MALLIKA

Mallika 

Don't call my daughter Mallika,

Call her by any other name .....

Don't call my daughter Mallika

It only increases my pain....

And brings to my mind 

Things long forgot

The years pass by so fast 

And yet a whiff of the summer skies

Brings Mallika's name to my heart.

Perhaps you'll smile at a story 

That begins-so ordinarily ....

It began the day Sanat Da brought his child bride home

And we all flocked around to see.

Mallika was a child bride-innocence still touched her face,

And yet beside her husband-she was a veritable image of grace.

Sanat Da's body was twisted,

He had never been able to walk

He lay on a bed on the verandah of his house

And wrote and read.

Teaching the village kids

Whenever the mood took him

And sometimes gazing-just gazing at the blue skies.

The palm trees, the fleecy clouds ....

Sometimes just tormented by thought.

Mallika's parents were desperately poor

And they had eleven more mouths to feed.

They would have married Mallika off to Death himself.

Sanat Da to them, was a God in disguise

And perhaps one cannot really blame them.

Their long-haired daughter came into my life,

In the guise of Sanat Da's wife.

His mother was full of pride

She decked Mallika with ornaments

Braided her hair with flowers

Called her daughter-in-law 'Lakshmi and Saraswati' all rolled into one

Invited her neighbours and fed them with sweets 

Mallika blushed and hid her face.

Sanat Da smiled wryly

And it was he who gave his child bride the name of 'Putul'.

Putul was not beautiful 

Her dark face was too thin and serious for her years.

The years of near starvation had left her body like a reed,

That could snap under pressure.

Her one beauty was her long black hair,

That would flow like a wave around her,

An ebony cloak catching

The lush gold of the sun.

Mallika was not beautiful 

But- the laughter in her eyes drew everyone to her- my mother said

Putul was the pet of the village 

Her family adored her.

Her dry humoured husband's eyes were 

Tender as they rested on his wife.

In an age where mothers-in-law were harsh,

It would be difficult to say that Sanat Da's mother was not hers too.

And her widowed sister-in-law Nilu Di

Doted on her brother's wife.

Even our crossed and cussed dog-Bhola,

Grinned ingratiatingly as she rustled by.

And I- I became her devoted slave and favoured companion.

Putul soon tired of playing at being bride,

And blossomed under all the love she received.

She ran in and out

More like a daughter than a daughter-in-law

Of the house.

Her elders watched indulgently.

She teased me and said in truth I should call her 'Boudi'.

I put out my tongue at her and ran away.

She caught me and boxed my ears,

Such was our childhood.

Sanat Da decided to give his wife lessons and educate her.

I often joined them.

She was much quicker than I at learning

And her teacher was proud of her and exasperated with me.

I was bored with lessons and I ran off

To play in the green fields, 

Swim in the lazy river

And catch fish.

I was angry with her for not joining me.

But she had turned serious-she had grown up.

Watching Sanat Da and her 

Neighbours would sigh sentimentedly

And say, 'A veritable Hara-Gouri; a truly devoted pair.'

Putul was completely at ease with her deformed husband,

She teased him, she twitted him, she laughed at and with him.

They would debate with intensity on various subjects.

Often in the sun shadowed evenings as I went by,

I would see them sitting on the verandah-talking,

Sometimes she would cross into the house and settle a shawl

On her husband's bent shoulders.

The little gesture spoke of so much ....

And I -I was angry,

I was straight and strong limbed

Full of youth and vitality.

And she spent all her time with a dried out bookworm.

She who had blossomed into a woman,

Surging with brimful life

And lit with the brilliance

That flamed in Sanat Da's eyes.

I was determined that she would take notice of me.

Ah! Youth!

I went daily to her house

And spoke passionately of freeing my country from foreign rule,

The country was aflame with the fire of patriotism

And I ached to do my bit.

Gradually she became aware of me again

Or perhaps it was my straight limbs, strong shoulders

And crisply curling hair

And the lure of my eyes that called her.

More than I ever did.

