The poem 'Fault Lines' is a two-voice poem between Sita and a modern woman, 'A Princess Wronged' is Suparnaka's version of history, and 'Lines of Control' references both of them as well as other famous and not so famous women in history.
Sri Lankan poet Shirani Rajapakse writes three poems on Ramayana for Outlook.
The poem 'Fault Lines' is a two-voice poem between Sita and a modern woman, 'A Princess Wronged' is Suparnaka's version of history, and 'Lines of Control' references both of them as well as other famous and not so famous women in history.
The lines on my hand
recount a story I can’t hide from you.
Sita stepped over the line.
Fortune visits those blessed to
lead the kind of life they desire.
She didn’t want to be restricted.
My life stretches before me a
long and winding road that
meanders through emerald
woods, ascends cliffs and floats
along streams rushing to wherever.
Fate intersects,
but I stand strong.
She was fed up, not
what she had agreed when they met.
Who was to say
the lines weren’t drawn to wander
on her palms?
Maybe they read it
and remained silent because they
couldn’t change destiny.
She was a woman
and had to be confined.
My lines travel the world, crisscross
continents,
scale mountains
to lose themselves in valleys deep.
She stepped out for
some fresh air.
I reap my own rewards.
She
was looking for adventure, a new life.
I pick
my path even if it is
wrought with fear and pain. Striding
with head held up, high heels
tapping my beat
to melodies only I want to sing.
What stood in front of her
was better than what she was
leaving behind.
I had an education, a job,
money at hand. I could do as I pleased.
They changed
the story. Said he
abducted her.
Said
she was
out
of
line.
I didn’t want him, ineffective.
He would bring me down to his level, a
worm slithering in the
damp undergrowth afraid
of the light.
Her strength.
His weakness to protect her.
I sent him away. I could do better
than that.
His shame took kingdoms to war.
Millions died, but those lives didn’t
matter; non essentials, expendable.
I refused to answer his call.
He pleaded
like
an
ant.
He dragged her
back, his trophy, his possession.
She insulted his authority.
I’m no one’s
treasure. Not a prize won at
a game not a plaque to
hang
on
the wall.
She wanted something more
than what she was getting.
I concur. Totally agree.
She was condemned.
I have an option.
She wasn’t given her preference.
She walked into flames, red hot she
rose. They still wonder.
Can’t make up their minds.
Can’t call him
a fool. Not after so long.
The narrative remains the way he wrote it.
They look on silently at my attempts
to rule my universe.
I stand strong.
Easier for you,
flinging negative comments.
Making up stories, telling tales, dictating
the course of history the way you wanted.
They all believed the lie. I was ugly, you said.
Very ugly, you laughed to the trees
and the thunder grumbled, annoyed.
What difference did it make
if I was mutilated?
You cackled to winds.
You had authority. You had the scribes
falling at your feet waiting to
lap up words
gushing out your lips.
You made sure they recorded your views.
Not mine.
Never mine.
They weren’t there. They didn’t see.
Never knew me.
Only heard your words much later.
Did you stop to ask folks in the towns
we passed if they thought the same?
Could eyes be so deceiving everywhere?
But your words held sway.
Your truth had to do.
Their eyes were blinded with threats,
fear of fools that ruled.
It was the only way you could
start a war, coward that you were.
Get my brother to attack first, say it was his
fault, say he was vile, uncontrollable, lustful,
sinful, everything deceitful.
But I know,
your desire for me
destroyed my looks.
You couldn’t bear to not have what
you wanted.
No control. Left your wife at home alone.
Staring at her sister every day,
your brother’s wife.
You couldn’t have her.
Such a sad example for a man.
When I laughed in your face, rejecting
the ineffective thing in front of me, the puny
man not even the deer in the woods
took notice of,
that was the last straw.
Out roared your fury.
Your sword. My nose.
I didn’t deserve punishment, banishment
thrown out of my house, reviled by
the times to come.
I endured it all.
Through the ages my name rang
true peeling off the layers of lies,
and the future will learn.
