The Sunday Guardian

OWNERSHIP (PERSONAL)

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You are mine, I need no certificat­e Property papers or orders from the court You stand there bejeweled

Even Your crown is of gold, it’s hard, Tight rim, marking Your forehead Yashoda used to kiss again and again Before putting a U shaped tilak on it

Your hands so used to eliciting

Music from the flute, pleasure

From all the women of Vrindavan

Who also consider you their own,

More than lover, more than husband Now holds a whip and the reins

Of Your cousin’s chariot in a war

It is not yet clear, Your father’s sister Who cleverly made her sons share a wife Was good at using emotion for her ends Did You not see through her?

If Your wife Rukmini is by your side

So is Sathyabham­a, did none deserve alone time

With you, or were there too many To divide time with each?

But You shared

In the raas - leela, that none of us

Had complaints

Though each of us sought exclusivit­y In the green pastures

By the dancing Yamuna

You were mine, I held You in my arms Your midnight skin was mine

Your locks tied up with the

Proud peacock’s tail was mine

Your yellow silk and all it hid was mine The right to blow into Your flute

Was mine, though it squawked

In dire protests, till I understood

Its need to be Yours just Yours

The way the whole of Vrindavan

Was Yours just Yours

The gaudhooli our cattle raised

Was the cue for we women

To welcome You home for

An evening meal, well before

Our trysts in the forest

Who are those who guard you against miscreants You, who could handle any demon

By Yourself , even in your childhood

Devotees are allowed in

As are the locals who threaded

You garlands, with wild flowers

And prayers, gave You a pat of

Fresh butter on leaves

And thought of You as theirs

The priest does not know those

Nicknames of Yours we made up

As we lived with You, loved You

Man Mohan! Who can know

Who can not know

The right to own You

Came only with love for You!

— Lakshmi Bayi

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