Poetry 2018 Longlist, Chintha Mary Anil

It Was The Gods Who Killed Me

It was the gods who killed me
Were they mine or yours?
Did they infiltrate from across the border
or did they just step down
from the altar encased in gold?
Not that it matters
under six feet of gravel sore
that they shoveled in haste
over my bruises galore.
Crush him –they raged-
who dares to question blind faith.
i did… and so am no more.
My crime –they say-
was not one of deed,
but queries cynical
directed at their sanctums
– Good God!
Alongside me,
others lay dying
in casteist clutches of yore.
Pure conjecture, they pooh-poohed
while yet another Dalit got mauled…
‘dandiya’ sticks left untouched;
an admiring gaze,
his only fault.
Don’t go only by the media
that delights in the macabre;
We too excel in doing so,
they exclaim with proud bows.
Acts of pure evil
condoned as exceptions,
as people are mowed down
in the name of differing skin-tones.
Venom spewed on each difference,
Minorities wiped out,
With pleasure the majority crows.
Where also-rans get trampled
both onscreen and off,
Abuse always seems distant,
not something that happens at home.
Why, O gods, did you kill me?
Whose curse do i need to bear?
Did not the same God make us
or was it a mutant mould of clay?
That’s when a god sauntered in
flashing an eon attire,
Someone asked
Who made him one?
He pointed right back at us.
Another descended
couched in learned overtones,
None dared question her
‘cause she was paraded
by dynasty zealots.
Oh, they keep popping up
like figurines in a puppet show;
None notice the puppeteer
who fingers the strings
with a leer.
As i lay dying,
the gods turned in glee
and mocked.
What a fool –they clucked-
to not know
when to join the crowd.