Tiger Princess

Posted on by The Zoya Project

There is a space between history and mythology where stories sing… 

The air was muggy. It had rained in the early evening when dusk kissed darkness and the stars came out to play hide and seek. The scent of fresh mud permeated the air along with the silt that slid through the gaps of her toes. It was cool, sliding over the skin despite the humidity. Now standing under the starry sky the darkness was so thick it threatened to consume those who stood at the banks of the river Matla. One could almost swallow it, wondering if the stars would burn the gullet as they trickled down the throat. The boat was readied under the canopy of trees and foliage, dark clouds floating across the sky blocking out the light every few minutes. Clouds that smelt of rain.

It was on a night like this many years ago that the Sun Prince had first found a gift for his younger sister Eenakshi. The Sun Prince had set out in the dark of the night in search of a gift for the Princess’s twelfth birthday. The boat had rocked steadily on the river as a light drizzle of rain wet the Prince’s expensive silk shirt. The Sun Prince sailed on the Matla his translucent shirt clinging to his wet skin, his khukuri drawn and ready. He had been given many ideas for the Princess’s gift but none had truly struck a chord. There was a bracelet of rosy pearls with a clasp made of gold from the southern peninsula, a sari of raw silk from a city in the far east, hidden in the desert. Baskets of fruit and sweetmeats. The Sun Prince had bought all of these and yet none had been enough. And so in the dark of the night when the stars sparkled bright enough to burn he had set sail.

It had not taken long before he stopped, his eyes catching on a glint of gold and amber in the midst of leaves and darkness. The hair of his neck stood on edge and goosebumps trailed up his slick skin. He was so still that even the soft lull of the river and the fall of the rain stopped for a second as the tiger unfurled itself. It was a gigantic beast, amber and obsidian fur glinting in the same starlight that illuminated the iridescent scales of the fish that swam in the Matla. The gold eyes roamed over the Sun Prince, the tiger’s dark nose twitched in trepidation. It was like a well-choreographed dance, each warrior waiting for the other to make the first move. The Sun Prince watched the tiger, refusing to acknowledge the fear creeping through his lungs and infused in his breath. But the elements could only stay still so long and finally, the tide was pulled into motion by the moon and the boat began to move. The tiger snarled, a black lip curling over a fanged tooth, before it lunged.

The tigers in the Sundarbans were revered by the King and his children. Yet as the Sun Prince dove into the silty waters of the Matla to avoid being torn into shreds he raised his khukuri in an arc that caught the magnificent animal in the belly. It gurgled softly in pain as dark blood seeped into the wooden planks. The Prince rose from the banks his khukuri washing away with the river, clambering onto the boat that the injured tiger now lay on. His own cheek held a gash from where the tiger’s claw tore into his skin. It was an elderly beast the Sun Prince noted as it laid its head on his lap ignoring the blood that seeped into his pajamas. Guilt had eaten at him as he watched the labored breathing of the beast, its bristling fur soft against his skin. The Sun Prince knelt his head to the tiger’s fuzzy ear, whispering his apology. The tiger’s gold eyes looked towards him, the prince’s dark hair swept against his head, his eyes filled with tears. It studied the prince before one feeble paw lifted and touched the Sun Prince’s damp cheek, his blood staining the rough underside of the tiger’s paw. Almost like absolution, forgiveness.

The boat moved slower now even as the rain came down with more force. The added weight of the tiger’s body, slowing its journey through the Matla. The Sun Prince let his salty tears fall onto the fur of the tiger as he prayed for its journey through the heavens. When he finished he let the tiger’s body drift down the Matla and make its journey onwards. It was then that he heard it. A soft mewling sound. The Sun Prince froze, now defenseless, wounded and tired from grieving the tiger he had never meant to kill, he didn’t think he would be able to sustain another battle that night in the mangroves. But no danger came through the dense foliage. Instead, the cries the Prince heard were more despondent and persistent than the rain that beat into the ground.

The Sun Prince dove back into the river, swimming towards the bank. It took him time to navigate through the dense forest until finally, he pulled aside a curtain of vines near the same spot he had seen the glint of amber and obsidian. There in front of him lay a tiny tiger cub. His whimpers and mewls drowned out all other noise. The Sun Prince couldn’t help but approach the cub, no larger than a small dog. He held out his fingers tentatively towards the cub and watched as it neared him in cautious trepidation. It took much time before the cub finally deemed the Sun Prince to not be a threat and let his fuzzy skull brush the Prince’s wet hand.

The next day with his wound still bleeding the Sun Prince set down the cub in front of Eenakshi along with a bracelet of rose gold pearls, a formal silk sari, baskets of khajoor and plates of sondesh. The tiger was said to have been promptly placed in the young girl’s lap, his muddy pawprints staining the eggshell-colored sari she wore, his little teeth nipping at her ear, licking away the blood that bloomed there. But since that morning when the darkness was swallowed by the pale-colored dawn, Eenakshi’s name was forgotten and she was known henceforth as the Tiger Princess.

***

No one had seen the Tiger Princess outside of the stone-walled grounds of the palace in the years since she received the gift. Yet there were rumors that floated through the kingdom about her. Her legendary beauty was the most famous. She was said to have eyes that were darker than the night and that held the stars, eyelashes so long they had to be trimmed with thin gold scissors. Her ebony hair was softer than the wings of the doves reared in the palace, her lips were said to be darker than the fruit of the date palm trees and her skin the color of gold honey illuminated by sunlight. They said that golden bindi worn between her eyebrows was melted gold that the king had poured into the indents of her skin when she was born. They said that when she sang the clouds parted so the moon could illuminate the dark forests and when she danced the earth sprouted tiger lilies. They said that her tiger, Khan, was served the blood of the prisoners held in the stone-walled castle and that he was taught to guard her, trained by warriors that had sailed all the way from the foreign lands of Africa.

There is a mystery and an air of secrecy that surrounds the unknown. So it was with the Tiger Princess. Some said she had sailed away on a boat made of oyster shells with her beast. Others claimed that she reared her cub to be so fearsome that the King had locked both away in one of the turrets of the stone fortress. But no one knew the truth. No one knew where the Tiger Princess was or what she truly looked like.

Eenakshi for her part was tired. She was tired of being told that she was to never be seen so she might fetch a most advantageous alliance from a prince who would one day marry her. She was tired of the grey stone walls, she was tired of the humid air, she was tired of not seeing the world, but most of all she was tired of sondesh. Once her favourite dessert in the world, she now hated the saccharine taste of the white dessert and the squelch of it between her teeth. Sleeping deeply through the days, the shadowy slivers of her room that weren’t illuminated by sunlight would be inhabited by Khan, now an enormous beast. His tongue lolling out of his open jaw, his fur glistening and sleek, brushed every day with a mother-of-pearl hairbrush. The rumors around Khan’s ferocity were greatly false, he was the most docile beast imaginable, though he did drink a bowl of lamb blood every morning to strengthen his bones. He kept his Princess company, wherever she went he followed. He would sleep when she slept, eat alongside her and when the Queen came every morning to wake Eenakshi with a golden plate filled with holy offerings he would wait patiently as the aarti was conducted. Three round circles around his face, a vermillion streak painted between his eyes and a sputtering cough as the sondesh was placed between his sharp teeth. Khan, was not a fan of sondesh either. Once the sweet had been consumed, both tiger and princess would fall back into a deep slumber until the stars shone. When the rest of the kingdom slept the Tiger Princess would exit the stone walls of the palace and head into the forest towards the Matla, her tiger following her stealthily his fur glowing under the starlight.

Eenakshi had been sneaking out for many moons. Her dark hair glistened, bound into a bun surrounded by fragrant flowers and she wore the red sari her brother had gifted her alongside Khan. The sari was tied in a way that it hung just above her knees, her legs were muscular and held many scars from practicing warcraft. While the royals tried to keep Eenakshi confined, to add to her mystique and draw in the strongest and most prosperous princes and kings from the neighboring kingdoms she had long since found ways out of this lifestyle.

She had been trained in the art of battle by the Sun Prince for many years. Twice a week under the moonlight they would train with khukhuris until Eenakshi could beat him in a fight. It had started that way. The Sun Prince would wait for Eenakshi to climb down the vine and they would walk to the Matla, tossing Khan fresh khajur to eat as they went. There on the same boat on which the Sun Prince once carried Khan home, he and Eenakshi would battle. She would wrap the sari between her legs and tie a cloth around her breasts until she could defeat the prince. But long after these lessons had come to a close, Eenakshi chose to sail on the Matla. Night after night, underneath the canopy of the Sundari trees she would sail on the river. Her long hair would unravel from its bun and trail into the river until it touched the silt below, she would lie on the dampened wood planks of the boat, her cheek skimming the cool water, her slender legs braced on Khan’s sturdy back. There was freedom in these nightly boat rides, freedom that was missing in cool stone walls and mouthfuls of sondesh.

These nightly sailing expeditions were mundane adventures. Often times Eenakshi would practice her footwork, two khukuris clasped in her hands, she would dance around Khan and fight off invisible attackers, ducking and rolling, lunging and jumping. Other times she would simply let her fingers skim the water, she would let her hair unravel, the rain dampen it and then she would pick lotus blossoms from the water, braiding them into her hair. On some nights she found injured turtles, which she would hide in the pallu of her sari to heal at home, before coming back to release them in their natural habitat. Sometimes she would count the stars amidst the canopy of Sundari trees and she would dream. Her hand would drift to the tear in her left earlobe, a love bite from Khan the first time he met her and she would imagine a life for him and herself outside of the stone-walled fortress and the kingdom hidden in the Sundarbans. She dreamt of wandering the world in a desert caravan, of watching the priestesses in the south perform their holy dances, of tasting saffron and salted tea in the rugged hills of Kashmir. But she was the Tiger Princess and no matter how far she sailed on the Matla, the shackles that bound her to the palace pulled her back before dawn.

