POETIC JUSTICE

She looked at him, starry-eyed. She could go on gazing at him forever. He was a lover of words and he whispered into her willing ears,  

  “Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?

   Thou art more lovely and more temperate:”

 She could not understand a word, but she smiled at him.  She recalled the first time she had met him and he had murmured,

“She walks in beauty like the night.”

She lived in a little hut on the outskirts of a wood with her parents and her little sister.  Every day, she would go to the fields with her mother where they would reap the grain,  perspiring in the hot sun, stopping only to eat two dry rotis at noon. Her mother’s heart  broke to see her daughter slogging. Her voice would warble forth even as she worked,

 breaking the silence of the depressing afternoon sun. Her fellow workers loved her for the cheerful little being that she was.

One day, she heard a voice in the distance.

“Whose woods are these I think I know,

His house is in the village though…”

Her heart skipped a beat at the sight of the newcomer. He was like no other man she had ever seen. Clad in fine clothes, his large eyes were cat-like, almost light grey, like the sky on a stormy evening.  She gazed at those eyes, and if she could have unravelled the music within her heart, she would have sung,

“There is another sky,

Ever serene and fair,

And there is another sunshine,

Though it be darkness there.”

She and her mother straightened their aching backs and picked up their lunch boxes. She stole one more glance at the young man. He was gazing at her, a wondering expression in his eyes. It was as if he was ruminating…

“Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,

And waste its sweetness in the desert air.”

She wished the earth would open up and swallow her. She had been working all day, and the dust had covered her with its powdery residue. If only he could have seen her when she was fresh and lovely… for lovely she was, with her sparkling eyes, her flawless skin and her lithe figure.

The next morning, his eyes searched for her. When he saw her, his smile was as wide as the ocean. Her mother looked at him, and then at her daughter, at the light in her young eyes. The mother quaked within, for she feared what was to follow, as it had from time immemorial.

He spoke to her in her language, as she mumbled her name softly. He bowed to her mother and spoke to her even more kindly, words of reassurance. Words that terrified her even more. Kindness was often more deadly than cruelty. The girl gazed upon him as though he was a saviour. Hope raised its head within her bosom.

“’Hope’ is a thing with feathers -

That perches in the soul.”

He was always there, watching, waiting, sometimes murmuring to her, speaking of the day when he would change her life, of the joyful times when they would be together.

“There will come soft rains and the smell of the ground,

And swallows circling with their shimmering sound.”

The smell of the ground did come too soon!

One day, her mother could not accompany her daughter to work. She cautioned her against sweet words, persuasion and smiling strangers. She made her swear she would not fall prey to blandishments.

When the heart is young and unruly, words of advice float away like wisps of cotton in the breeze. He beckoned, she followed, the smell of ground did come too soon!

The deed done, he smiled, his grey eyes gleaming in the woods, reminding her of a cat of prey, majestic in his beauty and grace.

“Tyger, tyger, burning bright,

In the forests of the night;

What immortal hand or eye,

Could frame thy dreadful symmetry?”

 His voice rang out in the silence, its timbre almost tender, as he caressed her tousled hair.

“Don’t be afraid of the dark, little one, The earth must rest when the day is done. The sun must be harsh, but moonlight – never! And those stars will be shining forever and ever.”

She looked at the darkening sky and her heart sang. She wished she could catch a falling star.

Sadly, the sunshine and the stars both disappeared from her life, along with him. She wandered around, large eyes frantic, yearning for a glimpse of him.  She finally located his opulent mansion, and her heart broke to see him with a beautiful woman, who was obviously his wife.

She glanced at her worn-out clothes, her mussed hair, her perspiring form, the blinkers dropping from her eyes. She had been used, misused by him. She dashed the tears from her eyes, embers smouldering within her heart, as she strode towards the ornate door, where he stood, with HER, his arm around her shoulder. His eyes fell upon her and he started with a look of guilt.

The words flew from her mouth, fast and furious, as the beautiful woman stood, aghast. He held up a hand, cautioning her not to come nearer. She continued the tirade, her eyes boring into his. People started gathering around as he pointed at her, calling her deranged, a woman who had lost her mind.

“Take her away!” he ordered peremptorily. His wife gazed on, age-old secrets mirrored within her eyes. She knew, she sensed, but she said nothing. This was the way of the world, the patriarchal system that existed across the country. She dared not face the deep fire that blazed forth in the eyes of the wronged woman, as two burly men caught hold of her hands.

 As she was hauled away, the wife saw the dreadful message that flashed from her husband’s eyes to those of the men. She caught her husband’s hand, shaking her head silently, but he paid no heed. His eyes were on the other woman as she writhed in fury, staring at him in pure hatred.

Her tortured soul screamed out in anger;

“Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light.”

The wife shuddered as the two men brutally manhandled the woman. She glanced at her husband. His grey eyes were filled with a salacious delight as he watched his henchmen drag her away. The next moment, she darted forward, making her way towards the men.

“Meera, what are you doing?” her husband growled, bewildered.

Meera’s eyes were fixed on the young woman, intense rage mirrored in both pairs of eyes. “Leave her alone! “she screamed, arms outstretched towards the younger woman. The men stopped, confused, as she pushed them away violently, and took the other in her arms. They glanced at their master’s livid face. He strode forward and grabbed his wife’s arm, saying, “Stop making a scene! This woman is lying. How dare you go against me?” His fingers pinched her delicate arm, and she could see bruises forming already.

Meera suddenly stood erect, her face a determined mask. She shook off her husband’s touch, a symbolic gesture, almost as if she had shaken it off forever. She glowed like an avenging goddess. The three men froze, a feeling of dread in their hearts. Around them, the villagers had formed a throng, Meera’s parents-in-law among them. As Meera put a protective arm around the younger woman, a whisper went around, almost like a breeze ruffling the stalks of grass. A rumble of approval, of appreciation, almost as if the bystanders were bowing to a goddess in their midst.

Her eyes swept over them and they could read her mind clearly.

   “You may write me down in history

   With your bitter, twisted lies,

   You may trod me in the very dirt

   But still, like dust, I'll rise.

  Leaving behind nights of terror and fear

  I rise

  Into a daybreak that’s wondrously clear

  I rise

  Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,

  I am the dream and the hope of the slave.

  I rise

  I rise

  I rise.”

(With gratitude to William Shakespeare, Lord Byron, Robert Frost, Emily Dickenson, Thomas Gray, Sara Teasdale, William Blake, Ruskin Bond, Dylan Thomas and Maya Angelou)