By Goirick Brahmachari
Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy!
The world is holy!
The entire north east India is holy!
The Bengalis are holy!
The Assamese are holy!
The Khasis are holy!
The Jaintias, Pnar and Garos are holy!
The Manipuris are holy, holy Bishnupriya Manipuris,
Holy all the different lovely people in Manipur, Arunachal and Dima Hasao,
Holy Mizos, Holy Bodos, Holy Nagas –
Holy Nagas, even though they do not agree
That Liangmais in Manipur and Rongmeis in Silchar are Nagas too.
Holy Biharis, Holy Marwaris, Holy tea planters,
Holy Fishermen. Holy poets. Holy school teachers who mastered the art of punishing silent students with their cheap English. Holy the sadistic Bengali civilized bhodrotta.
Holy all the angelic Tripuris, Holy Lepchas.
Holy my Nepali friends fighting for a Gorkha land
in Lepcha land.
Holy Bengali Muslims, who traded their lives for tongue
during a bloody Assam movement. Holy the Khasis who saved non-tribals during the ethnic cleansing in 1979.
Holy insiders, holy outsiders.
Every fucking word is holy!
Holy marriage, Holy infidelity.
Holy Bangladesh, Holy Pakistan, Holy Steely Dan
Holy my school bullies, Holy Mai ki Mazar.
Holy Ajmer, Holy Vashisht and Kasol.
Holy Jaydeep, Holy Sonali, Holy Aaliya, Holy Tilak, Holy Abhimanyu, “Holy the unknown buggered and suffering beggars, holy the hideous human angels!”
Holy the mothers who get raped and killed in unknown police stations on dead day light and doubly dead nights. Holy the prostitutes I chatted with every day during my guitar lesson at Fatak Bazar.
Holy Beats, Holy Hungry poets, Holy Dylan – holy every fucking word he wrote. Holy Ghatak, Holy Nabarun.
Holy the unholy holy cross,
Holy the new Pope, Holy Sain Zahoor, Holy Khusro, Holy Marx,
Holy Bhimsen, Holy Mclaughlin, Holy Freddie Mercury.
Holy starvation, holy death, holy the bizarre ecstasy at Hauz Khas village.
Holy my broken laptop in rage.
Holy Shiva, Holy Allah,
Holy Jesus who ran through my veins
like a cold stream when Angie died.
Holy the lovers at central park under summer sun,
Holy the cold lovers at the Metro station,
Holy fat aunts at the shopping mall,
Holy be your poems,
Holy cold rooms in smoke and canned air,
Holy every period that ends a poem.
[This poem mimics Allen Ginsberg’s “Footnote to Howl”]
Goirick Brahmachari is a writer based in Dilli. He hails from Silchar, Assam.
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