The air was muggy that night. It had rained in the early evening when dusk kissed darkness. The scent of fresh mud permeated the air along with the silt that slid through the gaps of Eenakshi’s toes. It was cool, sliding over the skin despite the humidity. Now standing under the starry sky the darkness was so thick it threatened to consume her. She could almost swallow it, wondering if the stars would burn the gullet as they trickled down her throat. Her boat was readied under the canopy of Sundari trees and foliage, dark clouds floating across the sky blocking out the light every few minutes. Clouds that smelt of rain. Despite the dense cover of clouds, the moon shone through and Eenakshi sat at the stern of the boat her toe dipped into the water letting ripples trail behind them as she set sail with Khan. He peered into the water, his tongue hanging out of his mouth as though he intended to swallow the monsoon, the stars and the darkness all at once.

Silence was a language they were well-versed with. It brought comfort to hear each other’s breath amidst the tickling breeze and the rustle of the leaves on the Sundari trees. But halfway through their journey as the waters deepened and the silty bottom disappeared from visibility, Eenakshi let out a stern command as Khan swiped his paw through the water as he sometimes did upon seeing one of the iridescent fish of the Matla.

“We do not eat the fish,” she told him sternly, watching his expression turn dejected and sad as he retracted his large claws from the slippery water. The boat shuddered to a halt as his paw rested on the wood again, burying his face under the tangle of Eenakshi’s scarlet sari in shame.

Eenakshi looked around puzzled at the sudden hindrance. She stood, tightening the muscles of her abdomen so she wouldn’t fall off the lilting surface of the boat. She looked around to see whether it was a stray log or if the boat had gotten stuck in a bank of silt. But it was the mewling sounds emitted by Khan that made Eenakshi look to the forefront of the boat. She grumbled before she turned to see what had troubled her beast, the fearsome tiger rumored to drink criminal blood. But even her eyes widened in terror as the creature slithered onto her boat. Khan all but clambered into her lap, his wet nose quivering in between the curve of her neck and shoulder, he curled his body as tightly as he possibly could and still, he did not fit in Eenakshi’s lap. The creature was the oddest thing Eenakshi had ever seen. With the enormous head of a crocodile, his gold and green scales shone in the dark. And it had the supple sleek body of a fish with mottled scales of indigo and emerald. Despite the heaviness of the creature’s frame it moved with sleek haste and grace as its skull rested on the boat in an almost imperious manner.

“Tiger Princess,” the creature greeted in a rumbly voice like the sound of water rushing over rocks.

Eenakshi could only watch, her hands fisted in Khan’s fur as his enormous body quivered in her arms.

“I am Makara, embodiment of the rivers, protector of the Matla,” he said, his tongue swiping over his fangs as he spoke.

“The Goddess of the Mangroves wishes to reward you. For protecting our fish and turtles, for raising our orphaned cub and for your continued respectful use of the forest.” the Makara continued, “I will pull your boat to the sacred grotto.” he said without waiting for Eenakshi’s response. His body slithered off the boat and the wooden vessel began to sail again, faster and more agile than before. For once the warrior princess was stunned into silent agreement as Khan watched the path the boat carved into the Matla, his nose quivering in fright.

Eenakshi had never wandered so far from the palace before and as they sailed down the river the foliage thinned and the starry skies opened up above her showering her in silver starlight. Looking at the constellations she had only seen in bits and pieces from under tree cover Eenakshi almost forgot that she was being pulled down the racing river by a frightening creature. But not long after the skies opened up the Makara diverted paths and the water became shallow pulling into a secluded cave. Eenakshi stepped out of the boat, the bottom of her sari sodden as she waded deeper into the cave, following the Makara as he slithered deep into the darkness. Her tiger followed her, his whimpers echoing throughout the cave.

Finally in the deepest depth of the grotto, when there was nowhere further to go, the trio stopped. A single hole in the roof of the stone let moonlight stream in, illuminating the large wall in front of them. There on the hewn stone walls of the cave was a carving that was three times Eenakshi’s size. The gold indents in the wall were breathtaking as Eenakshi took in the carving of the woman before her.

“The Goddess, Bonbibi,” the Makara introduced. And as he spoke, there in front of Eenakshi’s eyes the carvings came alive. The grey-green rock turned into supple soft skin, gold and pearls, and strands of dark curling hair. A single eye the color of the darkest ebony, the other the gold of the tiger’s eye surrounded by amber and obsidian fur. The Goddess studied Eenakshi, before her voice boomed through the cave, the sound of hundreds of birds taking flight, the rustle of the Sundari trees, the rush of the rivers and the downpour of the rain encompassed within her strong vocal cords.

“Tiger Princess,” she greeted, before continuing. “I have watched you sneak into my mangrove forests for many years now. Long ago I saved your brother from one of the tigers who roamed in my forest like a mighty king. It was not sheer luck with which he escaped. I gave his khukuri the blessing of aim. And yet I was displeased that another one of your kind had disrupted life within my forests.”

Eenakshi only gaped, Khan hiding between her legs his snout visible through her sari. The Goddess continued despite Eenakshi’s evident speechlessness.

“I expected from you the same disregard I expected from the Sun Prince. And yet every night when you have entered my forest you have defied my expectations. You have reared the orphaned cub from my forests with so much love that he is now nothing but a spoilt kitten,” here her voice hardened with concern, “and it seems, a scared one at that.”

Eenakshi gulped, raising an eyebrow, wondering whether she was being lauded or scolded.

“You have protected the sacred fish of the Matla from the cub’s greedy paw over and over, helped injured turtles, hidden my holy oysters from being poached for the pearls and have kept my mangrove forest clean.” The Goddess loomed over Eenakshi. “And thus, Makara and I have decided to gift you a boon.”

Finally, Eenakshi found her voice. “A boon?” she asked the Goddess.

“Indeed.”

The Goddess beckoned Eenakshi forward with a single finger and Eenakshi found herself pulled forth, until she stood a mere foot away from the gigantic Makara, close enough to see every green and gold scale on his head.

“Inside Makara’s mouth, you will find a single black pearl. This is the Shaligram. It is a holy stone. The Shaligram will give you three nights to wander any single dreamscape of your choice. It can grant you your wish of freedom for three nights. But beware Tiger Princess, it must be used under the full light of the moon and the stars and with each night that you use it, the color will fade until it resembles but a normal pearl. When all the color has leeched from it you must return it to the waters of the Matla where it will find its way back to Makara.”

As the Goddess spoke, the Makara opened its jaw wide, and there at the center of its tongue sat the magnificent black pearl. Eenakshi reached for it tentatively, letting it slide into her palm, smooth and slippery. She looked up at the Goddess, a question in her eyes.

“The boon is rarely gifted,” the Goddess said, her voice fading, “Use it well Tiger Princess. Use it well.”

It was as though Eenakshi blinked and the Goddess had transformed back into the carved rock facade. In front of the carved wall was the most detailed sculpture of a half-crocodile half-fish creature, in grey and gold rock. Eenakshi stared, her arm reaching behind her to soothe and pet the quivering Khan.

The next night when the moon rose in the sky along the iridescent stars, Eenakshi set out on her boat with Khan onto the Matla. She rowed out where the foliage thinned and moonlight cloaked her in a silver glow and clasping the pearl between her palms, Eenakshi wished for one thing only. ‘Magic.’ 

It happened in a single second, the way breath ebbs from the chest – the scent of the river vanished, the humidity stick to her skin disappeared and Khan’s deep steady breaths went silent. When she opened her eyes she stood on steady ground, the sky above her starless and dark and yet the air was illuminated by glowing candlelight. The sound of the bansuri, the esraj and the dotara permeated the air. The canopies of the marketplace in front of her were deep blue and silver so unlike the red white and gold she was used to but still, Eenakshi noticed none of it. She noticed only one thing, her tiger was gone. She searched through the magical marketplace the Shaligram had conjured, pushing aside a variety of strange creatures shopping through the marketplace. She called his name ignoring the irritated looks she got from passerby’s for disrupting the peaceful string music and silence of the market.

Finally covered in sweat and panting, Eenakshi was close to tears. No matter where she looked and how far she ran she always circled back to the center of the marketplace, yet Khan was nowhere to be seen. She patted at the folds of her deep red sari trying to find the black pearl but that too had disappeared. In a state of complete panic, Eenakshi began to wander aimlessly through the lanes of the market. Finally dejected and unable to understand how her wish had gone so very wrong she sat down on one of the onyx-carved stools of the market, her head pounding into a malignant ache.

“You seem upset,” a melodious noise trilled near her, startling her off her seat with a squeal of surprise.

When Eenakshi looked up her eyes widened as she tried to comprehend what she was looking at. In a magnificent silver cage with a curlicue lock there was an enormous bird with the most exquisite feathers. He was perched on a gently rotund silver swing, enormous black claws curling around the undulating silver log. The plumage on his head in shades of teal, silver, navy and deep indigo. It was the most beautiful peacock Eenakshi had ever seen. The words seemed to stick in her throat as she tried to speak. The large silver eyes studied her quizzically as she studied it.

“Why are you upset?” it cooed again, it’s voice a trill of song and the low rumble of clouds before they burst into a shower of rain.

“What are you?” Eenakshi managed to choke out in response, trying to steady her erratic breathing.

“I am the Mayurpankhi.” the peacock said.

“But you aren’t supposed to be real!” Eenakshi exclaimed in surprise. “My brother told me stories about you when I was a young girl.”

“Before I was captured for a showpiece for this magic marketplace, I was a wondrous creature. I could travel a thousand realms, I could carry a hundred kings on each of my wings and I would see the world.”

