MY MAIDEN POEM

Hi again!.BELATED CHRISTMAS WISHES..the following poem of which you are invited to cordially grace this auspicious occasion by casting your fleeting glances at my maiden slam poem..indeed..a memorable experience.(for me obviously!!)

plainly put, this poem is a greenhorn attempt to somewhat recreate the bravery of one of India's greatest rebels. Shmt. Laxmi bai, who through her heroic deeds inspired millions of other women across the country to take over traditionally male bastions like never before.it is her attempt which first propagated this ideal. she, later on, became the herald of the British resistance movement in India and was glorified in textbooks and the likes.

the most striking of all is her last encounter in which she after realizing that it was her last resort fled to the jungle and for several days, indeed she relied on guerilla tactics for evading the British with her young son Damodar firmly tied to her back, she fought valiantly till her last breath. this poem attempt to recreate some of those scenes.
                                                     MUSINGS OF A REBEL:

Emptying her cartridge into Tommy Atkins; the queen was staggering,

bellowing with all her might

“Let them come to me”, she proclaimed,

contemplating the loss of blood; smiling to herself; admiring her

Red badge of valor, which she caressed to ease the pain

 – It was deep and profound…

Dusk descended.

The light in the vicinity grew dim, reminding her that the sun was to set,

Coaxing her,

not to fret much and lie still, wait to succumb to her accolades

-The mark which distinguish a soldier from a warrior,

the continuation of her screams seemed to her like Ragas, fabricated by the devas,

emerging from the heath of Gwalior

Near which, she was moments away from becoming a martyr.

Her mind drifted to Kotah--Sarai,

Where she had witnessed one of the most horrific skirmishes ever

The smell of sweat, straw intermingling with blood, increased her instinct,

to annihilate the hussars stopping their advancements,

the earth looked as if gravely wounded; rivers of blood dispatched from

the body of beasts wounded by mortars; going into a frenzy.

She would have scoffed if someone had said:

“The Sarai isn’t the royal pantry, Chhabili.”

She conjured her escapade from the heat of the battle

Galloping away to take a diversion,

to reinforce and retaliate, but Alas! met her nemesis-the Hussar

who faithfully remunerated his salt’s debt

promoting the Rani to martyrdom,

by emptying his Lee -Enfield into her.

 Recalling her husband’s funeral pyre,

With Damodar in one hand

and flames blossoming from the rear end,

where she had made Agni the witness, of her vow

of dedicating each breath of her life,

to the upliftment of the motherland.

She had paid her debt.

With the onset of rain lashing from the sky,

And the numbing of her body, becoming less perceptible to worldly senses,

Vision fading, brain fogging

Just as enduring the labor pangs,

during the birth of a new revolution.