Krishna-Draupadi

28 August.

So today, we are celebrating the birth of the original butter-thief, lingerie-pincher, the demon-buster, the ace charioter, the royal flirt, the ultimate political strategist, the divine musician, and the oldest best-selling author. While he didn't care two hoots for conventional morality, and showed his blue middle finger to moralists of his time, (something that appeals to the rebel in me) the part of his career that really touches me is his relationship with the sultry Draupadi.


Looks like high-fiving with the Pandavas had left their lonely wife only lonelier. And always, always it was her "sakha" (male friend) Krishna, who unfailingly came to her rescue. I am not talking about the tale of how he saved her from the wrath of the powerful saint Durvasha. Neither am I referring to the lore of Krishna guarding her modesty, when her useless husbands had gambled her away to the Kauravas.

I am talking of the times when Draupadi must have needed a friend. Lives of ancient queens and princesses must have been pretty difficult. And for someone with five husbands, it was perhaps even more so. I am sure it was a challenge to divide her affection equally between five strappingly handsome husbands, who took turns every couple of years to occupy her marital bed.

Was she torn between allegiances? Did she replace one with the other in her mind's eye, while making love? Did she have to manage jealousies of different proportions in husbands vying for her one true love? If she did, then for someone like Draupadi, a woman with a mind of her own, and with a spine made of stainless steel (not literally!) a confidante, a sakha must have become indispensable. Someone, who wouldn't ridicule her misgivings, wouldn't ignore her groans and tears as feminine hormones gone haywire during that one time every month. Someone like the impish Krishna, who would allay all her doubts with that enigmatic smile and always materialize from thin air, whenever beckoned.

I am not an mythology expert. I am not sure if their relationship was indeed free from any proverbial sexual tension. In the Mahabharata their bond is described with the Bhakti rasa - the typical tie between the God and the devotee. In a worldly context, the relationship can be thought of has a unique a human element (still free from any element of sex).

In Chapter 2 (titled 'Blue') of The Pallace of Illusions, Draupadi begins by telling us that because both Krishna and she were dark skinned - in an era obsessed with milk n almond hues - they got along so well. That is the beginning of her narrative on how her sakha had set her world right for her by setting up a different standard for an accepted complexion. Remember that king Drupad only allowed Krishna to visit his daughter he had kept so carefully segregated from the rest of the world. Speaks of the trust our blue boy commanded in the royal household. Draupadi found her sakha difficult to unravel at times, so their relationship was not free from complications. But even then she admits in the book that to a large extent, Krishna made her who she was - by challenging her traditional beliefs, and sometimes by teasing her to tears. As for me, though Draupadi must have been too intelligent to have missed her sakha's sexual charms, she was too torn between Karna and Arjuna to have fallen for her sakha instead.

And Krishna called Draupadi by a special name - Krishnaa - the female variant of his own. His namesake. If you ask me, they were two peas in a pod. Both very different among equals.

So how many of you have your sakhas? Do you have that special friend, who will hold you, no matter how jittery your journey becomes? Do you have a Krishna in your life, who is always there to break your fall? If yes, today is the day to say a prayer in his/her name. Krishna - to me embodies this spirit of unconditional man-woman friendship. If there was any sexual overtone at all in their camaraderie, it did not define their friendship. Nor did it ever rise above their trust in each other. Nor did it color their non-possessive acceptance of each other. It was a friendship of equals (very rarely found in present day marriages or any man-woman relationships, I hasten to add) - a bond between two people who shared the faith that such a connect was possible.

Jai shri Krishna! 

Day of the Kite

The 17th day of a sultry September.

I open my eyes to a rain-washed dawn. Looking at the calendar I realize, today marks the auspicious beginning of the Bengali month of Ashwin. Ashwin and Kaartik - the twin months of Sharat, that sees many of the Hindu festivities. Looking out of my bedside window, I see tiny specs of color in motion, thronging the rectangular sky. Blinking away leftovers of sleep, I marvel at the flying kites. Really, this early?