The peacock let out a sad sigh. “And now I am stuck here, for many moons I have been stuck here, caged in this penitentiary of silver.”

“What is this?” Eenakshi asked the peacock, gesturing to the enormous canopied stalls around her.

The Mayurpankhi looked astonished. “You don’t know?” he asked in his mottled voice, surprise contorting his large eyes. “This is Bengali Bazaar!” he exclaimed. “This is the most magical realm in all of Bengal!”

Eenakshi looked around noticing the patrons of the bazaar, a gasp catching in her throat as she noticed apsaras and demons and mythical creatures she couldn’t recognize. Hesitance crept into her being as she took it all in. A hesitance tinted with curiosity. “All of this is magical?” she asked the Mayurpankhi. “Indeed!” it boomed. “Much like myself.” it purred, puffing out its enormous feathers before letting out an outraged squawk as the feathers were contained and bent by the confines of the cage.

“Go on then,” it urged her after settling its feathers gently against its body. “Explore, humans rarely get a chance to come here unless they are granted a boon or a wish stone like the Shaligram or Monohor Kanta.”

Eenakshi nodded, moving further into the market, though her thoughts still stuck on Khan. Heading under the first canopy of azure and starry silver cloth she came across a large moustachioed vendor. Atop his table were a number of large Dhokra sculptures, the metal carved into lively figures. Women in saris, a goldfish in a pond of lotuses, there was even a lifelike imitation of the Mayurpankhi.

“The best Dhokra craft in all of Bengal!” the man said his skin glowing with a thin veneer of sweat. “Look,” he said pointing to a woman holding a dotara delicately in her hands. “Gaao Amaar Bhalobasha” the man whispered lovingly to the sculpture and immediately the woman’s tiny metal fingers began working the dotara, her mouth opened in a mechanical manner and a stunning rendition of a Vaishnavi Padavali leaves her mouth. The ancient ballad sung for the God Krishna and his love Radha as they danced a raasleela in the fields of Vrindavan.

But once the song has finished and Eenakshi had seen the singing fish jump in and out of the metallic lotus pond she moved on. The Dhokra vendor looked despondent as she walked away. She walked past reams of silk and wool and shawls made of Kantha embroidery before her eyes caught on a most magnificent piece of silver silk upon which iridescent threads shimmered. The embroidery was the most intricate Eenakshi had ever seen.

“What is this?” she asked the seller, a young woman with mottled blue skin. “This is a Baluchari sari,” she told Eenakshi, a forked black tongue peeking out of the corner of her mouth to lick her lips. “It changes its embroidery every time you will wear it,” the woman said, beckoning her to take a closer look. “See right now, it tells the story of the Mansamangal Kavya. See the lovers Chaitanya and Padmavati, their entire story is embroidered onto the silken fabric.” the woman draped the sari against her bosom and Eenakshi watched in amazement as the embroidery changed into one of the comic tales of Gopal Bhar and his legendary wit. Eenakshi knelt down to whisper to Khan, pointing out what she was seeing and her heart ached when she remembered that in this realm he had disappeared. Tears filled her eyes and she ignored the cries of the sari seller, running through the canopies of blue, trying to compose herself. Finally, she stopped in front of a stall filled with terracotta pottery. The man selling it offered her an empty clay container shaped of red terracotta. It is empty at first and though Eenakshi refused, the vendor persisted until annoyance made her snatch it from his hands. She wiped at the dried tear tracks on her face before she felt the clay cool within her palms. When she looked at it once again she was surprised to see it filled with sondesh, the saccharine fragrance of it overwhelmed her and she remembered how every morning she and Khan try to get rid of the dessert. Her tears resurfaced again as she tried to understand what happened to her beloved tiger. She hardly knows her identity without being the Tiger Princess.

Dejected and tired Eenakshi wandered back towards the Mayurpankhi. It looked at her with sympathy. “Don’t worry,” it cooed at her softly. “Dawn approaches swiftly. You will be able to return home soon.”

There was hope still then, that even without the Shaligram she would be able to return home, return to find Khan.

“Will my tiger be where I left him?” she asks the Mayurpankhi desperately.

“Your tiger?” it asks in confusion. “Did you not arrive here through a wish stone?”

“I used a Shaligram,” Eenakshi tells the magnificent peacock.

“The Shaligram only transports one. Surely your tiger is guarding your body, while your mind roams the realm of Bengali Bazaar. Tell me,” it says, now curious. “Why did you wish to come here? You have been unhappy the entire time.”

Eenakshi sighed. “I was hoping for more.” she confides, watching as the corners of her eyes darken, the market becoming more trasnlucent than real. “I had wanted to roam the mountains of the Afghan, wander the streets of the great emperors, watch the tawaifs of old perform and see the Southern backwaters. I wanted to see the magicians of Dehli and the Fakirs of Lahore.” she raises a finger, pushing it through the gaps of the cage and stroking the Mayurpankhi’s soft feathers. “I wished for magic, because all my life, Khan and I have been mundane. We eat and we sleep, we embroider and we wear silk and leather and we have nothing else. The dawn never brings anything new, anything extraordinary, anything exquisite. For once, I wanted to feel anything but mundane.”

But the Mayurpankhi’s feathers went from soft to nonexistent, as she returned to reality she heard his voice still as he spoke, the voice that reminded her of the song of the nightingale and the rumble of the clouds before rainfall. “Come back tomorrow and I shall give you a present, Tiger Princess.”

When Eenakshi woke, she was overjoyed to see Khan sitting beside her, worriedly nipping at the ends of the sari she wore. Tears filled her eyes, like little pearls as she threw her arms around him, holding him close even as he squirmed and squirreled away in confusion. When she was done ascertaining that he was truly there, smelling his musky fur and clutching his soft ears, he gave her long lick across her torn ear, the jagged edges of which remembered his teeth from many years ago and tingled.

Later, the next night when they returned, Eenakshi’s heart stuttered to leave Khan again. It made her nervous to know he wasn’t behind her, dogging her footsteps, nuzzling her calves at every turn. But she wanted to know what gift the Mayurpankhi wanted to give her. And so despite her fears, she placed her head on Khan’s soft flank, closed her eyes and wished to return to Bengali Bazaar.

As the silt and sticky air disappeared and the canopies of azure and pearly silver appeared, Eenakshi ran straight to the Mayurpankhi. His silver eyes were closed when she approached and his large head ducked under an enormous arm as he snoozed. She waited nervously wondering if she should prod at him, but it was as though he sensed her arrival for his eyes opened lazily and whe he saw Eenakshi he unfurled his large body from the tight coil it was in.

“You came back, Tiger Princess?”

“You asked me to,”

“Yes but I didn’t think you would have the courage to. More so since it seemed like you had lost half of your soul without your tiger.”

“I wanted to know what you had wanted to give me,” Eenakshi told the peacock truthfully.

The Mayurpankhi sighed, “I know too well how it feels to be trapped, Tiger Princess.” I once sailed the sky with kings and queens. Once I saw the entire world. Now I have been stuck, caged like a common parakeet. I have an eternal curse.” In a slow movement, the Mayurpankhi ducked its head once again, gripping one of his enormous feathers in his silver beak he tugged with vicious force and Eenakshi winced as it came away from his body. A drop of dark blood bloomed on the thick tip of the feather. “Here,” it said with a quiver in its voice, extending the feather towards Eenakshi gently.

“If you ask the Baluchari sari weaver to weave these into a pair of slippers for you and your tiger, you will be able to travel the seven seas and the entire world.” The peacock looks at her wistfully. “The way I once did.”

Eenakshi’s eyes watered as she beheld the magnificent peacock feather in her hands. A priceless gift. “But,” she stumbled clearing her throat. “What will this cost me?” she asked finally. “Surely this is not free?”

“Tell the weaver I will pay her tomorrow,” the peacock cleared its throat, “And from you, I would like for you to tell me a story.”

“A story?”

“I have been stuck in this prison for many centuries. I wish to roam the world once again, tell me a story Tiger Princess so I may be free for a single moment.”

The peacock closed its eyes, nestling its enormous feathers against its body, making itself comfortable as Eenakshi began talking. “On a night when the clouds were filled to the brim, ready to burst, The Sun Prince went out on the river Matla in search of a gift for his younger sister…”

The story flowed like the water of the Matla over the muddy banks as Eenakshi recounted how she and Khan came to be together. And when she was done the Mayurpankhi extended his head through the curlicue silvers bars of his cage and nuzzled her cheek gently. The next night when Eenakshi returned to take the peacock slippers, two for her own feet and four for Khan’s paws from the Baluchari weaver, she watched as the weaver showed off her enchanted silver sari to patrons and her eyes caught on the embroidery. There on the silver cloth was a story she was well versed with.

A young prince embarking on a journey on the Matla in search of a gift for his sister, a tiger for a Tiger Princess. The story was now immortal, another folktale for the Baluchari sari’s, famed in all of Bengal.

When she returned to the Sundarbans, Eenakshi tied the peacock slipper sandals onto Khan’s enormous paws and snuck her own feet into them before slipping the now colorless Shaligram back into the waters of the Matla. No one saw her leave the Sundarbans, but her boat was found drifting on the river, slow and sluggish as though it did not know how to simply float without it’s sailor. But rumors fled through the kingdoms and through the Sundarbans. The Tiger Princess has ridden her tiger all the way to the edge of the world on a pair of enchanted peacock slippers. The Sundari trees grew steadily over the Matla, their canopies are soon so thick and dense that not even the stars could be seen from the river any longer. The stars that once burnt and the moonlight that once illuminated the waters of the Matla had all but disappeared.

