Banira Giri

A black hole in space,
an oasis drained of itself,
a corpse tossed beneath a bridge
on the outskirts of town?
Hey, listen—a face—
I found myself in you
I embrace you and falling at your feet
ask—you must tell me
what am I?
Am I merely
a night exhausted by lightning bolts?
A thorny bush of berries?
Am I the avenging curse of Sati
or the blade of Bhimsen Thapa's suicide?
A black hole in space,
an oasis drained of itself,
a corpse tossed beneath Tukuche bridge?
or the Kot massacre entire
dazed in itself?
Tell me, what am I?
What am I?
Only an instance of helplessness
turned toward myself
or a series
each in its own right arising and ceasing
going and coming?
...

Your full force was first raised against me

Let these spear-tipped streams
flow . . . my gullied eyes greening your fields
Let this crop of pain ripen,
this harvest from wounds

You and I? Let's
enjoin ourselves in friendship
Always!
How engaging!

At dusk where the road forks
I ran into you. Before I knew what was happening,
you raped me. Then and there, witness of this cruel intimacy,
drops of virgin blood spread on the gravel of the crossroads
like an unclaimed corpse

At each moment
every day
be it morning or night
every minute
coming & going time & again
those stains return to me
my memory of you

Violation!

From the outset
your every thrust
blazed as fire,
tore through the skin as thorns do,
pierced as a blade,
appeared as the night of the dark moon 
But these days
your every stroke,
a mere touch,
and as for my self
I've become
the oven that contains the flame,
the bush that raises up thorns,
the sheath that holds the blade,
fangs for the cobra's deadly poison,
darkness of the night that swallows the moon

Like a tigress tamed in the circus,
a female snake soothed by the charmer's tune,
wound, so quickly was I transformed in you

Now you and I
have become nail & flesh,
miser and money,
footpath and footsole

Tread upon me with all your thieves & robbers
For this is certain: you'll tire, not me!

Let the variegated wishes for life germinating in me
be winnowed by your stormy gusts. Finish it! Destroy!
Wound! Maul and smother me
Lick me with your slathering flames
For I convert your force. I'm hardened to it

Where you store your weaponry of thrust and violation,
I burrow and hide, grazed from all sides by your firing guns
flameburst upon flameburst everywhere in every corner

But it is surely so, violator
Violation! tearing your ears, listen

Your armory will be emptied - I will not
your armory will be emptied - I will not
...

Like myriad streams and rivulets flowing into a nameless sea,
like masses of clouds sailing here and there in an infinite sky,
contained within each other animate/inanimate
like KrishnaLila in Brindaban, but, in this holy land of Pashupati,
there lies completely helpless, bereft and naked,
pitiful Bagmati. Our elders would say—sometimes at night,
she, for a wink of an eye, would stand still!
Perhaps in that fine atom-of-time
she would restrain herself in the embrace of Pashupati.
Now, stagnant within, Bagmati . . .
even as she conceals her own nakedness
she sinks from earth deep down into the underworld.
Having descended from heaven into this city of man,
how wretched she is having forgotten her yearning!
In her unconscious Bagmati is slowly becoming godless.
She is neither anxious to sip nor sprinkle holy water.
She remembers neither to pray, nor bow to the god.

Long ago, on the last day of the dark fortnight
sitting in seclusion of maidenhood,
bathing in her own light, the moon would be purified.
Today there is neither splashing nor moonlight,
only the scars of memory remain;
the rush of her waters, an encrusted scab.
In her share of the galaxy there is sand, only sand,
in her portion of the cosmos there is only the river Styx to cross.
Bagmati, her heart full of tears, carrying herself
through the dry banks of her chest,
about to perform the last rites on Aryaghat,
whispers the Pashugayatri mantra in the ears of men,
and she is shocked. "Ay ai! Men are men after all,
though they throw a flood of filth into the Bagmati,
though they make the Bagmati a River-Of-Sand
For men, who have their human rights,
who is she to have them listen to Pasugayatri?"
She herself feels ashamed, troubled, sobs.

In preparation to enter the underworld forever,
seen by no one, for the last time,
she stops for a moment during the still of night,
tries to wash the feet of Lord Pashupati, but cannot.
Bagmati, of only a thin line, only a name,
breathless, weak, waterless, Bagmati, disheartened
while trying to bid farewell to Pashupati
the whips of sand chase her
the whips of sand drive her out.
...

Far somewhere far, stunning Manasarovar
on the far side of a mountain range
beneath a gift of blue sky rippling splashing
it's said that "Sarovar" ever waiting
towards the road looks out
there are those who are drawn to her
enamored of her; others experience her
and there are those enchanted by her.
The old ones say—time before time, who knows when—once—
from the untold vastness of the Himalayas
a woman without compare
became enchanted with Sarovar's unrivaled beauty
and immersed herself, emerging
her gentle comely youth turned at once to gold and then
and there a gaggle of young men grabbed her, tore her to pieces
and shared her among themselves. Some go so
far as to say
that among them a handsome and youthful hunter
lovingly stole away with her heart
and in a moment and with gestures that would not be seen
pressed it against his own warm heart.
On full moon nights
in the dreamlike shimmerings of Sarovar
those two hearts transformed into white swans
murmuring their love talk.
They say—they are waiting for the wedding procession,
the wedding band, the ritual implements
for the ceremony, the hand-woven leaves for the wedding feast,
colored rice grains for the procession
and those leading the procession
and most of all, from the lake-born language, in that
diamond clear voice, for love.
...