Tag Archives: gods

The Gods wake up

Another worst things with the Gods is that
They sleep most of the time—
                          (they don’t even dream).
If you happen to go near heaven:
It is a very noisy boring place.
And all that you get to hear there are—
Thirty three million synchronized godly snores.
                          (The Goddesses snore too).

The Gods sleep right through the prayers
Performed by the Brahmins—
                          (maybe they find it boring).
Births, Marriages, innumerable yagnas,
Brahmins take the center-stage, all the
Gods skip. Also, “Om” is now obsolete—
a kind of recurring mosquito buzz.
                          (Besides, Om is ©opyrighted).

At times, the sleeping celestials do stir.
Gods always get excited over funerals—
                          (they are kind of necrophilic).
The loud drums lead the dead to eternal sleep,
Ancient noises herald the escaping life.
This deeper music shakes the skies.
That’s when the Gods wake up.
                          (Just to receive the dead.)

Advertisements

When the God drank milk

September 21, 1995.

This was the second time
He spanned the world
So quickly. . . In telecast
miracles that occurred from
Michigan to Manila to Madras
Whether He was in plastic, ceramic,
Fire-burnt clay or stiff black stone
The Elephant-Headed, the Pot-Bellied,
The Remover of Obstacles, Ganesha,
The God had his fill as he sucked
The spoonfuls of creamy milk. . .

I am not willing to listen to
Capillary Action Rationalism
Or any scientific explorations. . .

Instead I am hunting for some
Silly girl’s bizarre secret, to know if
The Son of Shiva had let himself
To be breastfed, to be suckled. . .
And if she, having tasted success
At His having tasted her,
Moved on to younger,
Charming Gods,
With their mouths
Full of white teeth.

Prayers

In an arid land of arid human minds
Caste, yet again authored a tragedy.
He, disease wrecked, downtrodden,
long-ago skinner of animals, sets out.
Ten days of Typhoid, and a partial recovery.
Enough reason to thank some God.

He drags himself clumsily to a nearby temple.
Sadly, of an Upper-caste God.
Away from the temple, he bends in supplication.
Says his last prayer—Unwelcome Gratefulness.
To a God who (anyway) didn’t help him recover.
Innocent Acts of Undulating Faith spurned
Anger. Retaliation.

An irked Rajput surged forth
and smote the untouchable with a iron rod.
He, warrior caste lion couldn’t tolerate
Encroachment. At the temple. By a Dalit.
Deathly howls of a feeble-voiced
rent the air, fervently seeking holy intervention.
God, Lifeless as ever—watched grimly with closed eyes.
In resigned submission, the sick man’s Life was given away.
Caste—crueler than disease, emotionless, dry, took its toll
Confirming traditional truths: Dalits die, due to devotion.

Unanswered questions remain;
Agony is not always a forgotten memory.

Life teaches: there are different Gods at different temples.
One solitary thought haunts recollection day and night.
Where did this poor man’s sixty-five year old soul go?
To Heaven – to join noble martyrs who died for a cause?
Or to Hell—where the Gods reside, making Caste Laws.

(First published in Kritya)

Another Paradise Lost

One sleepy summer afternoon, while helping
myself to a glass of chilled water, I saw a
snake lying curled under the fridge. It could
have been a very poisonous cobra. Very

quickly, I chose my mode of attack: Acid.
Staggering, I reached for the glass bottle
so that I could pour the yellow-green cheap
acid on its slimy body, burning it to death.

“Stop it”, the snake hissed in pure Tamil
connecting with me in the language of
my prayer and poetry. “I am an exile.”
And I configured mental images of political

refugees. It wriggled out and I saw that
it was balding, almost Rushdie-like, perhaps
with a death sentence too. Controversy was a
crowd pulling catch-phrase, to which I dutifully

succumbed. Acid bottle in hand, I heard the
snake preach to me about living in detachment.
“The perfection of life is when you do not
know the difference between yielding and

resisting.” The scrawny being writhed further
and told me of rebirth and reincarnation. Being
a writer I really wanted to take notes. Instead
I began arguing. “Shut up”, the snake said to me,

“Karma and the whole stuff that follows it is just
bunkum. You, a crazed agnostic, disagree because
of borrowed ideas.” Sharp movements of the red
tongue terrified me. Almost sensing my fear, it

said, “You could never challenge what you do
not comprehend.” The snake spoke in circles, in
patterns that could only resemble a snake
swallowing its tail. Whatever. And then it

occurred to me: Speech was the oldest trap,
the charming deceiver, persuasion’s weapon
and Satan’s first area of expertise. “Stop it”,
this time I said the words. “Tell me just your

story. Save the cant and rant for critical times.”
My acidic tone gained me a menacing status
and I continued, “You are a mean serpent.
Instigator. Trouble-maker. Sly liar. Undulating

temptation-provider. Unworthy reminder
of the seduction of strength over matter.” It
protested in a booming resonant voice, “No, I
am not any of this. I am just an exile, from

paradise. Because of your Catholic upbringing,
you don’t even know about the paradise lost
in Hinduism.” Who bothered for history or
heritage, except shriveling snakes and failed

writers? At least, we both had something in
common. “Look here comrade, my credentials
are different. In heaven, I was an activist. An
avid dissenter. Before the accession to heaven,

long long ago, I was a mighty monarch on earth,
feared and respected. I was Nahusa the Great.
My subjects were happy, the kingdom prosperous.
And I ruled for twelve thousand years, until the day

when I decided that I could take leave of life. In
heaven too, I was venerated. But one question had
plagued me all the years of my long life, and it still
tormented me in heaven. I wanted to know why

caste was there, why people suffered because of
their karmas. I questioned the Gods, and the learned
sages there. I asked them what would happen if an
high-born did manual work just like the low-born.

I worried about the division of labor, this disparity
in dreams and destinies. You could say I was a rebel
pleading for liberty-equality-fraternity. I had a riotous
history of revolution. The Gods plotted against me,

decided that I was trouble. I was cursed to turn into
a vile snake. I was banished from paradise. For sixty
million years, I shall roam the earth, and then I may
return.” This was a different case of the paradise lost.

In this tale, there was no forbidden fruit, no second
fickle-minded woman. Tradition triumphed over reason
and the good were cast away. I let the serpent go,
happy that he had given my hungry mind a story, or

perhaps, a poem to be written on unfair days. I began
to respect snakes — the challengers of hierarchy.
While I gave him the freedom of safe passage
I vowed never to kill serpents. Much later

I realized brutally that this was just another
occupational hazard for choosing a life
where I was to be showing solidarity
with activists and dissenters.