A History of Violence

A river flowed here
When we reached the valley
Carrying our gods
On the strains of our songs.
(Some gods were more enterprising:
Khunlung and Khunlai climbed down on their own
From heaven on a golden ladder)

Our gods were good gods, free gods
They mixed well, changed names, traded identities
Like the river, they ebbed and flowed
Sometimes we too ebbed and flowed, together
On the banks of our river, singing
Luitare pani jabi o boi…
But we were only human
Soon we wanted to be our own gods.

We called the river Red
Because that was our favored color
And we thought the favorite of our gods
Who drank the red blood we offered
And read patterns in sacrificial blood.
We drowned our gods in the red river
Where we drained the blood from our souls
And thought: Now this is how we pray.

The deafening noise of our prayers
Could not be drowned
By the river Red which flowed on
Blood clotting in its heart
Skeletal remains of our sacrifices
Clogging its veins
Till one day, there was a river no more
And our gods died a violent death.

Notes:
Luitare pani jabi o boi… : Literally, “Waters of the Luit, keep flowing…” A line from a song by Jyotiprasad Agarwala.)