Three poems by Ananya Venkateswaran

in another life, my mother is alone, alight, dancing sun salutations on the ganga at navratri

Maa Durga, did it / You not ache

to kill a being of your own womb?

as a child, i was scared of Your outstretched tongue,

a thing of bengali masks and puppetry

&certainly not temple, Your blood

dripping down shiny marble and

settling, browned, into some slender crevice–

an accident by some long-gone trembling craftsman,

chisel rough against palm.

the temple dogs would smell ichor,

surely, lap up Your offering before it

mixed with camphor waft &turned to burning flesh.

was Your discus not made of stone?

&what if it were to slip from Your pinky?

would that indent, too, be Divine? / i fear the daughter i may someday have.

Notes: The Ganga (anglicised Ganges) is one of India’s seven rivers. Considered sacred in Hinduism, the Ganga runs through rural North India and is a popular site of religious pilgrimage. Navaratri is an annual Hindu festival observed in honour of the harvest season. The festival also celebrates Durga, an aspect of the divine feminine, and her triumph over the demon Mahishasura. Both the goddess of creation and the goddess of war, Durga is simultaneously feared and revered. In parts of Northern India, Navaratri festivities include blood sacrifices in her name. The goddess is often portrayed holding various weapons of destruction, including a discus and a trident, but also objects that symbolize life and protection, from a lotus, to a shield. In peace, Durga is a benevolent mother. In anger, she manifests as the merciless goddess Kali: her crimson tongue flexed, craving vengeance.

Indiranagar, 2300, 07/30

the Big Men,

emboldened by

cheap pale ale and

sundown and

the cricket bats they pretend to know how to wield

clang pots and pans and billhooks. they are

Big men, strong as the names on the

flimsy cricket jerseys they flaunt and

strong as the rounds that shoot their eyes bloody and

strong as the bruises ‘round wives’ quivering eyes. they are big

men, and grandfathers and girls alike look down when they pass and

close their windows and their eyes and burrow down in their blankets, ignoring big men,

marching in drunken, teary circles around

a dusty temple with offerings

no god wants.

darshan

we are walking barefoot,

heel to tar & paan & dust

like pilgrims. postured in humility

like we seek grace & light.

not like we will fight for view of vallaku

not like we left our shoes behind

because of petty fear of unholy theft.

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About the Poet:

Ananya Venkateswaran is a writer currently living in Abu Dhabi, UAE, with parts of her heart in Mumbai, Bangalore, and Tampa. Recent work includes publication/recognition by Harvard WE, Bennington College, The Pulitzer Center, Harvard's Write the World, and The Blue Marble Review. Ananya is passionate about the crossroads between art, culture, and global citizenship. She is happiest when immersed in conversation, nature, a book, or good food.