Let us walk then, you and me,

When the genocide is spread alongside the blue,

Like a guiding principle, deed upon a chart;

Let us walk, through marked deserted helmets,

Emptied of Pundits and Hindus

Of slogan dins in one-night Jihad nurseries, 

Among Purohit's innocence and Pragya's incorruptibility,

Repression without any evidence

Of foul purpose

To escort all to an irresistible query...

Oh, never question, "What horror is this? ''

Let us go and make our visit.

In the room, the women come and go

In the discussion of secularism and social justice. 

 

The secular haze that wipes its farce on the law-books,

The social justice fire that strokes its gag on the merit;

Thrash their serpentine idiom into the space of nation, 

Hang upon the ponds of blood that plunk in drains.

Saddened to see the stain from burnt and plundered habitats,

Fallen from the terrace, made an abrupt dive,

And seeing the flaming temples on a dark night,

Stood once about the dwellings, hymned, still hurt.

 

And undeniably there will be era

For the Jihadi mobs, those pelt stones and burn the streets,

Wielding knives and stones;

Taught to kill, taught to kill,

Sermonizes a face to kill the neighbours, next door;

There will be beliefs to slay and disguise,

And era for all the toils and days at hands, 

That lifts and drops tyranny into nation;

All for you, but nothing for me,

And era yet for a hundred hesitancy,

But for hollow ideas and amendments,

Those turn lies and bigotry into history.

In the room, the women come and go

In the discussion of secularism and social justice. 

 

And definitely all the time,

To speculate, ``I live in fear?'' and, ``I live in fear?''

Time to see around and tumble down the steps,

With a dagger by my neck --

[They will say: ``Wipe them out! Wipe them out!'']

My fading stars, the dagger firmly in position,

The push will end, soon as it, nonetheless a cut --

[They are taught: ``Not to consider us as a human being? '']

How do I dare to survive in this world?

In a split second, there will be past tense,

For the name of the victim and murderer will be written.

 

For entire world know them all already, known them well:

It is their faith to assassinate, riots, pogroms,

I have devoted my life to cow service;

I hear the voices frightening my dying collapse,

Beneath, the prayers from a farther minaret.

So how should I count myself as human?

 

And I have branded the eyes already, known to all--

The eyes that attach you to an invented distinctiveness,

And when I am devised, rambling on a badge,

When I am fixed and writhing the fence,

Then how should I embark on

To emanate out my nationality?

And how should I count me as a human?

 

And I have known the notorious hands already, known to all--

Arms those are lifted in hate and in terror

[But in the lamp-post, you can see the blood!]

Even the smoke from a pyre

That makes me so wonder.

Hands that strangle an alien, or slaughter their neighbour.

And should I then think? Is it I end, most foul?

                             .   .   .   .   .

Shall I say, I have gone from dawn to dusk praying? 

And heard them say that I am not wanted, a Kafir

Of maddened men in a skullcap, the symbol awe and fear. .

 

I should have been a Pundit

Chased to his death upon the streets.                             .   .   .   .   .

And the insanity, the indictments come so frequently!

By critics, harsh and rough,

In print . . . on TV . . . in the campuses …or the internet,

Extended on the mortuary slab, here alongside you and me,

Should I…, morning, afternoon, evenings and nights.  

 

Nobody has the strength to call out the fascists,

But though I have cried and fasted, cried and pleaded,

Though I have seen my head [grown slightly bald] brought in upon a plate,

I am a follower of the Rama--and my demise is no big topic;

I have seen the moment of my parity in gutter,

And I have seen the timeless prayer at the minaret,

Really, I am afraid.

 

And would it have been significant, after all,

After the glasses, the jams, the coffee,

Among the ceramic, amid a little talk of you and me,

Would it have been sensible,

To have nibbled off the theme with a smile,

To have compressed the cosmos into a ball

To spin it en route for some awesome query,

To say: ``I am Godhra victim, appear from the dead,

I always ask, was my murder necessary? Was it worth essential at all? ''--

A politician, comforting on a bolster by his head,

 I would say: ``that is not the discussion now.

 Not at all, not at all.''

 

And would it have been significant, at all,

Would it have been meaningful?

Paid protests, the candlelight marches, drama by fake rationalists- killed,

Award waspsi game by corrupt winners, Jihadi riots and pogroms that trail beside,

after almost every single political party of Afzal lovers--

All this, and so much more?—

It is not possible to articulate just what they mean!

But as if a supernatural hurricane lantern fling the nerves,

In prototypes of death on a screen:

Would it have been meaningful?

If some comrade columnist, resting on a cushion or honouring with a cap,

And whirling toward the glass should say:

"That is not what we crave for the demonstrate,

That is not what nation wants, at all.''

                             .   .   .   .   .

No, my faith is not treated an equal to others', nor was destined to be;

They say I am a majority but treated worst than minority,

One that will do like a tame puppy,

To mock my patriotism and non-violence piercingly,

Grovel over my faith; common, an easy device,

Beguiling but prized to be of use,

Discreet, alert, and scrupulous;

Full of high advice but farce and complete stupid;

All the times, certainly, utterly bizarre

And, many a time, hate.

 

I grow old . . . I grow old . . .

I shall wear my shroud bloodied.

 

Shall I hide my faith and name? A nation is with slaughterers.

Skullcap and burqa are revered and visits to masjid-Mazar is healthy,

Nobody is allowing the bhakts to sing peace hymns.

I do not think that I will enjoy freedom.

 

I have seen them running amuck in Kashmir, Kairana, Mallapuram, Malda;

Cleaning the lanes for those not of their breed

Any occasion is a method to clean and comb.

 

We have stayed behind in the delusion of tolerance, secularism and democracy

Told to us by secular believers, taught to us in school by fake liberals,  

Till nationalist and patriotic voices stir us, lest we sink.


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