Of course, today it is the day of the ghuri (the kite), the day of appeasing Vishwakarma, the Hindu god of architecture and engineering. He will be worshipped in garages and factories. In roadside pandals that will appear out of thin air overnight. And didn’t I taste the medley of Kuman Sanu, Abhijeet, Asha Bhosle, Kishore Kumar (chartbusting Bollywood playback singers) invading my ears from makeshift pandals already? They blend sorely with the recorded voices of Kanika Bandopadhyay, Debabrata Biswas (singers of Tagore songs), wafting in from the traffic signal posts. Yes, the present government of Bengal has made sure that we, the Bengalis, do not forget our cultural heritage and has planted sound boxes at every traffic posts that churn out songs of yore to both willing and unwilling listeners.


OK, now back to Vishwakarma. Armed with four hands, this bejeweled deity exudes immense confidence in his steady clay gaze. He holds a water-pot, a book, a noose and a craftsman's hammer in his hands (he has four, remember!). The locally worshipped pandal variant is however perched on an elephant (he had already figured out the impossibility of affording gas/petrol for his cars. An elephant is more economical. Think of the rising prices!). He will hold court for two whole days. Sometimes, three, depending upon the municipal corporation's mood.

Colorful ghuris (kites) make for the backdrop of his two-day court. Typically all factories observe this occasion to worship the engineering expert for obvious reasons. And even though the Internet will throw up an image of a silver haired and silver bearded god seated on a golden throne as Vishwakarma, you will never see an older version anywhere in the pandals. It is always a very muscular, very young Vishwakarma, sporting jet black tresses reaching evenly toned shoulders and a matching mustache – resembling a south Indian super star – that you will find at the pandals. We, the race of idol worshippers, like our Gods young, as much as our matinee idols.

My earliest memory of this festival is from my school bus, having told by my bus-driver kaku (we were taught early to create family ties with everyone we met!) that the bus needed to be adorned with flowers (plastic and real) on that special day. And that some incense sticks had to be stuck at the front. I had asked why would he want to worship an inanimate thing that didn’t even come in the shape of a human husk. He told me that if the engine got all hot and angry, it would not show up next day at my doorstep. I was convinced.


I didn’t want to miss school.

Suddenly I was very aware of van-full and truckloads of handsome heroic gods passing me by on the road. Stalls materialized in a flash selling the clay models, which funnily looked cast of the same mold as that of Durga’s second son Kartikeya (another Hindu god, worshipped for his valour, who for some strange reason likes to sit on a peacock).

And thus I was introduced to this veritable super power behind buses, trucks, rickshaws, buildings, and monuments.


Few days prior to the festival, provisional shops would start selling kites (I still don’t know the connection) and spools of thread. Boys would get busy crushing glass shards to smear on their kite threads ahead of their kite-flying tournaments. “Bhokatta!” came swimming through the autumn air as a war cry of sorts. I never caught the full word but it sounded identical to a primitive exhilaration of victory after the opponent’s kite was cut short. A running rally of boys would emerge from nowhere chasing the orphaned paper art. Sometimes a stray one would land on my terrace and I wouldn't know what to do with it.

In some households today they will worship ovens and hobs (ranna pujo) and not cook for a few days thereafter. It always struck me as odd the way we confer life on non-living things like clay idols, cereals and cooking gadgets. But then there is no questioning faith wherever it stems from - self-belief, handed down heritage or rituals imposed. What matters to me is that festivals such as this spread an air of acceptance and gratitude and reinforces the community feeling.


When I was a girl growing up in Behala (a suburb near Kolkata), the crazy bhashan (immersion) dance of rickshaw pullers, after bottles of bangla (cheap local liquor) would scare me out of my wits. I would walk quickly away from their carnival averting my eyes from the procession of revellers. Dancing their way through, they would follow the garlanded idol on a van to a nearby pond for immersion at the end of their festival. I was worlds away from this gang in every way, only too willing to gun down the noise-makers, their loud-speakers blaring non-stop Bollywood numbers. Add to that my ear-drums taking a beating with the frenzied drum rolls in full volume.

Religion! Blah, the opiate of the crude mass at work!


