Day Nineteen #NaPoWriMo 2023

Dear Readers,

I came to the prompt late in the day on account of something happy that I will share soon on the blog. 

The prompt on Day Nineteen of #Na/GloPoWriMo states:  For this challenge, start by reading Marlanda Dekine’s poem “My Grandma Told Stories or Cautionary Tales.” One common feature of childhood is the monsters. The ones under the bed or in the closet; the odd local monsters that other kids swear roam the creek at night, or that parents say wait to steal away naughty children that don’t go to bed on time. Now, cast your mind back to your own childhood and write a poem about something that scared you – or was used to scare you – and which still haunts you (if only a little bit) today.

When I sit down to write to a prompt, I let go. I start typing and let the prompt guide the flow of my words. Sometimes, the poem changes course and surprises me, like today. It took me to ancient India and brought me back to myself.

This must've happened in my mother's womb.

I don't recall a day, a time. Was it sunset or dawn when 

the most potent weapon 

used by our fore-fathers, fore-mothers and their

great-great-ancestors 

blended with amniotic fluids that kept me afloat

sank deep inside my yet-to-be-born-thoughts,

my identity.

The Curse. C.U.R.S.E.

"I curse you." many a sages uttered those three fateful words 

and demolished Kings, Kingdoms and Princes;

stories my grandparents unfolded on the kitchen floor

and warned us, don't make anyone cross. EVER!

The weight of five-thousand years of our heritage

bore down upon me. Then one day, the stories jumped 

from the floor to flicker on screens.

That's when matters became worse. Scary.

Nymphs turned to stone, handsome folk into horrendous

creatures with no voice and no form.

I was young, what did I know! It was all make belief. Made up.

Lessons learnt in wombs, Beji said, are carried till the tomb.

The cursed on screen wailed piteously, "O! you who watches our plight,

pay heed. Be obedient of the ways

of authority. Look at us. Be warned.

Surrender to the rules of civilized society."

Don't speak up or you'll be cursed.

Don't stand tall or you'll be crushed.

Don't be different, or you'll be shushed.

Don't question the status quo, especially the rich, the pious and the powerful.

Think within the box, live within the confines.

Stay within the lines we have borrowed from our great ancient civilization

to keep you tethered. 

Don't complain or frown. This is for your good, your safety, of course.

Walk the beaten path. Fear the curse.

Decades passed. Every time I failed a test, or when a loved one got cancer,

I blamed the curse. 

I must've hurt someone in my past to deserve this. That's the logic

of the curse. It moves from myths to movies to young, impression forming foetuses.

Then one day I grew up. I broke free. Stood up.

Five feet, one and a half inches tall and shut the lid on

Pandora's Box.

Enough is enough.

Raktabeej met his end when Kali* showed up.

******************************

You can read about Kali and Raktabeej here: the juggernaut

Curses  and boons may sound mythical to you but when they are woven in the fabric of ones childhood, in the warp and weft of stories told and retold with frequent embellishments of real-life examples, they become the basis of ones beliefs. It's not easy to look at ones ancient roots and snip away the decay. But, it must be done.

Thank you for reading the poem. I'm all ears for any comments or views you'd like to share.