DEVASTHAN (For Asifa Bano)

When gypsy tribes move
From camp to camp,
What they are looking for is blessings, shelter and
A rotten piece of bread,

When rotten souls move around,
They look for hungry eyes and flat stomachs of fathers
With flat eyes, flat destinies.

But one certain day, a week actually,
Some people used a palm of sacred water to douse a forest fire,
How do I say it, what they did!
A small child for their desires!

A flower plucked and crushed
And turned to paste, a flower yet to
Even gain fragrance. And first time
Ever a flower was taken, to the temple but not for
any god, or god-like
Stone. But for the devil within.

The god within, if there was one,
Covered its eyes with its palms
And walked out of the temple
Helplessly.

1947: KILL!

Kill him! He is Muslim!
Was the call of the crowd.
Swords and knives in hand,
All of them behind me, and
My breath losing its faith,
No time to catch breath and wait..
I ran up the street,
The lane was dark and discreet..
I took a turn to my alley,
The crowd halted
I had no idea
Why my blood they wanted.
Behind the filthy wall I sat
Quietness in the air, voices dead,
And then, suddenly, arose another roar,
Safe among my people, but sore,
I saw a man running, scared and sad,
A crowd behind him, beastly mad,
The same song I heard, the tune was new,
'Kill him,' they said, 'He is a Hindu!'