My father would often plead with the crazed revellers to tone it down. “Kaku, ei toh ekdeen, ektu shojjho korun”, they would plead in return (“It’s just one day, uncle, please bear with us”). I would fume inwardly over the uncouth rituals, promising myself that someday I would live far away from this madding melee of melody.


Today I live in an apartment complex, which is impervious to all external noise. I don’t get to hear any of the Vishwakarma pujo cacophony. So maybe I miss being angry a tiny bit. I scramble out of the posh boundaries to take a peek at the revelry outside.


Today, I look close and hard at the same celebration with interest and affection. Somehow these two days of license seems more warranted by days of hard labor that the rickshaw pullers, auto/taxi/bus drivers, road workers, miners, garage mechanics and factory workers put in all year round. They deserve so much more to have shown us, the bhodroloks (the genteel) how to celebrate life even in the face of challenging circumstances. With the economy looking low, these are the people who bear the hardest brunt of it all. Yet they are the Vishwakarmas of our daily life, they carve out their niche for themselves without so much of any external aid. They steer our engines of well being, they reassert our faith in saying “I can!” to all the hurdles.


It is amazing how a rickshaw puller still finds reason to whistle away to glory while picking up his passengers for a mere 10 buck note – that too after haggling for his dues. Auto-wallahs still hum “All izzz well” while squeezing in between strangers on his front seat and riding his flimsy chariot on three puny wheels. Factory workers, car mechanics, goldsmiths, cobblers – our subaltern sidekicks living on the margins of a society that cannot do without them – will dance and sing to the beats of drums and hindi pop numbers today.

Festivities have begun. I look up at the sky and see the kites grow in numbers as the day progresses. That is how I like to see my spirits soar, breaking into multiple colors of life – up, up and away!


Happy Vishwakarma pujo to all of you!

My Treat

Must be sickening selflove that makes me hold myself
Shameless for you to see
Or idleness of a brain sedate with analgesics.

The round rocks beneath my feet cook in the sun
Sea sprays salt into my curls
I bake in the blaze for your supper.
We feast together, on each other.

My name is red.
Remember.

© Sudeshna Sanyal 2013 ~

I walk again...

Your prayer worked.
My feet shuffle again through a solitary night sky.
Walking now snail steps in caution.
No more the restless need for motion
To defy gravity or to deny the scare of the red ball called the sun.

I have seen the green, the amber and the red
I have listened to sirens in my head
Now I only listen to my lips that don't move anymore in service.
I lean on you, my mate, my friend,
I inch closer to your unshaven chin, to feel the breath
And hear the silence of your prayer,
The miracle of human kindness.

I know you pray for me.
I wish I could pray for myself...

© Sudeshna Sanyal 2013 ~

Freedom Song

I had picked my hovel of straws until you came with the promise of marbled palace. Of illusions, now I know.
I had come to terms with my anonymity when you came with public display of love. People noticed me. I was in talks.
I fought myself many times before I fought your shower of allowances, I was needy. You recognized the early signs.
I knew how it would all end even before I joined your choreographed exchange of excuses. The end never changes anyways.
I am alright now. Back in my hovel making small talk with a woman I knew once upon a time. She looks the same, but only sounds different.
I remember I had seen her wearing my skin before you came and left footprints all over it. She still wears it now.
Only with an unreserved finality in the folds. She is free. She knows.
Freedom seeps in through the cracks you left unattended.

No, I will not die of a broken heart or a worn out skin shared with a half-known woman.
No one ever does.
Moreover, I now have company and conversation.
And a confidante.
An entry free with an exit. The world keeps its balance.

© Sudeshna Sanyal 2013 ~

Not being on demand, without an apology

I was going through a time when I was not tagged to any specific project at work. They have a name for such unclaimed baggage like me – I was an ODS (On Demand Service) resource. I was the extra hand who could be handed down the last minute erratic demand from strangers that no one foresaw coming. I was on a career limbo, so to speak. So while I waited for that random thankless chore to pour in, I wanted to look busy at my desk, lest they tagged me as disused excess. There is a corporate jargon for such frills around the workplace - the bench. Hah, as if it was any less inglorious than the wobbly seats on wheels they provide the unbenched. But there was that demon called 'cost cutting' - you never knew when you would be queued up to whet that pink axe. It was all about a lean, mean enterprise. Skinny still in demand, I tell you. Fatty, out!

