K E N Y O : 154 Taboos in the Mouth of the Hills #BlogchatterA2Z #poetry

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(A Fractured Hymn for Khonoma)

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I. Genesis of the Taboos
In the beginning,
there wasn’t a word,
but a warning:
Don’t.

Don’t pluck the elder fern.
Don’t step on a shadow
if it slants too proud.
Don’t eat alone.
Don’t speak
if the forest hasn’t first.

Don’t forget:
the gods have no ears,
but they see everything
in how you treat the silence.

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II. The Fabric of Kenyo
Kenyo is not merely law—
it is a lullaby in bone,
a hum beneath the housepost
where ancestors once hung
their spears like windchimes.

It wasn’t steel that made them polite.
It was the red hornbill.
The echo of bamboo flutes.
The frown of rice grain
if threshed before the moon grants permission.

Each taboo is stitched
into the warp of millet baskets
and the weft of whispers
traded under moonless skies.

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III. The Unattended Store
I asked a boy selling chilies,
“How do you run a store with no keeper?”
He laughed with his teeth closed:
“It runs me instead.”
Then dropped a ten rupee coin
into a wooden box
without checking if I watched.

The store isn’t a place.
It’s a mirror.
A test.
A shrine of trust
where change is not just coins
but character.

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IV. The Silence Between
Kenyo is the silence
between accusation and trust.
It is the unwritten psalm
sung only by those who
have never
needed
a lock.

It is the hush
that follows wrongdoing
when the wrongdoer judges themselves
without court or punishment.

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V. Selected Taboos
Rule 1:
If you see a butterfly sleeping
on your axe—sleep instead.

Rule 27:
Do not whistle at dusk;
the trees are listening,
and some of them are still grieving.

Rule 54:
Do not teach your tongue
to say what your heartbeat won’t sign.

Rule 89:
Return the first fish you catch.
It is a scout, not a gift.

Rule 109:
If you steal from the forest,
your child will be born
with the silence of trees
where his laughter should be.

Rule 153:
Do not name your anger.
It will answer.

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VI. The Invisible Governance
Kenyo has no capital.
Kenyo has no parliament.
Kenyo does not stand on paper
but on collective memory
scattered like salt
on millet.

Its flag is the morning mist.
Its anthem is the birdcall
no one dares to mimic.

It doesn’t require enforcement.
It breathes through the shoulders
of those who carry water
without spilling a single belief.

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VII. Beyond Primitivism
Do not mistake this for primitivism.
This is post-modernity
wrapped in foliage,
where no QR code
can scan the morality
of dusk.

This is not ancient;
this is now—
only quieter,
less greedy,
more alive.

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VIII. The Time Before
There was a time
before the motorbike roared,
before the preacher came with alphabets,
when even stones obeyed
the 154.

And justice was a song
that stopped you mid-step
because your grandmother hummed it
the moment you lied.

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IX. The Maternal Code
Kenyo is a mother of 154 children—
each a rebellion against the seduction
of convenience.
Each a knife
carved from conscience.

It never shouted.
It stared.
And the stare
was enough to disassemble pride.

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X. The Weight of Guilt
I stole once.
In another town.
From a supermarket
with fluorescent denial.
But in Khonoma,
my hands sweat
in the presence
of unattended tomatoes.

Even the tomatoes
seem to know.
Even the soil here
whispers names
you didn’t give it.

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XI. The Blood Memory
And that is how it works:
Kenyo lives
not in the eye
but in the blood.

You are not taught it—
you inherit it
like a second heartbeat,
quieter,
but older.

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XII. The Escaped Policy
One day,
a politician tried
to translate Kenyo into policy.

It escaped.

He was last seen
walking into the forest
without his ambition.
The trees refused to shade him.

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XIII. The Chorus of Birds
Do not interrupt the chorus
of 154 birds singing
at the funeral of apathy.

They do not sing for joy.
They sing to remind the hills
that no one forgets
what you promised
when the mist was watching.

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XIV. The Syllable of Resistance
Kenyo, Kenyo, Kenyo—
you syllable of resistance,
you architecture of invisible fences
stronger than steel.

Teach us again
how to not.
How to withhold
without absence.
How to revere
without rules.

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XV. Of Fire and Forgiveness
Before forgiveness came, there was fire.
Fire to cleanse, not to burn.
If you wronged the village,
you lit a small flame near the sacred tree,
not to ask, but to wait—
until the wind changed direction
or a bird sang thrice,
signaling your welcome back.

To err was not to fall.
To stay fallen was.

Kenyo taught:
to forgive is to remember
and walk beside the memory
without shame.

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XVI. The Inheritance of Pebbles
The child is taught not by scolding,
but by the hand that places
a pebble in their palm,
one for every rule broken.
They carry it in silence—
a growing riverbed of conscience.

One day, the child returns
the pebbles to the stream
without words,
and the elders nod:
this is how Kenyo lives on—
not in fear,
but in the cool weight
of small truths remembered.

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#Kenyo #Khonoma #Nagaland #TribalWisdom #IndigenousLaw #Poetry #EthicalLiving #IndianVillages #NagaCulture #PoetryOfResistance #OralTraditions #TaboosThatGuide #154Taboos #CulturalMemory #SustainableLiving

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