The Queue Poem by Bishnupada Sethi

Back then, in the lanes of childhood,
a young man in our neighbourhood kept a vow:
if the betel vine bore heavy,
unscorched by sun, unbitten by blight,
he would offer a goat to Maa Kali
on Navami night,
miles away in the next village.

I trailed him, hungry for the feast
that followed blood.
The goat rode tied to his bicycle frame,
hooves knocking the spokes
like small, anxious drums.

At the temple, hundreds waited in line—
foreheads smeared red with vermilion,
bodies washed clean for death.
Sahada leaves lay beside them;
they chewed slowly, trustingly,
until the one ahead vanished
and the next felt the wet warmth on the stones,
shivered, and stepped forward anyway
into the slot of blood and sindoor
where the bahuk's blade fell once—clean.

Years later I stand in another queue,
winding up the Nilachal hills
to Kamakhya's womb-red temple,
begging the Goddess to loosen the knots of this life.
The familiar smell drifts down the line—
warm goat, wet hide, fear-sweat, incense—
thick as memory itself.

Many who once walked with me
are no longer ahead nor behind.
They have already reached the slot.

The new devotees jostle, eager,
pushing at my back with soft, living hands.
I almost smile.
There is no need to hurry.
The blade is patient;
it will wait for every one of us
exactly as long as we take
to arrive.