Who Is My God? Poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar

At a new moon in the jungle
Was brought to an altar
A roaring goat, fully black,

By an awesome peasant
To the fearsome Kali,
Made of granite, red in cloak,

Under arbour of a peepul,
Who before stood
At dawn of death, the poor goat

Like a bull in a fight,
Arresting the attention
Of everyone, unknown of his fate.

The beast was put to rites,
Smeared with sandal paste
And fully drenched in water

Till he shivered a jerk,
Which was taken as token of nod
By grace of Goddess for her feast.

The peasant was pleased;
The priest was pleased;
So were all, as though they’re blest.

One held his hind-legs,
Stretching them well behind,
The other bending up his front one,

The third locking his head
Hard onto the altar
For the priest to accomplish.

The act was done at a stroke
By the learned priest, merciless,
For the Goddess, all merciful.

Many-wards squirted the blood
Like a carpet, red,
Before the Goddess, her tongue dripping.

All felt that they had met
The thirst of Ma, full
As did a mother her child, ere asking.

The agony that was undergone,
Murder they committed,
And pathos that prevailed, who noticed?

The beheaded beast went straight,
To the feet of the Goddess,
“Ma, am I not your child?

If not, who is my Mother? ”
Her lids dripped,
She cursed for having been chiseled
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