Now when the Sundarbans are flocked by visitors and the Matla moves more sluggishly, a darker color – more polluted, the boatsmen tell the tourists of the Tiger Princess. They tell them how she roamed the streams of the Matla with an enormous tiger and one day when the sun rose above the horizon she dragged the disappearing moon behind her away on an adventure. The moon no longer shines on the Matla. The boatsmen say she wandered from Bengal to the ghats of Banaras to the fields of Punjab all the way to the South to see the devadasis dance. And when the story is finished, on the undulating surface of the silty waters, they offer tourists a single piece of sondesh on a leaf painted to resemble tiger stripes.

Stories From Aligarh Part II – Sadar Bazaar, Mathematics and Zeenat Brothers

Posted on by The Zoya Project

I’ve loved Delhi, ever since I started studying history in middle school. Its culture, its history, the small noisy haunts with its plethora of fragrances and smells and the hidden ones no one knows about. But being the blunt rather acerbic person I am, I tend to call a spade a spade, and I have to say there are frequent times when I feel the need to escape from the dirty city, the crazy traffic and the people. And in those times I find refuge in Aligarh.

Aligarh is where my mother grew up. It’s a university town where my grandparents have spent the majority of their lives in a little pink villa they built and pioneered for themselves and named Aimun. A small corner of the world that belongs only to us and the team of stray kittens and puppies our age-old cook rescues and tries to hide (mostly unsuccessfully) from my grandmother. My mother then takes these little guests at Aimun back with her to Delhi. There is a small mango orchard and a front garden which Nani tends to every evening at 5 pm, walking around pruning her bougainvillea that grows coral and pale pink, white and fuchsia. She sits on the small white wooden swing that sits on the front lawn enjoying the fruits of her hard work, her salwar kameez slightly damp. At night she sits with Nana to watch the 9 pm news, after a long day of work at the Public School.

They’re an odd pair, two intellectuals but every time they talk to each other I can see how they’ve lasted 64 years. They’re unfailingly kind, generous and loving people. They’ve had colorful lives, so much so that Nana has written six books in Urdu about his travels and adventures. Perhaps it runs in the family.

I am convinced that a part of my Nana lives in my soul. I’ll make my way to him at 6 am when the rest of the house slumbers on. He and I sit, him reclined in his chair with a glass of freshly squeezed juice in his hands, and me at the stool below emptying out a liberal amount of lotion for his legs. As Aligarh wakes so does the past. I ask him to tell me a story, a story from his life. 

And so he does…

1944

‘My father studied till high school. He didn’t have the liberty to study further at that time you see. But his math, his math was very good.’ My nana begins. His juice is clasped in one hand and a bowl of almonds lies on the table next to him. Today we sit in the entryway of Aimun. The pink and white walls ensconce us under a large arch doorway. My Nani’s garden stretches out in front of us. The grass is wet from the cold dew and there’s a slight chill as winter descends upon us. Her bonsais are flowering and the bougaenvillae grows in pastel pinks and corals. I take a second to imprint this moment in my mind. The few precious moments I get alone with him. Where the entire world centers on him, his youngest grandaughter and the stories only I will know with such intimacy that they will come alive in my mind.

‘My father was a big, tall hulk of a man. And he was a good man. But his temper was a fearsome thing to behold. His anger was easy to flare, and easily provoked. He used to believe that since he was so brilliant at math, his children would be too. It was unfortunate I suppose that my math skills were absolutely abysmal. When I added two plus two it would never be four. Every time the answer was incorrect his hand would come down and strike me. And what a big hand it was! It would come down upon my cheek with such force. So great was the fear of his anger that more often than not the little math I did know would end up being incorrect.

In his anger he would sometimes proclaim ‘Nikal jao mere ghar se!’ and promptly I would be standing outside the house.’

I begin to see the scene come alive as he sips on his juice gingerly. 13-year-old Ather Siddiqi standing outside the house in the galis of Saharanpur. His slim legs tremble as night descends. Around him fields of bright yellow mustard and barren roads that were filled with throngs of people when the sun was out. Sunsaan gali. Moonlight puddling in the hollows of his face as he stands alone outside. The story begins to come alive as my grandfather continues.

‘Kabhi kabhi maulvi sahab raat mein guzarte the toh he would see me and knock on the door, and he would wait until I was let back inside the house. One day in 1944 or 1945, my father told me once again to leave his house. And it reminded me of a famous Urdu couplet.

Tamaam umr issi aitiyaad mein guzari

Ki aashiyana kissi shakh e shajal par baar na ho

All my life I have spent ensuring that my nest does not become a burden on the branch. My self-respect, you see, has always been of the highest value to me. Even now. Ever since I was a young boy I have kept my self-respect on the highest pedestal. He really scolded me that day before standing me outside in the gali. I had the clothes on my back and two rupees in my pocket. The moment the door closed behind me I set off into the night.’

Here he pauses, popping a couple of almonds in his mouth. I imagine him, his white hair now black, his height diminished. A young boy once again, his hands stuffed in his pocket, clutching his coins in desperation, ambling through Saharanpur.

‘I traversed the quiet city for a bit before deciding on going to a friend’s house.’ Nana continues. His chair rocks back and forth slightly, his eyes drooping to a close as though he can see the dark alleyways of 1940’s Saharanpur through which he wandered. “But when I got to his haveli he was not there. I was stumped for a second. Where was I to go now? I knew, I had made up my mind and so I knew, that I couldn’t go back home. My self-respect would have taken a beating if I had to go back.”

There is a pause here. As though he is remembering that feeling. The glory of stories lies in their ability to take us back in time. It lets us wander the lanes of history and travel through those feelings that were once long forgotten.

“I decided to go towards the station. Meri khaala Dilli mein hoti thi. So I bought a ticket, uss zamaane mein Dilli ka ticket, ek/dedh rupai ka hota tha. My mother knew how I was and she had heard my argument with my father, so she sent out one of my siblings to check on me. To see where I had gone. My brother went looking for me in all of Saharanpur until finally he came to check the station. I saw him there. He was looking for me while I hid in the compartment of the train I was sitting in. As soon as he would come near I would duck under the window and crouch to the floor, before peeking back up to see where he had gone. At any rate, I saw him get smaller and smaller as the train picked up speed. Khata khat khata khat khata khat karke, the train pulled into Dilli Junction at 10 pm that night.

I didn’t know a lot back then. This was a vast new city, completely foreign to me. I had only a little idea of where to go – Sadar.”

Here I stop him. I a resident of Delhi for almost my entire life, born and raised have no clue about Sadar. I have never been. So I ask him where he means.

“Sadar.” He repeats. “Sadar Bazaar. Near Puraani Dilli, Chandni Chowk se thodi hi doori par hai Sadar.”

He doesn’t wait for me to dive back into his story. “There was a tonga-waala outside the station, he was hawking his price. So I paid him 2 annas and got in and asked him to take me to Sadar Bazaar. I got to the main street of the bazaar. At that time the crowds were much less than what they would be today. I asked the few people around about my Khaalu but no one knew of him, or the hotel he ran, there. The hotel he was running at the time was actually in the Cantt. and I had gone all the way to Sadar.”

I examine the way he  says Delhi. It is not Dilli anymore as he says when we converse in Urdu. It is Dehli, the way he must have said it as a boy. Deh-lee. The ‘h’ curls on his mouth, tangible in this pronunciation.

“I was getting scared. Here I was alone, ajnabi shehr, aadhi raat ka vaqt aur kam umari. I couldn’t figure out what to do. Qismat was very favourable to me that day. For just as I started to panic I met a young man who asked me why I was alone so late at night. In my desperation the entire story came tumbling from my lips. He was a very kind man. He told me that he was doing chowkidaari in a nearby neighborhood and had a little set up where I could stay while he worked at night. He and I walked together and he sat down to do his chowkidaari next to a little charpai. I curled up on that chaarpai that night and I watched the stars just before I went to sleep, tired from the entire ordeal. Haan uss zamaane mein Dehli mein chandni raatein hoti thi. My sleep was fitful that evening, broken by the sounding of barking dogs or a stray wanderer. Everytime I woke I would curl up into a tighter ball.”

I can’t help but think of how fortunate my grandfather is. Not only to have been on the receiving end of this mans kindness but to be alive in the time in which he was. He was alive at a time when, when a strange man approached you on the streets of Delhi you don’t go running the other way. Today if a strange man approached me on the streets of Delhi I would run in the other direction, screaming for help. Such is the darkness of the city, or such is the reputation. An amalgamation of things that can be beautiful and things that can be evil. I tune back into the story.

“As soon as light touched the streets, I used the municipality tap to wash my face and clean up before thanking my mezbaan and heading on my way. Aside from my Khaala, my chachazaad behen, Ferozi Baaji, also lived in Dilli, but I had no idea at all as to where she lived. So I wandered around Sadar asking for directions and information. Mein mukhtalif sadakon par chalta raha. Even today I wonder at how it happened, that one moment I was walking through the streets of Dehli, the vast city, so enormous that every corner is daunting to a young boy and the next I found myself in a small little gali with a sign board for a small motel, reading Zeenat Brothers. This, was where my family worked. This, I have always called, was mafaaqul fitrat. An unknown power leading me to my destination. To my family, perhaps not the members I intended, but family nonetheless.

Ferozi Baaji was quite a bit older than me. She was delighted to see me. She fed me a Kings breakfast, showering me with her affection. But still I couldn’t tell her that I had run away from home. My intention once I had found a berth was to go out into the city once again and find myself a job. Only then would I tell them and only then would I write to my family in Saharanpur informing them of my whereabouts.  I planned on telling them that since they had outed me every day, I had gone far out, out of Saharanpur and I would not come back.

