Ka Akor Khasi

Sarcastic take on the venerated idea of “Akor Khasi” (Khasi code of conduct)

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Some Gods

Some gods are really weird
They need you to grow a beard

Some of them are damn hard to please
They want you down on your knees

How am I going to worship the guy
If he’s invisible, up in the sky ?

What do you reckon I’d say
When I don’t think about him all day ?

Some gods don’t like women in service
Others really make men nervous

I think we all need a time-out
From the hysteria and shouts

Give me a quiet, pensive deity
Not of the church but the laity

Give me a god of the stark winters
Give me a god of mud and splinters

Give me a god, cold like stone heaths
A god that reminds us of our soft feet,
Our soft skins, our soft tissues, our soft ideas

Past Life Repression

Betrayal
Father chases me with a stick
I run to grandmother in the garden
I sob into her warm clothes
She hands me over to father

 

Pain
Father dies in a car crash
Father dies in pain
I hear this in the garden
Now I know Pain

 

Anger
Why did you take him away
When I did your Sunday School work !?
Why did you fail me
When I prayed to you each day ?!

 

Loss
Something went missing
Around my 16th year
Something flew away
I don’t know where it’s fled

After Lit Fest

​Everyone’s horny.
After a few,
Some want to get into bed,
Some into each other;
There’s always a busy drunk,
Someone always loses a bag
I do a dangerousrunacrossthestreetforcigarettesat12o’clock;
I promise myself I’ll stop. Always.
After a few,
Men and women call you beautiful;
Old poets need attention,
Young poets want to beat up old poets
It’s always the same.

Our Shiva

Let me claim you as the Veda did aeons ago,
Let me remind you of your previous life:
You are pasan, my old uncle.
Our Enkidu whose shack was behind mother’s house,
Where you ate dried fish heads with local toddy at night;
With your jokes came a hint of malice;
We were always nervous laughing, wary of your curses,
Like your namesake, you danced one moment
Then spewed venom the next.
During the day, you Shiva, would prod about in the garden,
Harvesting taro and sweet potatoes.
You were always accompanied by our un-ceremonial dogs.
You bathed once a year around Christmas time
Upon mother’s insistence;
No one called you deity but I know
You were something like the old gods;
Winter plants were nurtured by the silt of your meandering locks,
The mushroom in its underground prison festered joyfully again,
The wild rat smirked in its winter sleep within its earth womb,
Blossoms grew patient, waiting for the shot of spring:
It was all your doing, I know.