[stanza][lineate]when the gods[/lineate]
[lineate]finally decided to drink[/lineate]
[lineate]milk at strange temples, some of us[/lineate]
[lineate]were thrilled[/lineate]
[stanza][lineate]a few became sad and awful,[/lineate]
[lineate]pondering over the alleged risks[/lineate]
[lineate]of additional aggregate demand[/lineate]
[stanza][lineate]I did not have much to do[/lineate]
[lineate]with god[/lineate]
[lineate indent=6]So I believed my friends, and biked through traffic jams and rain,[/lineate]
[lineate]to find a Shiv Mandir, near Rangirkhari market.[/lineate]
[stanza][lineate indent=6]One by one, the devotees entered[/lineate]
[lineate]the temple that smelt of chicken blood[/lineate]
[lineate indent=5]and ghee, over burning dry sticks—[/lineate]
[lineate]now pungent, in milk and cow dung[/lineate]
[lineate indent=2]and one by one they disappeared[/lineate]
[lineate]like the milk in the containers they held[/lineate]
[stanza][lineate]I returned home without memory, religion; disappearing[/lineate]
[lineate]further every now and then, when[/lineate]
[lineate]the gods begin to drink[/lineate]
Goirick Brahmachari lives in Delhi. He grew up in Silchar, Assam. His first collection of poems, ‘For the love of Pork’, has recently been published by Les Editions du Zaporogue, Denmark.