It was one of those oratories on Sundays,

Walking down the narrow roads,

And into the foot of the hill,

Borrowed backpack on my back,

Full of cheap magic items,

I was full of energy,

But I was in for a strange Sunday.

The poor hut of an oratory,

With its broken door shut,

Bore a deserted look.

I looked around for some life,

And then I felt the tug at my sleeve,

A tiny ward of mine looked up,

Pulling me by the hand to the cliff.

I saw a great crowd feasting.

Everyone eating and drinking,

Most of them red in the mouth,

Betel leaves and limestone,

Lots of laughter and banter.

Lots of food and drinks in the hearse,

Decorated with the best of Shillong daisies.

When I saw the old man laid out,

In his three-piece Sunday suit,

I felt liberated unsure from what,

Death primitively celebrated.