Mehr

By Komal Aandhiwal

Palms caked with red earth 

and her eyes watery with hushed hearsays, she blooms, 

and she blooms like the moonlight on the day of the solar eclipse.

She blooms on the very battleground,

where bloodshed was once washed away with turmeric, 

and marigolds wailed when the maiden was given away against her will. 

The maiden plucks her because she glitters like the craters of the moon. 

The maiden, her eyes laced heavily with kohl and exhaustion

In the distance, the chirps of her youth pierce her eyes, 

‘Koyal kookat daar daar’

and the only words that her ears give her permission to hear is 

"This poem is a war-cry. 

This poem is a reminiscence of every such battle won with Mehr,

the most treasured jewel and the most vicious weapon of a woman"

She chuckles teary-eyed, the bloom tucked safely behind her ears.

The maiden smears the earth on her hands, praying for courage

‘Gori karat singaar’

and the gods swear that they saw,

the whole universe suddenly turn into a thousand fields of mustard flowers, 

the same vision that Khusro had in his eyes when he penned 

‘Sakal ban phool rahi sarson’

And in a lightning's flash,

the maiden looks up to the sky with 

the same crimson anger as Drupadkanya, 

when she washed her hair with Dushasan's blood. 

For what good is a woman's Mehr,

When it is merely reduced to laughter

For what good is her birth If her wrath can't rage like a wildfire 

Burn everything in existence, only to rain resurrection 

like time and again? 

By Komal Aandhiwal