She paled and grew brighter in my presence

Like a candle straining at the flame, at life

Sanat Da watched his wife's face and mine-quietly.

And I was content that I had her love,

Though not a single word was exchanged.

Sanat Da died in his sleep one day.

And Putul became a widow.

She had never been so beautiful in her life

As she was in her widowed white

With her long black hair

Flowing gently around her ....

One day I stopped her at the riverside 

And told her how passionately I loved her

How I would move heaven, earth and all the stars

To catch a glimpse of her smile.

I told her all the silly things 

Lovers say 

And she smiled at me and said, 'Will you marry me?'

I reeled in shock -what words were these

Coming from a newly made widow?

She answered simply, 'My husband taught me- to be direct'

And oh! She was so very direct,

Standing straight and tall with her long hair wrapt around her,

She simply said 'Would you marry me?'

As if it was so simple,

I had thought she would understand 

And smile sadly and turn, heartbroken, away 

Protesting her loyalty to Sanat Da's memory.

Besides there was the stigma still attached 

To marrying a widow.

And I came from a Brahmin household.

Oh! I would have gladly given all my blood for my motherland

I would have given my life for my country.

Yet to think of marrying one of her widowed daughters 

Made my heart quail.

I loved Mallika - but how could I marry her?

I said as much to Putul and my answer came out sullenly.

The river whipped its banks furiously

And the palm trees stared under 

The blue skies of Faridpur.

I saw the gentleness that was in Mallika

Take on a black, furious, terribleness.

How could I have forgotten that in Bengal

Another form of the gentle Lakshmi 

Is the dark goddess Kali 

Worshipped with blood and drums.

A goddess of fierce pride 

Embodying Shakti - the strength and power of woman, 

Blood flamed into my face and drummed in my ears 

As the golden - limbed Mallika said in tones as clear as crystal water,

'I see.'

She turned to go and I mumbled.

'I love you, but ....'

Putul turned to me and that terrible pride 

Glinted in her eyes -

'Love?', she laughed. 'I will choose life.'

And Sanat Da's wife  walked away into the twilight,

Her black hair, swirling like foam around her.

I was ashamed and fled to Calcutta

Muttering about the illogical female race.

My mother was glad that I had taken to studies seriously.

I came back after three years.

Dreading and hoping to see Putul.

On the train journey swishing past

The sun lashed fields 

I thought of Mallika.

Maybe, I thought, she has gone home,

 I thought, she might have ended everything at the river,

Where I bade farewell to her.

I shivered at the thought

And my heart filled with love and pity for her.

I reached home and as soon as I could 

I went for a walk by 

The pathsways of Faridpur, so sorely missed all these years.

And there I learnt that my Mallika 

Had married the zamindar Harnarayan Rai,

And borne him twin sons.

The very breezes stilled and 

The trees mocked me,

Fool that you were 

You never bade farewell to Mallika.

It is she who freed herself of you-

And chose life.

I buried my face in the soft earth of Faridpur

And howled to the skies.

I saw Mallika with her sons on her breast

Gazing at me with their mother's eyes and her direct glance.

And I could not bear for shame to look at her ....

You see I loved her and I 

Would have dared the whole world 

To call her mine-

But I was too late,

And in that one realization I had matured a hundred years.

Mallika never saw me again, for 

I returned to Calcutta

And she died soon after 

Bearing her third child- a daughter.

Who I imagine has inherited her mother's black mane of hair

And the dancing eyes

But there never will be another Mallika....

She wrote a book that became a bestseller 

The year before her death.

She dedicated it to Sanat Da

The man who had gifted her with all his brilliance 

And lit a speaking flame in her soul. 

No, she never saw me again and I haven't read her book.

When I think of her I think of Faridpur 

The home that I had lost 

Together with the one woman 

For whom my heart beats - still

But I never knew it then .....

No, I do not want to name my daughter Mallika 

I do not want to awaken the pain,

How can there be another Mallika?

There was only one who could bear the name ........

  

- Amreeta Syam 

For Solved Exercises of this poem, click on the link below:

https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCJTgYmbQGweWg7n1IMh3PCA/join