PHOOLAN DEVI (ELEGY FOR A DRAVIDIAN PRINCESS)

Phoolan Devi, I cry for you,
millions of Dalit maidens too;

oh Bandit Queen, Rebel of the Ravines,
may the scales of justice absolve your sins.

Oh Diva of Durga, Dacoit
leader, you swooped with heart so stout,

swooped on the Thakur, avenging angel,
and sent their upper caste souls straight to hell.

We mourn your loss, young life cut short
by bigotry you fearless fought;

from the Ravines to India’s Parliament
let all her oppressed echo your lament.

You died with pride in New Delhi
in your yard under a neem tree

far from mud huts on banks of Yamuna
River which flows through Gorha Ka Purwa.

Your noble soul from Dalit flesh,
an egret, to Uttar Pradesh

returned on wings of the wind to a hut,
humble home, where your navel string was cut;

the hut from where at tender ten
you were traded by evil men,

by Maiyadin, for the cost of a cow,
to marriage abuse the law allowed.

Even then your daring was great,
you walked out of that old man’s gate,

hundreds of lonely miles, back to your hut –
your mother in shame accepted you not;

with Dravidian pathetic pride,
the one way out was suicide

so she told you to go jump in the well;
you cast out outcast lore – said go to hell.

Instead you graciously cut grass
and gave your buffalo to graze

for the buffalo was your only friend –
although you held congress with many men;

and stubborn as your buffalo,
at Maiyadin insults you threw

till one fateful day in a fit of rage
your cousin resolved to break your courage,

to clip your wing once and for all
by engineering your downfall;

with Police friends the ignominious gnome
got you arrested for breaking his home

and perpetrating sad outrage
the rats on you took advantage –

for one month in a cell of no escape,
subjected to hell of beatings and rape,

victim of their sadistic game,
sated themselves to their own shame

and though on you inflicted twisted thrill
could hardly daunt indomitable will.

Broken rag doll on dirty floor,
their perverse torture did endure;

you whimpered, suffered and silently swore
stony resilience would wax even more,

swore allegiance to resistance
to battle against circumstance;

thence the seed of struggle already sown
burst the earth to surface later full-blown.

July, nineteen seventy-nine
for you was the end of the line,

came the Monsoon with foul raging water
of Babu Gujar, ‘twas the final straw

when again you were subjected
to injustice that blew the lid –

the notoriously feared Dacoit leader
abducted, subjected you to another

sordid episode of beatings
and rape to satisfy cravings,

sick cravings for lust, power and abuse –
three days your body and your soul he bruised

till his worthless life was ended
when his lieutenant shot him dead,

Vikram Mallah shot him dead and captured
your heart, retrieving your life enraptured.

He taught you to love and to sing,
he taught you to shoot and to kill;

to be not just a Bhagi co-leader
but later a fearless freedom fighter.

Copyright ©2001 by G. Newton V. Chance