So with that intention in mind I hopped onto the tram from Sadar and went to Chandni Chowk. It is like a great maze Chandni Chowk. So many people, so many places. A complete mela, jaise har din vahaan numaaish lagti ho. Wandering from corner to corner I saw so many parts of the city. I even read namaaz at Jama Masjid. But by evening fall, I was back at Zeenat Brothers. It just so happened that night while I sat at Ferozi Baaji’s table, we had a visitor chance upon us. It was my Mamoo, my mothers brother, and I was deathly afraid of him Meri rooh fanaa hogai unko dekhte hi. He was very close to my family. All of my family in Saharanpur was looking for me. I was the youngest, so everyone in my family had been dispatched. My mamoo had decided to come to Dehli. He got off the train and had headed straight here, to Zeenat Brothers. On our journey back he would tell me that had I not been there his next stop would have been at Khaalu’s hotel.

The order came as soon as he saw me. “It is time to go home.” He said in a stern baritone. In front of his tall hulking frame I didn’t have the slightest courage to protest. In the zanaan-khaana where the women of Zeenat Brothers sat, everyone was discussing this new qissa, how Ather had run away from home. Shame colored my cheeks as I picked up my basta and joined my Mamoo.

I do not remember the journey back to Saharanpur. It was taken with me huddled next to my Mamoo. All I remember is the next morning, I followed him on trembling legs till I stood outside my house in Saharanpur once again. My eldest sister who loved me most, had spent the entire night crying. She would often come to my rescue.”

Here he leans in, almost conspiratorily. I find myself leaning in as well, as though he is about to share a secret. Hum pitt-te bahut the. He confides in me. (I was beaten a lot). Shareef the na, isliye. He and I break out into laughter as we relate to this together. Now the eldest in my family he was once the youngest in his, as I now am. He gives my hand an affectionate squeeze before reclineing back in his chair and recollecting the threads of the story so he might end it.

So she was crying, and I snuck into the house too scared to go in front of my father. So I only revealed myself to the family only when my father left for office. But as the evening approached I was once again wracked with fear and I hid. Days passed in this kashmakash. Eventually I realized he is not talking to me at all. So I began trying, trying to get him to talk to me. Every day before he came back from work I would do little things for him. Hookah taaza karte the, chappal palang se neeche le aate the. He gave in eventually with the cajoling from my eldest sister.

He hugged me to his chest and apologised for asking me to leave the house. I never wanted to tell him how proud he should be in his sons khudaari, in his sons self respect that I had the courage to try and make it on my own. But if there was one thing that came of this entire episode it was this. He never again asked me to leave his house, and he never again beat me. Not even when I did badly in mathematics.”

There is a twinkle in his eye as he leans back as though remembering those days. You can’t describe that twinkle in words, the gleam and glow that comes with remembering stories. I let the autumn wind wash over us as he remembers. I let him immerse himself in the story he has just told me, another story, from Aligarh.

Leelanoor

Posted on by The Zoya Project

In 2016 I had the pleasure of watching the most beautiful bharatnatyam performance choreographed and conceptualized by my guru Jyotsna Shourie. This story was inspired by her show which explored the rise and fall of the Devadasi tradition. This story is dedicated to her… 

 

 

***

 

There’s a river in the south where the water roils against the silty banks of Thanjavur and the smooth pebbles at the bottom are sun-dappled and stained with color. They call this river the Venaaru river because of the color of the water. It is not stained the blue of a royal peacock’s wing, nor the mucky green of the Kaveri. No, the water here is so clear the people who cross it, call it white. The waves are tipped with ivory foam, the lull and swish of froth at the banks is pristine, and the large expanse of river itself is crystal clear. So clear that one can see all the way to the glowing, milky sand at the bottom where bright orange fish frolic. It is on the banks of this river that lies the temple in which Leelanoor once danced.

The temple has been empty for over two centuries. The marble walls once inlaid with jewels have been ransacked by robbers, the large brass bell at the entrance has rusted in place and the insides are covered in a layer of dust so thick that even the summer storms will not dislodge the fine particles from where they have taken root. More often than not this side of the Venaaru is cloaked in heavy silence, the only rare sight is the boatmen who come sailing down the rolling waves to sell their wares in the great cities beyond.

It is Badri who tells me the story. He sails down the Venaaru in a boat made entirely of wood, with a sail made of his mother’s old sari. The Kanjivaram glows gold and rose against the early morning sky, where one of those rare summer storms is brewing. His clay pots built with such precision and etched with the loveliest carvings of shadowy figures contorted in ancient poses, dancing across the expanse of glazed mud that forms the rotund matkas and vessels, tremble slightly in the wind.

‘This wind would rouse a story from my father.’ Badri tells me. ‘He too was named Badri as all of the sons in our family have been named. Potters all of them. He would tell me the story of our mutataiyar, our ancestor, Badri, and the devadasi Leelanoor. They say that when the summer roars and rips through the clouds in a flurry of passion the wind that touches the Venaaru would remember her name and sing it.’

Leelanoor. The breeze cries, like a lover who has sinned. Lamenting and wailing, and in tandem, the Venaaru dances to its tune.

Leelanoor. Leelanoor. Leelanoor.

***

She was born to a summer storm. On the eve of it her mother convulsed, and it was in the throes of labor when the wind hammered at the simple mud walls of the hut, that she was born, sliding out into the waiting arms of her father. He kissed her blood-smeared forehead, anointing his lips with the thick of it and when her skin had been cleaned, he saw the mark that was hidden in the crease of her skin. A scar that sat shaped like a star in between both her brows. He believed it to be a blessing, from the Great Nataraja himself, the destroyer, divine lord of dance, who also had a third eye in the center of his forehead.

‘Leelanoor.’ He whispered to the child, and his voice carried, into the arms of the storm and sailed away on the wind.

‘This is not the name one gives to a mere blacksmith’s daughter.’ Her mother chided. “That is a name that belongs to a princess.”

But she was to be greater than a mere princess, her father decided. She was to become the wife of a God. Word spread quickly in the village. A devadasi had been born in the confines of their humble home. She would be wed to the God of the great temple across the Venaaru. She was to be the wife of the Great Nataraja, to stand as his partner, his third eye imbued in her forehead. A grand puja was held in honor of her birth, so great were the flames of it that the smoke clouded the sky for a month after. And with it her name was whispered in quiet reverence, straddled on the tongue of the villagers like a prayer along with the rumors. They claimed the blacksmith had plucked her from the cleft of soil between the roots of the jasmine trees. They claimed that a baby so beautiful had been conceived because her mother had drunk only honey during her pregnancy, till her blood ran sweet infusing the fetus with it, a single taste of her flesh would be live overripe fruit. That the devadasis across the way had carved her form in fresh beeswax, still soft to the touch, and snuck it onto the pyre in prayer at the moment she was conceived.

Time seemed to ebb like the tide of the river. Fleeting and ephemeral. And with it, Leelanoor grew. She was flawless save for that divine scar between her eyes. Eyes like the deer that roamed the lush forests, skin smooth like fresh cream, slender as the reeds that grew wild across the fertile land on which her ancestors farmed. Her mother would rub her skin with dried turmeric until her skin shone like gold and as the moon rose iridescent alongside the twinkling stars, they would cover her in rich soil until she was but another dark figment of the night.

Nourished on a fine diet of lullabies and legend, she grew to know only one thing. The temple that would soon become her home and the Gods for whom she would dance. Covered in the rich dark mud, carried home from the banks of the Venaaru by her father every day, Leelanoor would hide in the pantry and gorge herself on makhan, fancying herself the blue-skinned cow-heard who loved butter. When daylight struck the stone floors of the kitchen, her mother would see the empty pot of butter lying discarded, stained with muddy fingerprints and dainty vermilion footprints. She would sit cross-legged at the banks of the Venaaru for hours her body sinking into the silt, pretending to play the holy Parvati praying for a child until her father carried her home. She would jump from tree to tree, imagining herself slaying great demons as the Goddess Kali, her long hair floating to her waist, in a silky ebony curtain smelling of the fragrant champa and the sweet jasmine.

Soon she was sailed across the Venaaru, holding onto her father’s hand, the summer wind scented with the ripe wild mangoes. Her long hair was braided with the same flowers she had once made merry in, her body dripping in gold, draped in the crimson kanjeevaram sari saved for brides. They covered her in sandalwood paste and bathed her with rosewater until she smelt like a newly blossoming flower. And when they approached the great temple with gold spires raised to the sky like

birds in prayer, everything seemed to sing her name. The songbirds nesting on the trees, the rustling weeds growing deep in the fertile soil of the riverbank and even the water of the Vennaru whispered it with every lull and thrum of the waves. Leelanoor, they sing in welcome. Leelanoor. Leelanoor. Leelanoor.

The lanterns were lit and in the middle of the great marble temple a fire burnt hot and bright, and seated next to it was a statue of the Great Nataraja along with the priest. It was a great ebony statue, the God glowered down at the agni, his features carved with stark and harsh beauty. He had a single leg raised in effortless poise, the carved bells tied around his ankle so lifelike, Leelanoor was sure she could hear them tinkling alongside the chanting of the priest. His hands were raised in the traditional pose of the Nataraja, an arm crossed over, drooping in grace, the other held rigidly upright above, palm facing out ready to bless all who knelt at its feet. When she looked upon it, for a single moment Leelanoor was afraid. There would be no more stealing of butter, no more running amok through the champa trees. She was the wife of a God now, she was devoted to this temple, she was to learn to be a devadasi.

