Dark Flowers

By Baron James Ashanti

I enjoyed reading Dark Flowers, and I think it is splendid that Mr. Ashanti has probed a culture that is so rich; his work nourishes the love of an Indian culture that fills the ocean. His style of writing is magnificent and impressive indeed. Mr. Ashanti, through his work, has given soul to his characters and thusly made them immortal.

Dr. Sandeepa Jayaswal
Chairperson Humanities Department
Indore Professional Studies Academy Indore, India



In this volume of sacred poetry for the sensual soul, Ashanti creates colours, light and music which awaken the imagination and bathes them in rapture. The book Dark Flowers is an aesthetic treat on every level for lovers of poetry and everyone who embraces the connection between the sensual and the divine.

Dr. Gloria Brame
Noted Author and Therapist



Mr. Ashantis poetic diction, his dedication to research in various fields of Indian life; especially in classical Indian music and dance has produced a beautiful book. Dark Flowers is a wild Dionysian romp that must be read!

Ms. Madhu Gujadhur
Mauritius Broadcasting Corporation
Forest Side, Mauritius

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jan 17, 2011
• ISBN: 9781453566787

Baron James Ashanti

Baron James Ashanti over a 45 year career has lectured and read at several colleges and universities; he has also been nationally and internationally published & anthologized. He is listed in: Who’s Who in The World; Who’s Who in America; Who’s Who in American Education; Who’s Who in America, Writers, Editors, Poets; The International Who’s Who in Poetry; The International Writer and Author’s Who’s Who and The Poets and Writers Directory. His book Nova, Harlem River Press, N.Y. 1990 was entered for The Pulitzer Prize.

Book preview

Copyright © 2011 by Baron James Ashanti.

Library of Congress Control Number: 2010913121

ISBN: Hardcover 978-1-4535-6677-0

ISBN:Softcover 978-1-4535-6676-3

ISBN:Ebook 978-1-4535-6678-7

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted

in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying,

recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system,

without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

Xlibris Corporation

1-888-795-4274

www.Xlibris.com

[e-mail]

85557

I would like to acknowledge the help

and inspiration from the following people

in India who made this book possible.

Mr. Harsha Prasad

Ms. Kiran Dasaur

Ms. Manjeet K. Bansal

and

Ms. Madhu Gujadhur

from Mauritius

The model in the frontispiece

Is Manjeet K. Bansal

Both Part II of The Brides of God and The Devadasi

are works of fiction. Although the research for Dark

Flowers was done with an eye on cultural accuracy,

any resemblance to real historical figures is purely

and merely coincidental.

I know that the Chola Empire in India historically was

Tamil in culture and language but I decided to use a

larger model for readership of The Devadasi. It was not

an oversight which had me use Hindi instead of Tamil,

but merely a literary vehicle!

image001_b.jpg

Out from sacred mysts

Comes the echo of a word

Devadasi

Urgently moving

The solitary traveler

To India

Who suckles dreams

At a caravanserai

Where time suspends

Like fixed star

glancing at

opulent destiny !

Contents

THE BRIDES OF GOD

II THE INCIDENT

HIDE AND SEEK

AARTI

AVATAR

MOON DANCE

BITTER HARVEST

THE DEVADASI

PRIYA’S GHAZALS

THE BRIDES OF GOD

[1]

A Tiger hunts [2] through the heavens

with a powerful blow from his claw

he performs Nirvan [3] on time

and so

crimson sacrificial drops

come to wash the city

with a yawn the day is reborn

An erotic charade hides in plain sight

an open secret

fed with long handled spoon

this garish frailty

tinted by 5 O’clock shadows

moves through coloured tenses—

turquoise tomorrows

and

saffron yesterdays

suspended between sexes

uneasy lot for

unmentioned curiosities

left at society’s undersides

these fallen crumbs

from gelded cage

The Hijras

Hijras leave a trail from

India to Pakistan to Bangladesh

where a valence of tears embraces

androgyny weighed & measured

by fate under equatorial rigors

YYx

or

XXy

this geometry of chromosomes

animates constellations of jewelry

about their person

like earth-bound mythologies

neither man nor woman-

Hijras take

shelter beneath

a world threatened

by atomic mushrooms

while the purdah [4] of derision & misconception

traps them inside transparent lives

turned into disappearing acts

on the high wire

by the

unkempt atrocity of caste

and so

at times honoured guests but

when uninvited guests

these unruly fakirs in drag

cast blessings bonded with

bawdy insults they deign to blight

weddings and birth rites for newborn

begging alms for song & dance

for ever so brief a presence spent

in polite company some Hijras

scrape a living being paid

for their absence

The heat from The Tiger’s growl

draws down the day’s breadth by

ambivalent karmic tag

for Hijras chided

and made to suffer

as mute symbols

of brambled taboo

for difference sake

The Mother Goddess

[5]

pours jasmine tea

for her children forsaken

on the river’s far bank

in the evening chill

Hijras’ sweaty spice

stained with exhaustion

presides over misfortune

the game afoot

beneath monsoon cherry rain

where the future hunts

after them

on the river’s far bank!

II THE INCIDENT

I am telling you

there was a miracle

done by dance long ago

in Locknow

[6]

by Hijra who was also

Sufi by inclination

She danced with the Beloved

in public without shame

and she transformed into

Goddess whilst she danced

surely you must be believing

that it happened just this way

. . .

On a particular day

at the appointed hour

a bloody bindi

[7]

was set in the sky

and bleached

an ochre painted bazaar

Into which

a famous singer

of the Qawwali

[8]

and his disciples

sat on a platform

along with a group

of master musicians

gathered in

the noon swelter

Mouthing addiction

to betel nut

the old ones teeth

rotted and ground

down by the chewing

sat crossed legged

and listen

to the charm of rapture

Wearing a golden choli

[9]

trimmed in ruby’s blood

a well known Hijra

strode barefoot

into the bazaar’s crucible

with trembling audacity

Sitaji spun & twirled

onto stage for the Amad

[10]

tall and lithe Sitaji

wore her hair loose

as it tumbled heavily

down to her back’s well

The Thaat [11] slowly built

the voice of Sitaji’s movement

each step reverberated with

the tabla’s

[12] heartbeat

stepping lively round her feet

and ankles anchored with

hundreds of silver dancing bells

that sang as precise dance steps

set at full tilt

towards ecstatic dancer’s whirl

in this public congress

of sounds woven by sarod-tambura

and harmonium

Sitaji’s frozen smile

accentuated rhythms

of Turka [13] that she

presented to the audience

and sent them into

wild cheers and clapping

Sitaji’s robin’s egg blue eyes

fluttered and closed

as she danced with hair

like sitar strings on fire

caught & nurtured

by tropic air of twisted Raga

curling like in incense

in the afternoon

image002.jpg

In the private moments of one’s soul

Sitaji’s hand and wrist gestures

pointed the way for the Parchant

[14]

to lead her into intoxication

exhibiting her lust for the Lord

in public Sitaji drank the wine

from the beloved’s breath

Charged with the glory

from Tapas

[15]

Sitaji’s countenance changed

as the fury of her steps spun

her close and then