Enough loose prattle, I am lying! I am trying to turn my histrionics on just for the effects. I am switching full-on my random unrehearsed drama because demand calls for it. I needed a context that shouldn't have sounded outlandish. I am not sure if I have been able to muster some reason, salvage some excuse for the casual rant here. That I am going to muse on demand - specifically mine, or the lack thereof, in the world that I inhabit. Demand - the word kind of bugs me. I turned to my friend, philosopher and my vocabulary guide - yes, you guessed right - The Google God!

And here is what I found:

Demand is an economic principle that describes a consumer’s desire and willingness to pay a price for a specific good or service. Holding all other factors constant, the price of a good or service increases as its demand increases and vice versa.

Quite a disappointment, that was. Here I was pinning my hopes on one glorious word that rationalized my existence - to tell me that I was On Demand (both in and out of office, as I liked to think). And as capricious luck would have it, I was rendered a mere pawn in the larger scheme of the world's financial machinations. I was a commodity! A product! I was buy-able, sale-able.  I came in with a price and also had a well defined market to determine the tag. What was worse, I realized all women (or men?) were similarly positioned. And I found there were levels in availability, visibility, to make judgments on a woman's worth remarkably easy.

Rosea Lake's viral Judgments 

So what/who determined my demand? How much was I willing to give of me at a given point of time and what price my consumers were willing to pay for it. In short, you never defined your own value and therefore, never your own demand. Your availability at a given point in time and your consumer did. But who were these consumers, I wondered and realized it was all those people around you and me - friends, colleagues, partners, kids, parents. People who chipped off parts of you every day. People, you fed each of your waking hour, with varying degrees of your existence. Strangely enough all existence smacked of business and profit, supply and demand. The better the supply, the lesser the demand, Google said. So going by my track record of giving way over than was necessary, I could see a distinct possibility of my demand dwindling in future. So I had to make sure, I wasn't giving too much.

Where should it all begin then? They say charity begins at home. And the home is where the heart is, right? By that logic, my mission of being uncharitable had to begin here - right at the heart of the matter. The idea was to become unproductive, under-utilized, un-reproductive, undesirable, and unlovable. In short - unthinking, unloving, and ungiving. That wasn't quite so short, now was it?

Did anyone have a problem with that? Yeah, you bet, I did. I was on a mission to ensure that my supply was artificially diminished so that I could be looking at a rising demand curve. Curve, eh? Well, ahem...yes curve. I had them aplenty. Of the mental kind - all that thinking had rounded off all my dents and caves into convex mounds of adipose. All that exercise of the cerebral kind had left little time to pay tribute to the divine chisel that must have once intended to carve out a potentially decent body.  I often think if there is a scan done of my mind, the report will run into reams of zigzags of winding lines. But for a woman, curvaceous or otherwise, her demand had to be measured (almost always) in her ability to lay bare her curves - quite literally and figuratively. But wait, who said anything about the curves of the mind?

Tahitian women bathing by Gauguin

A woman who has a curvaceous mind, had twists and turns and alleys and by-lanes down her head, and can proudly lay it all bare for the world to see - can never be on demand. I for that matter have found myself increasingly unwanted by those who would prefer a mindless bimbo to a mindful one. Most men still fall for women. They profess eternal love at the start. Most begin at the bust-line and travel as far as the hem-line to unravel the mystery called woman. Out aloud they swear it is only the beautiful mind that they see through all that is on display. And then stupid woman, there you are, smiling blissfully at the thought of having found someone who doesn't want your clothes. You think your skirt is held high not by that elastic or the hook, but by your dignity before you find yourself ugly. Yes, ugly. Because what you have to offer them, is not what they actually want. They are after a more tangible topography.

