Meenakshi

Meenakshi

I am a green goddess.
My name means Fish-eye:
like a fish-mother, whose eyes never close,
I'm always watching over my children.

Yes, fish eat their young - I do that too.
I protect the city, I destroy it.
Even I don't know what I'm going to do next.
It's safest to keep me confined.
My priests let me out once a year
for my wedding.

Each year I marry Shiva,
an invader from the north.
He smears himself with ashes,
wears snakes around his neck.
My parents find him disgusting,
which only increases my ardour.

Soon we'll do battle, just like last year:
I'll defeat him, emerge from my sanctum,
the people will celebrate our union.
Then they'll lock me up again.

Sometimes I want to be plain Meen,
to swim away from husband and city,
from the heavy garlands that weigh on my neck,
from the chanting priests' oil lamps and flowers,
from my worshippers' fears and expectations,
to lose myself in the teeming ocean,
get a day job, cut my hair,
go shopping, sit in a bar alone,
and once a year, perhaps, remember.