We Must Rise
Editor's Choice
Category: Poem
Author: Alokparna Das
Season 7

Why must I rise, sister Gauri, born of dawn?
When the world be dark, when the world be night,
When the dawn can’t bring the day to light,
Why must I rise?

You rose to bring the world to calm,
Princess Parvati, palace born.

Engulfed in grief, engulfed in rage,
With Sati’s half-burnt corpse,
Delirious, in his frenzied dance,
Shiva opened his third, destructive eye.
With Sati gone,
He saw no good, he saw no end.

A world where a child
Taunted by her father’s jibe,
Took her own life?
The father, blind to gentle love,
Enraged that she had cast her lot
With a man of her choice,
Pointed at the vagrant wretch,
A different caste, a different tribe.
A blot, dishonour to the clan,
A derelict, an unwanted man.
What of her voice
What of her desire?
An immolation in a holy pyre.
An honour death, so nimbly tossed.
Whose honour claimed,
Whose honour lost?

The world needed to be
Trampled on, stomped on,
Out of existence.
Decimated, annihilated.
It made no sense.
With his riotous fury,
Mahatandav dance
Shiva began his penitence.

Vishnu stepped down to cease the fire.
Shiva’s anger spent,
Bereaved, besieged,
Remorseful mendicant,
Disappeared from a world
Not worth being saved.
In his desperate grief, in his austere cave,
Ascetic, abstinent.

In the world, the demons grew.
The wicked rose, the helons slew,
And Tarakasura, in his pompous pride,
Bloated and vain,
Reminded the gods, again and again,
That none could touch his power grand.
Except one – Shiva’s son.

Shiva’s son was the promised man.
But Shiva was gone, gone to the world,
In his desperate grief, in his austere cave,
Ascetic, abstinent.

So, you rose, Princess Parvati,
So, you rose,
From the palace on the mountain peaks,
You stepped down and chose
To leave the charms of your father’s abode.
You starved, you prayed,
Tattered attire, hair disarrayed,
Impoverished, like the man you chose.

Gauri, Parvati, you rose
To bring the world to calm.
You raised Kartik to be the one,
To slay Tarakasura, and every demon in sight,
You rose to bring the world to light.

But, why must I rise, sister Gauri?
Why must I rise?
I am Kali the dark, the black, the blight,
The discarded hue of a grace divine,
I am the somber loss of light.

Why must I fight, sister Durga, valiant born?
The heinous dark, the lewd, the vile,
When the fair can’t win, the fair lose sight,
Why must I fight?

You were the answer to a million prayers.
Sister Durga.
You were born of Shakti, shaped a slayer
Of evil, demons in disguise.
You decimated, to stop the slaughter,
To stall the carnage.
Warrior, goddess, Shakti’s daughter,
You set the world on fire,
 With your third eye.
You were formed to fight.

You battled where gods feared to tread,
You battled demons born of dead.
You slayed one, another was born,
Kingdoms demolished in their wild rampage.
Shumbha, Nishumbha, went on and on.
You battled on your lion perched,
Every demon, in every disguise.

Mahisasura, who tried to hide,
In a bull’s hide,
Slayed by your sword, slayed by your rage.
Yet, there was another vile
Whose every drop of blood that fell
Was a seed birthing a twin from hell.
You slashed and cut, but from every drop,
Raktabijas seemed to crop.

So, I was wrenched from the depth of your rage,
To slay the one that even you couldn’t slay.
I rose, cast in fury’s blackened hue,
I rose, incensed, from the depth of hell,
From the ashes of the recent dead,
From the ghosts of dead aeons ago,
From the ravenous depths of an abyss, I rose.

I rose with a hunger to be quenched by blood,
I drank, I drank, I drank the flood,
Of the poisonous demon’s perfidious gore,
I drank, until there was no more.
And so, we fought, both you and I.
He roared, he buckled, he ripped, he gnashed,
With the relentless fury of deranged man.
You cut, you slashed,
While his blood I lapped.
Not a drop splattered on the mud.
You severed his head, with your laden axe.

You’re me, you say, and I am you.
You’re a fortress, queen, lion astride,
Reliever of sorrow, dispeller of doom,
How can I be Gauri, and I be you?
You are the devi, reigning the skies
Shiva’s beloved, Ganesh’s delight,
Mother Goddess, luminescent, bright.
Be the same as you, how can I?

