Creating Nirjhira- part 1

It was a bright starlit night.
The queen of the sky, in her crescent chariot, bedecked in the grandeur of white brilliance, presided over the revelry of the night. She smiled graciously at the performance of her ardent admirers, the prim and prop, well dressed, knights of the night, who well portrayed their skills at the art of chivalry, to amuse the queen.

While this act was brewing up in the heavens, on the surface of earth sat a solitary soul by his window… romancing with the cool breeze, wearing a smile indicative of his lost countenance… a silent spectator to the night’s frolics. The very image of a man, freshly struck by Cupid’s arrows… gazing at the moon, possibly summoning in his mind, lines from love sonnets of Sidney and Spenser… comparing his beloved with the moon. By his window he sat, lost in recollecting every moment of that evening when he had met her. And like all those romantic, passionate hearts that believe in “Love at first sight”, our dear young friend, lost his heart to this beautiful maiden at the party. Just like the hero of all classic love stories, every night, he stares at the moon, like it was a mirror reflecting his thoughts in images, and in that image, he sees his beloved’s face. Thus the queen of the sky once again became the patron of yet another pair of lovers.

Today, in an especially gracious disposition, she dismisses her court early and sits in solitude with the lover, both admiring in verbal abundance, the object of his passionate love. But our hero is still a rational lover… now does that sound like an oxymoron? Can love and rationale go together? Well I say so, because this gentleman, our hero, warrants moderation in praise for his lady. See what he tells the moon…

No… not so high…
Let her be firmly grounded,
for she fears to fly.

No… not so deep…
Let her be seen as shallow,
than plunge in fair conceit.

Oh! not even so fair…
She’s but the colour of dusk,
Dark nights form her hair.
Her eyes are not coral blue,
But a dark brown affair.

Her temperance?
How do I tell you what it be,
Sometimes, a dormant volcano,
Sometimes, a tempestuous sea.

If coquetry be a maid’s weapon,
She has brandished none,
And yet against her natural charms,
All men and deities summon.

If women feign innocence,
To win the hearts of men,
She feigns a fake cunning,
I know not to what gain?

Timidity, fragility and subservience
Are traits to her unknown.
She possesses a tender heart,
With a mind of her own.

She is not a noted beauty,
Nor has any craft conjured…
In her strength and vulnerability
I find my heart conquered.