So you see, I was wrong at the very beginning. My mission of being on demand by cutting the self-supply short would never work. Because I had limitless supply of a mind that thought freely. So zero demand by the law of demand-supply. And very slim supply of voluntary fleshly offering as the culmination of man-woman bond, which might have triggered an initial demand of sorts but was bound to wear even the most patient waiter out in the end. Though I have nothing against the corporal bond and think people who can willingly engage in it without attaching much thought into the emotional implications are remarkable by all means. But was I not limiting my demand theory only to the field of sexual politics between man and woman?

Two Women by Gauguin

What about friendship? I drew an equal blank even there. Whoever said 'friends never judge' was an imbecile of the top order and I am sure was left without any. You think your friend is going for the wrong job? Or choosing the color for her wedding gown that makes her look like an aubergine in a bed of roses? Or that her latest Facebook profile picture shows too much of a cleavage that could let loose a brigade of booty-hunters spamming into her inbox? Or she is settling for the guy who you know should be tested for STDs? And you want to tell her all that, right? Well, think again. You might be losing a friend for life. So you think the idea is to cut short your supply of friendly advice in fear of a lifelong loss of camaraderie. And keep fueling your demand as her best friend? Sounds easy? Not really. When your friend falters, fails, cuts and bruises, she would jump to blame you for being the non-committal bitch who was never any good. What about your workplace? You end up sidelined for peripheral stuff if you play hard-to-get. And if you are ever so visible, you could be risking an over-exposure. Working too hard for too long could make you kind of taken for granted. Who cared, anyway? So no luck there as well.

What about your kids' then? Surely there wasn't any transactional aspect in there, right? Could you possibly risk your child's well-being by limiting yourself when you gave them your love, showered them with presents, guided them in life? You couldn't train your heart to stop when it came to your offsprings. Or your parents? Would you hold back anything from those who raised you, nurtured you, except maybe the blame that they could have done a better job of it? I know I couldn't.

Femmes by Gauguin

So I came to the end of my mission. And I concluded that no matter what I did, unless I changed my charitable heart, I would never improve my demand. Change, I might, someday. But not for a demand enhancement of my breed. I realized I really didn't care for relationships of the conditional kind. There would always be "a heavy demand for fresh mediocrity. In every generation the least cultivated taste has the largest appetite." I was unwilling to feed that appetite stooping to mediocrity of the mind - which I assure you, is the first casualty in any advertised drive to artificially augment demand. All this while as I went harping on the dynamic economics of a consumer market, I was not for once thinking of myself as a product or a commodity, but of a woman who could be loved, desired, cherished for her inherent womanliness. All that neediness in me just makes me want to puke! Ugh...

Here as some saving grace, I quickly attach another saying. The German philosopher Nietzsche once said that "the demand to be loved is the greatest of all arrogant presumptions." So I wasn't going to pretend to be in demand ever, to be lovable, desirable to people who wanted stuff in return. Or maybe more so to people who could love unconditionally. Because, did I deserve to be loved that well? I wasn't all that great, was I? I knew I could be very unlovable! But if I be loved someday, I demanded to be loved not without esteem for the mind I wear as my crown. I demanded to be loved with the freedom to not love in return. I would not trade in love. Balzac wrote somewhere that "Women are tenacious, and all of them should be tenacious of respect; without esteem they cannot exist; esteem is the first demand that they make of love" - I refused to be on demand for a love that paid me little or no esteem. Payment, if at all, had to be in terms of esteem. And I held that at an higher order than mere love.

© Sudeshna Sanyal 2013 ~

The Coil

You call her crooked. 
You see her twisted half-smile. 
Maybe she is not all that straight. Broken and put back together again. 
A curly fry that you like to lick all the time.
Well, you are hooked alright.

Lay off the winding road to her zigzag mind then,
Lay your straightness off her twists and turns.
There is a twist at the end of all tales;
Maybe there is a bend that you don't see coming yet 
To yours. 
Coil up, simple man.
She won't uncoil for you. Or for the world outside
Her twisted mind. 

© Sudeshna Sanyal 2013 ~