Ah, ancient mother
up creeps the cold on red leaves
will fade like lipstick you never knew.
But your tongue was red, Gargi
your breath hot.
I owe you nothing except the arrows
you gave me for the Brahmin-Academy.
Now as then cold creeps up.
The literary critic,
the academy-writer and the baker
all hustle for the warmth:
Men learn from women - you were the best.
Remember that ancient time?
Yagnavalkya put his tail between his teeth-
and begged for PEACE...
Even King Janaka taught the priests until they
concocted rules,
Cast these out as the words of god: at the tip sits a
Brahmin! All the while you knew
not only Brahmins knew they alone did not know...
These days Gargi, ashrams become university chairs
and daughters think of tenure
more dogmatic than old brahmins
more formalised than caste
more accepted...
Quickly send me that tongue to keep me warm
in the coming cold. I can sharpen arrowheads
for Yagnavalkya
And we can laugh when he pleads our health -
He put his tail between his teeth:
"If you ask too many questions your head will burst!"
Whose head Gargi, whose head?
Your bastard son
who needs your tongue?
By Sasenarine Persaud
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