Image courtesy: The Open Magazine
If you were to gag me
and muffle my rebellion,
or put a chowkidar
at every street corner
to stop and interrogate me
about my community
my religion
my whereabouts
my loyalties,
or put me in jail
and imprison my thoughts
blowing in the wind
like the Muezzin’s call for Azan,
or throttle and dare me
to sing patriotic songs;
I wouldn't tolerate.
No more.
Now I will be the traitor
Not a sycophant,
Not your yes-man
I will not die for you
or not bow this head
at the feet
of your formidable throne
No raised hand
No weapons
No more at the service of
your machismo
I will not move an inch,
will not walk obediently
on your suggested paths.
Will not blemish
my imagination
by dipping it
in your tainted ideals
I will not trade
creativity for hatred.
Yes, I will write poems.
Like Agha Shahid Ali.
On your walnuty heart
I will carve
intricate Khatam-band.
Forests of Birches and Chinar
will grow on the tip of
every word, my chisel.
In the silent spaces
between words shall bloom
fragrant, purple fields of Kesar.
Silken villages, silken roads
once destroyed
peace-loving members of my family
shall come to inhabit
sounds of these words.
And from their rhythm
shall flow pure waters
of Jhelum and Chenab
Here
Here is where
we shall redraw
the maps of a new Hindustan
Read the Gujarati original here.
