Sant But Sepoy

Abe, gore, don't you dare call me browny, those days are gone.

My om Shanti is not weakness but peace.

Don't underestimate me, my kalarpayattu is not for dance but to kill, like you.

You have spoken enough ill about my mother, open your stinky mouth again, and suddenly you will vanish, the Chinese tasted our marking.

And ma, your son has grown, but for me, you are forever high and mighty, like the Himalayas.

Your anchal is our tiranga.

I am your son, see me in the Sikh regiment, the Marathas, madras engineers, Bihar regiment, raj rifles, and Haryanvi dangal.

Ma, we are no doubt Sants but sepoys to the core, your blessings will never go waste, my promise, your anchal is my pagri.

As a toddler, I watched mesmerized, your dance, with big red bindi, with Payal, and dance kathakali, Bharath Natyam, Kuchipudi, Lavani.

Like the dancing of mother Ganga, when she descended into the hair locks our shiva.

Is that all, no.

When my mother sings even nature sways, like the dance of eternal parents, Parvati, and Parameswaran, ardhnareeswar.

Buster, be careful, my ma is a warrior, rani Laxmi bai.

She trained her children, to be as Chhatrapati Sivaji Raje Maharaj.

We never were usurpers, but your damage to us is immense, don't dare to rewrite my mother's history again, pakhand.

We don't have in our actual history rapes, it's the invader's cultures.

In our homes, our homemakers are worshipped, asht Laxmi namostute.

Sad we have our quota of foxes.

The blade has an edge and it's writhing like Nagraj, in its sheath, all in good time dear, all in good time, it's like a tiger which tasted human blood recently.