As she took her place near the Nataraja, the priest poured more fragrant oil into the pyre and there was a faint sizzle as it burnt. As he chanted out rituals, the other devadasis peeked out to see the new sister wife they had acquired. Some turned green with envy, others doted on the young child, while others lauded her as beautiful as the Goddesses above. The blacksmith waited for the ceremony to end as the vermillion powder was scraped through the part of her midnight hair and the gold mangalsutra tied around her neck, a single ruby in the middle of the black beads. The marriage was finalized with a collective ‘Swaha’ from the group and the deed was done.

That night, as Leelanoor watched her father sail away from the temple to the other side of the Venaaru, pearl like tears trickling down her face, she was enveloped in the arms of the oldest Devadasi at the temple, who everyone simply called Akka. ‘The devadasi is the eternal form of divine mortality.’ She told the trembling child. ‘You must curb your five senses and feel only the divinity that has been bestowed upon you. Food is but ash in your mouth, the perfumes of the world but common breeze, the only sound you can hear will be the clang of the nattavangam that will take you to the same plane as your beloved. Everything but the sight of you God is naught but to be borne, and your touch is to be saved only for the divine lord and your sisters. It is the greatest form of Bhakti.’

But though Leelanoor nodded, her mind had already wandered, redolent as she remembered the pots of golden butter that bore the imprint of her mother’s palms, the sound of her father’s laughter as he swung her home from the river, the feel of the jasmine scented summer winds that flew home alongside her like wings at her feet. She had been raised with the Gods and still her heart pulled in the direction of the river across which lay her village. To curb all five senses would be like forgetting them, the walls in which she has grown. And so often Akka found her curled around a pot of makhan in the mornings, gold oily splatters on her cheeks and fingers. When the time to dance came she found her swimming in the roiling Venaaru, her curls sodden and sandy. It took much to curb her, much to turn her into the revered Devadasi she was meant to be.

Here Badri stops, so engrossed am I in his story I hardly notice where we were rowing until the boat stills against the banks with a lurch and creak. He grabs a pot, it has been burnished in great flames from the tell tale red color of it. He points to the thin delicate carvings on it and I see then the figure of a young girl first, her hand dipped into a vessel the other enveloped in the confines of a bee-stung mouth. He keeps turning the matka so I might examine the carvings, so tiny and yet so detailed it is but a work of art. She grows with every frame, playing in the river, her hair is braided, and she is adorned with jewels, she stands in the pose of the Nataraja, incorrect at first but then her stance becomes more assured and soon we reach the end where we see only her back. Her sari pulled taut against her slender frame, jasmine flowers encircle her hair, she holds a thaal with a single deeya and her hand is raised so she might ring the big brass bell that hangs at the temple entrance. When we alight the boat I am greeted by the haunting sight of the empty temple.

“Come.” Badri beckons, filling the same pot with water from the Venaaru.

***

‘It was no easy task to tame Leelanoor. Disobedience to the tradition ran in her veins, but as she grew older, the lilting music of old became a siren song. The lullabies her mother sang to her were now melodies to which she might dance. She could practice the worship of the Gods in this great cosmic release sowed with the force of her footfalls as she danced. Often while she was taught, she would forget the great ebony statue of the Nataraja watching her and simply be one with the music. Thus, as time passed, slowly this time, Leelanoor grew into the greatest devadasi the villagers heard of. They had not seen her since she left ten years past, they had not witnessed her dance when they visited the temple to worship, but they heard her name whispered between the temple walls, at first in frustration then in pride and reverence. And soon the winds who remembered her name once whispered to them in the midst of a storm, caught hold of it and cradled it close carrying it far and wide across the south.’ Badri says as we wend through overgrown weeds and mushy soil to reach the temple in the distance.

Leelanoor. The winds croon in time with her dancing footsteps. Leelanoor. Leelanoor. Leelanoor.

***

The morning she was revealed to temple goers the sun was a sliver of rose in the cloud-ridden sky. She stood at the door of the temple, her sari the same blue as the skin of the Maakhanchor and waited for the throng of people who came to worship at the aarti. Akka had told her to stand there, toe crossed daintily across her body, hip jutting out the thaal balanced carefully on one hand so she might lead the reverent to prayer when the time came. But no one knew Leelanoor waited, hoping to catch a long-desired glimpse of her mother and father. While the crowd gathered, she waited and waited until the priest signaled for the aarti to begin. They say that when she broke from the shadows, her disappointment well hidden, her hips lilting, waiting to lead the crowd into the temple, it was then that Badri saw her. She struck the great brass bell with a single hand above her head, the thaal held precariously at her side on a single upturned palm. Over and over the bell rang, loud sonorous clangs to awaken the deities within. And when her hand touched the brass, with such precision and such grace, the clouds cleared and she was sheathed in the rays of the glowing gold sun. And Badri, his chest bare and wiry, his arms strong with carving and creating great round pots, saw just the movement of her wrist and found himself smitten. He could only imagine the girl cloaked in shadows, the graceful bones of her hand, beating the great bell, were caught in his mind, and soon enough the pots he carved were nothing but hands and shadows. They collected flowers, intertwined fingers, played the melodious veena on his vessels, and much were they lauded for the brilliant artistry, but only Badri and his father before him saw it. That they were the same hands, committed to memory in a single moment that had turned infinite, carved over and over again on waxy, wet mud.

But Badri was not satiated, he longed to see more than a hand. Caged in a penitentiary of desires, he began to dream. He dreamt of the strands of hair, thicker than the feathers of a ravens wings and still delicate enough to be wound around one’s wrist in a caress. He dreamt of the pale red indentations on the back where the sari’s pallu tied tightly would chafe against soft skin. He dreamt of the column of necks, the fragrance of summer roses, thick, fat and drooping with the weight of perfume, the curve of the waist, the dark drowning in the eyes, the swell of the hips and the smile stretched across the lips. He dreamt himself into madness, his hands that carved so meticulously itched and trembled with the desire to carve more than just random patterns and meaningless nothings.

Bred on the devadasi tradition, his mind unable to find comfort even in the recesses of his dreams, where a hand would reach to stroke his cheek and wipe sweat from his brow, he decided to create Leelanoor for himself. He rolled out of his bed on a midsummer night, slung his tools across his back and rowed the great wooden boat across the Venaaru so that he might collect soft silty clay from the banks of the river. Some distance away from the temple he began to mould the wet clay. He kneaded it tirelessly until no air bubbles could cause holes in the surface of the finished product, so fierce were his movements that sweat dripped from his muscular body despite the cooling gaze of the stars above. It took hours, and when the sun began its ascent into the sky, Badri had created the appendage that had haunted him, the single curve of the hand raised to ring the temple bell. Covered in the wet clay, he fell asleep next to the small mound of mud that was to become the rest of Leelanoor.

Leelanoor had begun to perform at the temple. Her life was dedicated to dancing, her tongue had long since forgotten the soft slide of butter and she rarely ventured out of the walls of her temples. Her feet and hands were permanently stained red from the constant application of aalta and she had forgotten what it meant to move in silence for the constant tinkling of bells at her feet. The days began to blur together, it began with the aarti and then the dancing began. The steadfast alaripu taking place in three beats. Tak e Ta. Tak e Ta. Tak e Ta. The swarajathi in seven. Tak e Ta Tak a Dhi Mi. Tak e Ta Tak a Dhi Mi. Tak e Ta Tak a Dhi Mi. And then Leelanoor had some semblance of freedom. On days when she felt bored, she played the great Devi Ma who borrowed the trident from Nataraja to vanquish demons. Some days she played the ever-gentle, ever-generous Annapurna. But most often than not her role was to play Parvati, divine consort to the Nataraja, for she was the equivalent upon the mortal lands. Years had passed but Leelanoor had just begun to be immersed in the devadasi tradition. She saw nothing but the four walls of the temple in which the divine was housed, she tasted the bare food with little interest, heard only the constant clang of the nattavangam as she dance, smelt only the pungent incense left at the feet of the Nataraja each morning and remained celibate, having never touched another in the ten years since Akka inducted her.

But even within the safe arms of the temple, her mind would remember the home she had once known across the Venaaru, whose residents still flocked the temple, but whose faces, so blurred in the crevices of memory, so deeply hidden, she no longer recalled. Often, she wondered if she would recognize the lost smile of her mother, the one she thought might look like the crescent moon, or the wrinkled brown skin of her father. Her frustration at the loss of these memories grew with each passing day, gnawing at her skin, like an itch she couldn’t scratch driving her mad. So, on the night where no moon shone in the sky and the iridescence of the stars were dimmed, Leelanoor stepped from the threshold of the temple, her sari the same bright pink and gold she had once worn as a child.

It seemed like eons since she had taken a breath free from the pungent incense that was lit at the temple. She could smell the soft, wet mud that squelched under her toes and the fresh jasmine that was just beginning to blossom. She could hear the gentle lull of the Venaaru and for a single fleeting second, she forgot that she was the revered devadasi of the Temple by the way. For that one second she was just Leelanoor. The Leelanoor, the ferns sang for, the Leelanoor that the summer storms remember with every heave and puff of air. It was in that moment, walking as she was by the Venaaru, that she found Badri.

His eyes were closed, and he squatted down between the reeds facing away from her. She didn’t even see him to begin with. She saw first, the large statues that formed a half circle around him. From the distance they seemed like great hulking pillars of mud the size of a great man. But as she neared him, Leelanoor noticed the carvings, and the delicate moulding of the clay. They were women.

She began to run, nearing the statue and it was the sound of the mud beneath her powerful footsteps that awakened Badri from his dreamworld, one where he saw more apparitions of the woman who he carved over and over. The first statue was simple, a devadasi ringing the temple bell. Leelanoor skimmed her palms across the cool expanse of mud, that had hardened under the rays of the sweltering sun. Her eyes latched onto the next, a woman her knee placed on the silty banks below, her hands thrown out and towards the sky, her eyes lifted with helpless wonder. Every pleat of the sari had been cut into the mud with careful precision, the soft down on the woman’s arms, the bangles that rested on the delicate bones of the wrist. But it was when Leelanoor’s gaze drifted to the sculpture’s face that her breath snagged in her chest. The features so similar to her own, her fingers reached out to touch the still-drying claying.

