Once upon a monsoon time,
when gullibility wasn’t a crime
deep in the muck left by Kashmir rains
this Indian boy was duped again.
Beans for Gertie, the family cow,
who needs dignity anyhow?
Our most beloved bovine
sacred and divine, sold to a
traveling Boxwallah that was blind,
his magic for the weak of mind.
The rain is rabid on the mounds;
the seeds, not sheltered, sure to drown.
A bedtime sloka when lights grow dim;
oceans of kindness I cannot swim.
The morning mat is damp from tears,
but out the window, leaves like ears;
a twining vine that stretches skyward
Mother of gods, Aditi, inspired.
I fill a pouch with flatbread roti,
and write my mother a little notie.
Headed to heaven with just a flute,
praying to Brahman the vines took root.
Climbing up beyond the clouds,
a rumbling of samara’s sounds.
Knocking thrice, insides are drumming,
palm to palm, the master’s coming.
I stand with flute and boldly wait;
my dharma like an iron gate.
Fee Fie Fo Fum!
I smell some putrid Dalit scum.
Namaste, the creator Bhrama’s come.
With him a goose of giant size,
lotus float as his fragrant ride.
Four faces each with compass crowns
and a sultry sitar in golden gown.
My flute lulls him fast asleep
when he looks away, I touch his feet;
blessings spill from him like kernels.
Shanti to all! Truth is eternal!
Moshka’s here, our liberation,
vengeance for the lowest station.
Sitar player and god-like goose
scramble downwards on the loose.
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