I lived and breathed poetry
And endorsed all forms of it
Except Miya.
All human I considered brothers
I cried at everyone’s pain
Except that of Miya.
I was above caste and creed
I ate with everyone
Except with Miya.
My home was open for all
Everyone was welcome
But not Miya.
I had friends everywhere
Almost in every community
But none amongst Miya.
I appreciated hard work
Even of my enemies
But not that of Miya.
I could not but help people
The needy, the poor
But my heart did not move for Miya.
All languages were sweet to me
I tried to learn them all
Except the tongue of Miya.
I did not judge anyone by appearance
At least, not by strips on their loincloth
But it’s different with the Miya.
A basic level of respect
I showed everyone
But not the Miya.
I spoke against stereotyping
Everyone should not be painted with the same brush
But could not help but hate all the Miya.
I was against discrimination
Since i was well-educated
But i despised every single unborn Miya.
I abhored the Miya so much
I wanted to just call myself ‘Oxo’
And drop the ‘miya’!
But wait!!
That was my old self, filled with bitterness’
Flying right, being sure of its rightness,
Bathed in antipathy, dressed in darkness;
Carrying the burden of a soul so sick,
Just the baleful views, it used to pick.
Until i stopped fearing the non-existent,
Illusionary peril of extinction;
Silenced the beast in me and refused,
To be consumed by detestation;
Reborn enlightened, learning to discern,
Loyalism from abomination.
Yet let me address you, my new comrade,
My mother let you thrive, and offered you bread;
You tread on her bosom, day and night,
But to alter her colour, you have no right.
Bounteous she is, and hospitable,
A plethora of tunes she sings;
Opened she doors for caravans and horses,
Gifted she glory to many a kings.
O wretched one from across,
Now that you are here;
Pledge your loyalty, unwavering,
And hold my mother dear.
Let her troubles bother you,
Let her woes make you cry;
Toil to wash away her worries,
And wipe her tears dry.
Be amazed at her greatness,
Her glorious past, her promising present;
In her unorthodox, syncretic heart,
Merged the Aum, the Cross and the Crescent.
None other than my beloved mother,
At whose arms your exodus ended;
So dance and rejoice in gratitude,
Her treasures to you she handed.
If you dare add ‘Oxo’ before ‘Miya’,
Or care to call yourself her son;
Be sure to give that honour its due,
Forget not your promises, not even one.
In my heart, I do believe,
Her love will win you over;
You cannot help but be a loyal son,
And in need, fight for her cover.
At her feet you shall find yourself,
Singing anthems of praise;
Unsated, one more time,
Longing to see her face.
About the Poet :
Dr, Hrishikesh Kashyapa
Literary Secretary, Asomi