But Badri had arisen from his squat on the floor. He stopped her with a strangled cry unable to see the smudge of her fingerprints on the sculpture. Even if it was fingerprints from the same hand that had filled his dreams. And when she turned to see him Badri saw the sea of fast-fading stars, shaken out into the eyes of the woman in front of him. He almost fell to his knees at the sight of her. And even before she could tell him, the storm, enamored by the lovers swirled around him, whispering her name.

Leelanoor. Leelanoor. Leelanoor, the storm crooned in Badri’s ear as he begins to explain himself to the woman in front of him.

It began with a touch of their hands. As she saw the sculptor, Leelanoor laughed like the young girl she truly remained at heart. ‘You’ve created us devadasis?’ she asked him. Badri was incapable of words as she mimicked his sculptures. She pretended to ring the temple bell, looked up at the skies in wonder, lifter her leg in the traditional pose of the Nataraja. Unused to the uneven floor outside the temple, Leelanoor stumbled. Badri reached out to right her and their fingers clasped together.

In a single moment, their lives were altered. Leelanoor who had never been touched by another human in her years since she entered the temple, found herself marveling at the feel of Badri’s hand in her own. His hand was so strong yet gentle, the skin calloused and rough compared to her own soft pelt, the feel of wet clay drying in patches made his skin rough to touch. And Badri could not fathom the hand that had near driven him to madness in his own. And so, they stared as their fingers entwined, enamored and enthralled.

What is touch but a revelation? That overtly visible space where our secrets sink into the lines of our skin. What is touch but that seductive slide of flesh against flesh, where skin meets its own likeness in another person? And yet it is different. Leelanoor’s skin was like soft cream, her fingers sliding against Badri’s the way butter used to stick slick against her little fingers as she indulged in the golden treat. And Badri’s fingers? So rough and callused from constantly working with the clay and the sharp tools used to shape it, discolored from time spent in the sun. What a revelation it was to be touched. Leelanoor wondered what stories Badri’s hands had created. She imagined the slender waist of the milkmaids as they flirted with the blue-skinned God, she imagined the carved flames of holy fire on pots and pans, like the ones from which divine apsaras appeared to give boons, she imagined demons and angels and dancers coming to life between the fingers of Badri, where clay still dried. Would he ink their story on a vase, our would he carve it on the dried clay that stuck to his body, Leelanoor wondered. And wonder was a very dangerous thing for girls who are ordained for one sort of life. One day. Over and over and over.

It began then, the winds were roused from their slumber. Each morning from when the stars still twinkled in the insipid sky and until the sun rose painting the great expanse the color of saffron tea and crushed rose petals mixed in milk, Leelanoor snuck out from the safety of the temple and rushed to the same spot where she first met Badri. There they would sit under the shade of his large sculptures sucking on sweet honeysuckle blossoms and drinking cool fresh water from the Venaaru itself. At first, with the gentle summer breeze mussing her oiled hair, Leelanoor would pose for him and Badri would sculpt. She would pretend to the raasleela of the Gopi’s of Vrindavan, played the giant bird who tried to rescue Sita as she was abducted, she would curl her moustache like the devious Shakuni as he gambled the Pandava King into unaffordable debt.

But soon sculpting turned into clandestine whispers and whispers blossomed into conversation, until every night, Leelanoor snuck out to lie on the silty banks of the Venaaru with Badri. They talked and talked and talked until their voices were hoarse and even the nectar of the honeysuckle couldn’t soothe it. And while Badri had known it for quite some time, the summer winds that rushed her to and from the temple had begun to whisper sweet nothings to Leelanoor. And she feared that the love she was supposed to feel, for the God she had been married to, was naught but frightful deception. For if this feeling, this contentment, this pleasure, this happiness was not love, then she decided she didn’t want it at all.

And as she fell into the thick of it, her dancing changed. It went from the simple telling of stories to living them. And while the temple goers were in awe at this divine display of passion from the most beloved devadasi. Across the way the villagers held their head in pride at the sound of her name. They would croon of how they saw her as a child, playing in the trees, when people asked if they had seen Leelanoor dance in the temple. And while everyone saw her as the divine mortal consort of the Nataraja, the other devadasi’s suspected that something had changed.

***

Badri and I had walked some way from the river, the temple still silent and dark a few meters behind us. And hidden by the tall reeds which were flocked by tiny fruit flies that buzzed around our heads, were the most exquisite statues I had seen. Baked in the sun they were the red of sandstone, and so lifelike that I had almost been scared that they were real. The same woman carved over and over again, a grove of them in different statues. The same ones Badri mentioned in his story. At first, they lacked some detail but as we proceeded through the grove of statues, I saw Leelanoor as Badri had described her. With the mogra around her hair and her scar in between her brows.

Badri stopped in front of the oldest statue once we had seen all of them. He lifted the pot on which he had carved the growth of Leelanoor and poured a steady stream of water from the Venaaru atop the statue. My breath caught as I imagined her coming to life in front of me, the devadasi who even the summer storms were enamored with. But Badri only laughed me off, he picked up his pot and rubbed the wet mud at the feet of the statue onto his fingers before anointing his forehead. “Come.” He beckons. “I must finish this tale and get to the market to sell the pots, before the storm hits.”

So, we continued on, the winds growing louder, swirling the reeds around us and slapping the water of the Venaaru against the banks noisily. Leelanoor the waves wail. Leelanoor. Leelanoor. Leelanoor.

***

The story doesn’t have a very happy end. For as the suspicions in the temple rose so did sordid deeds. Akka woke one night, when the stars still gleamed, in the sky, like the diamonds they wore on their long necks while they danced. She rose and as the winds whistled to hide the tinkling bells of Leelanoor’s anklets Akka’s doubts grew. She waited in the shadows until she saw Leelanoor leave and her misgivings turned to sorrow at this betrayal. For while she believed Leelanoor to be an infidel, it was the betrayal to her sisters that pinched more. It stung, that Leelanoor would do this to them. The disgrace to the temple if she were ever found, would be catastrophic. And when she saw Leelanoor sink into the silt beside Badri, her braid coated in mud, when she saw them laugh and whisper and watched her pose so he might sculpt her, she was filled with thee deepest sorrow for what was to follow. She didn’t sneak and she didn’t hide. When she found them, she was illuminated by the light of the moon and stars as they watched their favorite lovers be forsaken.

It was Akka’s silence that scared Leelanoor. She stammered and stumbled trying to explain and still Akka remained quiet. She couldn’t fathom the sight. Her beloved sister, her Leelanoor, who she had raised in her arms, who she had taught to dance – sitting with a man. A mere sculptor, when she had been gifted to the divine, a Lord of the heavens. But still Leelanoor did not look ashamed. She did not look guilty. She only looked fearful at having been caught. Her head was held high as tears filled in her eye, the salt of them spilling onto her skin. For the first time in days the summer winds went silent, wanting to hear what happened next.

Akka’s voice shook as she disowned the girl. Her fingers trembled, aching to shake her, but she couldn’t fathom her blessed fingers touching Leelanoor. She who had soiled her very mortal divinity by even indulging the sculptor.

Badri handed me his palm to help me alight his wooden boat. The silk sail rustled noisily as the winds grew noisier. I couldn’t help but ask him to continue. Enthralled.

‘Did they abandon the temple because of her deeds?’

But Badri simply shook his head.

“When she left them, no one knew she had gone. She disappeared in the silence of the night, her footsteps etched on Badri’s grove of wet clay. The sculptor followed her silently. Only the summer winds that stalked her must know what happened to them. Whether they married, whether they had children, whether we are the descendants of that union from hundreds of years ago, no one knows.”

I stare at him my mouth agape. “That can’t possibly be the end.” I say. “If you don’t know what happened how have your ancestors passed down the story?” I ask as he begins rowing, standing at the prow of the boat.

But Badri looks nonplussed. “I know that they were in love. And I know that in the absence of Leelanoor no one found joy in the temple and its performances. They flocked to new temples in search of where she might have gone dancing. And the temple across the Venaaru became dark and obsolete until even the remaining devadasi’s found new homes. My father used to say that Badri never experienced a marriage with Leelanoor but he lived on the perfume of their love. The fragrance of her, the sound of her laughter, the twinkle in her eyes, the way she moved. He carved his life through her movements and through her body until she ceased to exist. It was like one part of his life ended when she did. And so he kept her alive in his grove of sculptures and in his stories.”

“You’re talking in riddles.” I tell him.
“What are stories but riddles?” he says, righting the pink silk kanjeevaram.
“How did your father hear the story then.”
“From his father before him.”
I scoff. “How did your ancestors hear it?” I ask as a slight drizzle breaks out.
Badri grins. “A summer storm whispered it in their ear when they slid from the womb.” And as he smiles and rows through the storm across the roiling, frothy white waves of the water, sailing through Thanjavur, I hear it. In the pitter-patter of droplets and in the howl of the wind I hear it.

Leelanoor. The storm whispers to me. Leelanoor. Leelanoor. Leelanoor.

Three Kisses One Midnight – A Review

Posted on by The Zoya Project

What a sweet read this was! Honestly, at this point, anything Roshani Chokshi writes is like a drug to me. She could be writing her grocery list and I would pick it up.

Three Kisses One Midnight penned by Roshani Chokshi, Sandhya Menon and Evelyn Skye is a lovely little read about three friends in high school looking for romance and a little bit of magic in everyday life. While written by the authors in tandem, each of the three characters had a separate story. So the book actually read more like three different novellas than one story written continuously, which actually worked well for the book.

