Reading Time: 2 minutes
An intense, evocative protest poem, by Dr. Roopali, exclusively for Different Truths.
Mysteries lie in chanting mantras These secret magic words! My baby tongue lisps making so many slips. These lies I mumble and the words that tumble out of my mouth do not come from my heart. Hidden words I mutter from books wrapped in Velvet and satin and embossed in gold. Dark secrets hide in the coded language Sanskrit, Arabic, Hebrew and Latin. Those words they say were at the beginning The beginning they say is the word. These words I do not understand. Why should I light a candle Or an earthen dia? or blow a conch shell. Must I oil the lamp and wait for my secret lover? You lie when you say He is my groom and I, his bride. Who is the dark god I wait for bedecked across the River Yamuna? This time it is the flute playing lover. Ancient secrets will reveal themselves when the path you have lit will mark the footsteps you have waited for. wonder who secretly entered the cave and took His nailed body away? Where did the earth split open and take rebellious Sita away? They wove cunning stories and made me believe In untruths to this day. Ask and thou shalt receive they lied and turned me away before I reached the door. The camel entered through the eye of a needle and left me crying with a heart so sore. Inside dark cavernous confines choked with the smoke of incense and fragrant flowers I stick my tongue out for the vapour thin bread and the sweet red wine to feast of the body and blood of Christ. When the temple bells ring and the chanting begins I stretch my hands for left over morsels of sacred Jaggery and puffed rice. they tell me a lie…. the Goddess has eaten. My Chauset and matsa and all this lets me taste my creator and my benefactor. If I look for the Most Merciful I must turn to the setting sun and kneeling. They tell me I will find Him only in the glowing west. What sins did I commit of omission What acts must I confess of commission What penance will ever give me remission. To an invisible god I must make my confession. The mark of vermillion I wear on my forehead Is the mark of a damned liar.
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