita has her struggle, has her Ram till the end;
Unless she chose to see that she is never anyone’s “maryada”
She can make her own “maryada”, she is the mother, the creator
Unleash her potential and bring a new set of traditions
It is hers to show the way and guide
Each Ram that is drowned
In the eternal conflict between tradition and loss.
Her’s to rebel and make the path hard for Ram
Her’s to be subtle and let Ram discover for himself
No, there is no right or wrong in creating new traditions
The subtlest, the rebellious, the inspiring and less daring ones
stay
Stay to aped, imitated, debated, criticised, accepted, and again
aped
Then, she can choose to keep guiding and making new paths
Or let Ram drive the chariot of tradition, of future, of hope
But, me, my Sita, let me guide my “maryada”, let me be my guru and
guide.