Perfect for autumn this book incorporates a well-indulged love for Halloween. Not the horror of it but the magic of it, which I thought was a lovely way to write about the holiday, a different take on it. The book sets up magic and mystique in the very first section with the brewing of the love potion. There isn’t an overdone explanation for how the potion will work, it’s a simple take on the magic which was really lovely. Any overdone explanations would have killed the story, becoming over the top and unrealistic. Simple and sweet.

I loved how different all three of the characters (Onny, Ash and True) were and how strong the friendship they shared was. It’s a testament to the skill of all three authors that they were able to conjure up protagonists who were so different and yet managed to gel together beautifully. The love interests were compelling and the town of Moonridge reminded me a bit of Stars Hollow from Gilmore Girls which I happen to love.

Out of all three stories, Onny’s was my favorite. It incorporated my favorite trope of romance and I loved both Onny and Byron. I was rooting for them from the first page and I was squealing into my cup of hot chocolate by the end of it. Onny was in a word – luminescent, as a character. And Byron matched her just perfectly.

Perfect for spooky season, this book is wholesome with a sprinkling of romance and magic. Curl up with a cup of cocoa and a throw and you’ll be set for the night!

Together We Burn – A Review

Posted on by The Zoya Project

Isabel Ibañez has become one of my instant-buy authors. One of the things I love about her books is how much of her own culture and history she manages to infuse them her stories. She does the same with Together We Burn, bringing to the forefront, in a fantasy book filled with dragons and romance, her love for flamenco dancing. I actually read this right before traveling to Spain and getting to watch flamenco after reading the way Isabel has written it allowed me to really envision the book coming alive around me.

Centered around young Zarela who must take on the responsibility of her family’s dragon fighting business and Arturo a dragon-fighter who believes in treating the beasts humanely, this is a romance book filled with magic, mystery and some brilliant dancing.

The characters were brilliantly developed, well-fleshed out, and relatable. I especially liked Arturo. I’ve always felt that bull-fighting was a barbaric practice and the art of dragon fighting is very much similar so I really respected his character. And the fact that he and Zarela shared that conflict and were able to get past it really added to the depth of their romance.

While the outcomes and the slight plot twists were foreseeable this book is beautiful because of the way it is written. The world-building is lush and I truly felt I was immersed in a world very similar to Andalusia. The cobbled streets of Cordoba, the gilted cathedrals, the large stone structures. All of it was so medieval and it really allowed me to become one with the story.

I loved everything about this book. From the writing to the characters to the story. Five glowing stars.

Ya Amar

Posted on by The Zoya Project

If there is one language common to the world, it is the language of affection. Attractions swells, sex sells, motherhood tears the body apart, nostalgia seeps into the soul, heartbreak reverberates in the thrum of our blood as humans continue to love and lose. I’ve been trying to encapsulate those affections that different languages across the world express, through a myriad of stunning words. Sensations of love, lust and loss are fleeting through the course of our lives and yet forever, as we grow into the people we are meant to be. Eternal. So here it is – a series of poetry that captures affection in every syllable and word.

Dictionary of Affections is The Zoya Project language, common to the world…

 

YA AMAR

my moon, my most beautiful’

Neruda once,
Told the woman he loved
That the moon
Lived in the lining of her skin,
And I find myself wondering
Whether anyone will ever look at me that way.

ya amar –
Look at me
Like every atom in my body
Glows,
And notice all my scars
And bruises
Like the craters
I visit in my dreams,
Making angels in moon dust
Drinking camomile and honey tea
Gazing upon the stars and comets
That shattered into dreams
And pointed at my heart,
And whispered to each other
About how it was the place they went to die.

ya amar
Look into the crevices of my heart
Where dying stars sit
Like twinkling fairy lights and deeyas
On Diwali night
Waiting to be lit
And set on fire once more
By your eyes
And your voice whispering
Softly

ya amar.

Saudade

Posted on by The Zoya Project

If there is one language common to the world, it is the language of affection. Attractions swells, sex sells, motherhood tears the body apart, nostalgia seeps into the soul, heartbreak reverberates in the thrum of our blood as humans continue to love and lose. I’ve been trying to encapsulate those affections that different languages across the world express, through a myriad of stunning words. Sensations of love, lust and loss are fleeting through the course of our lives and yet forever, as we grow into the people we are meant to be. Eternal. So here it is – a series of poetry that captures affection in every syllable and word.

Dictionary of Affections is The Zoya Project language, common to the world…

SAUDADE

‘nostalgia, the love that remains’

I bottled the stars for a rainy day,
The ones that grew
Over, and within my mother’s house.
I sat on her lap
And let her braid them into my hair
Weaving songs and stories
Into the thick curly strands
With her nimble fingers.

She would sing
Of shepherds and angels
While she made steaming chai and coffee
For me to drink, while swinging
On the cloudy verandah
Inches away from the spray of wind
And rain drops.

They scoff at me when I tell them
That when it rains now
I hear her melody in
The soft pitter patter of the rain
The music box of my past
Wound up by the gentle breeze
That brushes against my face
In a soft kiss.

They ask me
How I can believe that I can bottle stars
Within a lantern
That my mother hung in my house with her hands
And as I set them on fire and let them glow
‘Don’t you know’ I ask
‘These are the stars
That twinkled in my Ammi’s eyes

Quainaat

Posted on by The Zoya Project

If there is one language common to the world, it is the language of affection. Attractions swells, sex sells, motherhood tears the body apart, nostalgia seeps into the soul, heartbreak reverberates in the thrum of our blood as humans continue to love and lose. I’ve been trying to encapsulate those affections that different languages across the world express, through a myriad of stunning words. Sensations of love, lust and loss are fleeting through the course of our lives and yet forever, as we grow into the people we are meant to be. Eternal. So here it is – a series of poetry that captures affection in every syllable and word.

Dictionary of Affections is The Zoya Project language, common to the world…

 

QUAINAAT

‘Universe’

The lines on your palm
Aligned with mine
As if a cartographer
Had scaled and drawn them
To write a love story
That wouldn’t fit on maps.
The ridges between your fingers
Made to size
To intertwine with mine.
I saw the stars in your eyes
The moon in your face
The sun in your smile
And in my mind
Painted the world on your body
And hoped
Ardently
To be folded within it.
My compass
Changed its ‘north’
To wherever you stood
And for the longest time I convinced myself,
It was attracted to the iron in your blood
Before I realised
I had charted your coordinates
In rough lines
Upon my heart
And carved promises
That formed a cygnus
Across my chest
खून से खींची हुई लकीरें
दिल के ऊपर तुम्हारी तस्वीर बना चुकी थी
जैसे सितारों का झुरमुट आसमान में चमकता है
तुम मेरी साँसों और दिल की धड़कनों में
बस चुकी थी
और उस ही जिस्म में
मेरी क़ायनात मिल चुकी थी

Opia

Posted on by The Zoya Project

If there is one language common to the world, it is the language of affection. Attractions swells, sex sells, motherhood tears the body apart, nostalgia seeps into the soul, heartbreak reverberates in the thrum of our blood as humans continue to love and lose. I’ve been trying to encapsulate those affections that different languages across the world express, through a myriad of stunning words. Sensations of love, lust and loss are fleeting through the course of our lives and yet forever, as we grow into the people we are meant to be. Eternal. So here it is – a series of poetry that captures affection in every syllable and word.

Dictionary of Affections is The Zoya Project language, common to the world…

 

OPIA

 

‘The intensity of looking someone in the eye which is both invasive and vulnerable’

I used to decorate my eyes
With the light
Of love
Hoping you would fall,
Deep into the depths
Of my soul
And curl into the crevices of a star.

I used to decorate my eyes
With the glow
Of stones and pebbles
Dappled by the sunlight
Immersed under the water
Of a fluid river
From the banks of which you can
Uproot sunflowers and violets
To adorn my hair.

I used to decorate my eyes
With the darkness
Of ink
From the thousands of letters
You carve into my skin
With every kiss you press to my temple
And every sweet nothing
You graze against my ear.

I used to decorate my eyes
With the dreams
I had for myself
And for you
Until you plucked them
From my eyelashes
And set them free
So our wishes
Could fly upon gilded clouds
And the wing of a kaleidoscopic butterfly
Until they come true.

Magoa

Posted on by The Zoya Project

If there is one language common to the world, it is the language of affection. Attractions swells, sex sells, motherhood tears the body apart, nostalgia seeps into the soul, heartbreak reverberates in the thrum of our blood as humans continue to love and lose. I’ve been trying to encapsulate those affections that different languages across the world express, through a myriad of stunning words. Sensations of love, lust and loss are fleeting through the course of our lives and yet forever, as we grow into the people we are meant to be. Eternal. So here it is – a series of poetry that captures affection in every syllable and word.

Dictionary of Affections is The Zoya Project language, common to the world…

 

MAGOA

‘a heartbreaking feeling that leaves long lasting visible traces in gestures and facial expressions’

I always wished,
For those things that
I didn’t know, couldn’t exist
That sat in the darkest crevices of my soul
Being etched under the surface of my skin
With my blood.
I would paint pictures
With my wishes,
Dreams,
Desires
That were, but a disillusionment
Existing in my eyelids
Which when broken
Watered the cracks between the keys
Of my typewriter,
From which blossomed
Wildflowers
Undulating pinks, purples and ivories
That mirrored
My puffy eyes
Which bloomed with salty tears
That burned
The cuts and scratches on my heart.
And words which were meant to be stories,
Turned into this,
Poetry
Flowering in my eyes
Watered by my tears
And lit by the smile that stretches across my lips still
In a lyrical despair
That writers will find
Beautiful.