Someday they will know.
I was beautiful.
Refusing to be confined by
an invisible line, she crossed over to
the other side.
Oh the pleasure of decision making,
empowering for a woman forced
inside a house
detained in
an indiscernible circle drawn
by a man who had no respect for women.
Why else would he chop off
her nose and bring forth the wrath of
her brother?
She had enough of these fools that
called themselves men.
She reached the end of her tether
and wanted out. He was waiting
with his plane.
A flight plan already mapped out.
She was free, but only for a few blissful days.
He came to collect his looted treasure.
Another century
another place
she was acquired again, and again
the owner marched in to seize control.
Wars were fought.
Sita and Helen they both
wanted out,
out of the unpleasantness they were forced
to lead that wasn’t life, but
paid the ultimate price
for freedom and love.
Independence demanded
the ultimatum—she walked through fire,
but it wasn’t enough. He threw her away.
She grew old with despair.
Too many lives lost in vain.
The thousand ships sailed away.
Draupadi was pawned in a game of dice.
Srija was left in the drain.
Nirbhaya torn apart
and thrown out like trash.
Someone with a forgotten name was sacrificed
on the altar of commerce.
Little girls from a poor country sold as slaves.
Their bodies could warm gnarled old men.
Innocence stolen for adult pleasures.
Money spoke, eloquent like wine.
Children, always the children
forced to pay.
Everyday someone was ground in the dust.
The hands of the woman holding the scales
trembled with fury at the injustice,
but no one could take off the blindfold.
Aphrodite stood helpless to defend
without her arms.
But arms can do only so much.
The lines kept getting longer.
No one cared.
Remember how Magdalene
was condemned by
the old men seeking to make a
name for themselves?
Couldn’t bear the thought that she
was better, more intelligent than they were,
or that she was the chosen one
from all his crowd.
A woman selected to carry on his message.
How could that be?
Joan’s voices were damning the men
they didn’t like the attention
she was getting.
Too much publicity for a mere village girl.
She had the Dauphin in her hand.
They wanted him dancing to their tune.
She thwarted their plans.
The stakes were too high. She had to go.
No one survives a fire.
It was easier to call her a witch,
dangerous,
might do strange things to the children.
They were out of line,
all of them. Had to be brought under control.
Of the men.
already mapped out.
She was free, but only for a few blissful days. He came to collect his looted treasure.
Another century another place
she was acquired again, and again
the owner marched in to seize control.
Wars were fought.
Sita and Helen they both wanted out,
out of the unpleasantness they were forced to lead that wasn’t life, but
paid the ultimate price for freedom and love.
Independence demanded
the ultimatum—she walked through fire, but it wasn’t enough. He threw her away. She grew old with despair.
Too many lives lost in vain. The thousand ships sailed away.
Draupadi was pawned in a game of dice. Srija was left in the drain.
Nirbhaya torn apart
and thrown out like trash.
Someone with a forgotten name was sacrificed on the altar of commerce.
Little girls from a poor country sold as slaves. Their bodies could warm gnarled old men.
Innocence stolen for adult pleasures. Money spoke, eloquent like wine.
Children, always the children forced to pay.
Everyday someone was ground in the dust.
The hands of the woman holding the scales trembled with fury at the injustice,
but no one could take off the blindfold.
Aphrodite stood helpless to defend without her arms.
But arms can do only so much.
The lines kept getting longer. No one cared.
Remember how Magdalene was condemned by
the old men seeking to make a name for themselves?
Couldn’t bear the thought that she
was better, more intelligent than they were, or that she was the chosen one
from all his crowd.
A woman selected to carry on his message. How could that be?
Joan’s voices were damning the men they didn’t like the attention
she was getting.
Too much publicity for a mere village girl. She had the Dauphin in her hand.
They wanted him dancing to their tune. She thwarted their plans.
The stakes were too high. She had to go. No one survives a fire.
It was easier to call her a witch, dangerous,
might do strange things to the children.
They were out of line,
all of them. Had to be brought under control. Of the men.