Thus spoke Kali, of the darkened hue,
Cast with skin of black and blue,
Cast off by Gauri when mocked as dark,
How can you be me and I be you?

Parvati of the softer tone,
Said, you are not you, by yourself, alone.
We seek you, when the world turns black,
We seek you when the Sun dawns dark,
We seek you when we are not enough. 

We seek you now, but in a more terrible form,
For the demon today, does not disguise.
Every day, in every lane, on every road, on every side,
The demon smirks,
The demon grows, from every drop
Of demon blood.
Bloated with a heinous pride.
He strikes. He strikes.

A schoolgirl, at the sound of the bell,
Rushes out, with her friends,
Eager for the day to end,
But what hell awaits.
With a club, he waits, he waits,
And when he sees her, he gives chase,
She runs, books scattering on the road,
She shouts aghast, she shouts, she wails,
But they fall on deafened ears,
They fall on passive, indifferent eyes,
They look on, deafened to her cries,
And he hits her head,
Bludgeons her to death.
Bloated with a heinous pride,
He strikes. He strikes.
He does not need a bull’s hide, to hide.

But that’s not all.
A doctor, after a long day’s round
Of listening to coughing choking breaths,
Of prescribing pills, of reading charts,
Of healing soft ticking hearts,
Of keeping at bay, the touch of death
From the ill, the frail,
Wearied, tired, at the end of day,
Hopes for a restful night.
But what hell awaits.
He waits, he waits,
He does not need a bull’s hide, to hide.

He pounces on the sleep bound girl.
She flails. She fights.
He rapes. He grabs.
Surgical scissors meant saving lives.
He laughs. He stabs.
Who the demon, what disguise?
Bloated with a heinous pride,
He strikes. He strikes.

And that’s not all, the bus, the road,
Each lane, each street, each cab she boards,
He waits, he waits.
He does not need a bull’s hide, to hide.
Her panic, her dread, her horror, her fear,
He feeds on it, he laps it up.
He grows, he grows.
They name her Nirbhaya,
But fear looms large.
He smirks. He knows.
Bloated with a heinous pride,
He strikes. He strikes.

Is she safe, in her own home?
Can she dream a dream of her own?
Can she step out, can she soar,
Must she whisper, must she whimper?
Can with an unchaste voice, she roar?
Can she even have a voice?
Can she bring into the clan,
A different tribe, a different caste,
Cast her lot with a man of her own choice?
No, an honour death, to her is tossed.
Whose honour claimed?
Whose honour lost?
What father this, with his own hands,
Strangles her, then lights her pyre.
What father this?
He does not need a bull’s hide, to hide.
Bloated with a heinous pride,
He strikes. He strikes.

How can we let these bloated, vain,
These hideous beasts,
Rape and strangle, jeer, mock, mangle,
Again, and again, and again?
Emboldened, breeding their hell?
Insulting. Taunting. Mocking. Haunting.
Where do they get their impunity?
Who grants them such unholy immunity?
Kali, can you tell?

Kali, we must rise again,
Engulfed in rage.
Engulfed in sorrow, engulfed in grief,
Cast in fury’s blackened hue,
Ferocious, terrible, enraged,
To raze the asuras, the beasts
Of this dark, dark age.

For the world is dark, the world is night
And dawn can’t bring the day to light,
So, we must rise.
Rise from sorrow, rise from grief,
Rise more fierce, more thunderous, wild,
Rise with a volcanic force
Thrust out from an abyss deep,
With half-burnt corpses in our arms,
Wailing, impoverished, disarrayed,
Roaring in decibels unchaste.

We must rise
From the ashes of every honor-death,
From each girl’s keening, anguished breath,
We must rise, Kali.
There is no good, there is no end.
So, we must rise.

We must rise until we decimate,
Trample on, and annihilate,
A world impenitent.
We must raze,
The insolent, lewd, lecherous gaze.
We must rise with a hunger
To be quenched by demon blood,
We must slash and cut,
Severe the bestial head with a laden axe,
Drink, drink the perfidious flood,
Of demon gore.
Drink, until there is no more.

Open the third burning eye,
Be incensed.
Rise, Parvati, Durga, Kali,
For the Mahatandav Dance.

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