Holy Basil

By Archita Nongthombam

There grew a Holy Basil

At the entrance to my home,

On the pedestal of blue bucket

It spreads divine and green.

Every morning its leaves

Adorned the plates of brass, copper and silver.

My mother fed everyone a leaf

For health and boon.

But little did she know the Holy Basil

Didn’t grow on the water

She poured chanting prayer,

Little did she know the Holy Basil

Died in the scorching blaze,

Dried up transpiring at the entrance

Between hell and heaven.

Its dry twig caught the rims

Of every passer-by and broke itself.

The Holy Basil caught mine,

And I watered it with fowl blood.

I sinned but didn’t against necessary;

I saw it parched and soothed it.

Then it resurrected on its blue pedestal

Spread wide and divine

At the entrance, adorning

The plates and embodying

Boon and prayers.

But little did my mother know

It didn’t grow on the water

She offered with prayer.

By Archita Nongthombam