Mumbai / India 19 December 2019 Indian muslim girl hold poster protests against anti muslim controversial Citizenship Amendment Bill ( CAB CAA ) at August Kranti Maidan in Mumbai Maharashtra India
By Arun Sambhu Mishra/Shutterstock.com



When the Heart is Desecrate

When the heart is desecrate,
Fervour reigns supreme.
No prayerful heart ever requires
A temple for esteem.

Love is a beggarly itinerant
And seeks for love abroad;
Loving beggars show scant pursuit
Of temple, mosque, or god.

Those that hate must first destroy
Another’s house of prayer;
Then build their temple brick by brick
On a frenzy of gleeful fear.

Greater the guilt more the gold
That devotees bequeath
To idols who cannot berate
From behind the golden wreath.

O for shrines of nakedness
That encumbrances shun;
No prayer may ever be more telling
Than that of naked men.


Remembering Professor

We raised eyebrows when Higgins asked “why can’t a woman be more like a man?”
Look how whole nations now build upon
That thought in the Professor’s brain.

In the land of the free and home of the brave—
The “oldest democracy” we are told—
Why can’t the black be more like the white
Is the lament of the beautiful and the bold.

And in the “largest democracy”
A parallel ask is rampant now;
Why can’t a Muslim be more like a Hindu,
And propitiate his gods and the holy cow?

In the monarchies of the Middle East
We hear the insistent call
That it is not enough that we Muslims be
But that we better be Wahabi Sunnis all.

Men in charge of governments
Desire, in the interests of unity,
That citizens be of one single mind,
And repudiate “God’s own variety.”

Yet the Good Book says with clarity
That those that have shall get;
And all other Good Books say the same
In sacred alphabet.

So now that God made us all unlike,
He must have meant some to make the rules,
And ordained the White, the Brahmin,
And the Wahabi to whiplash the lowly fools

Whom God in his wisdom chose not to make
White, Brahmin, Wahabi, or rich,
But, like women of any clime,
Slaves to the dominant itch.

It is the task of the bramble and thorn
To set off and serve the regal rose;
The feet may well be necessary,
But a foot cannot be a nose.

Let diversity then not be made
An argument for democracy;
No democracy may equalize
The Elect and the Hoi Polloi.

The Equality idea anyway
Died with Robespierre;
It is now only a politic brand
That “successful” democracies cannily wear.



A tough old race of ancient men,
Kin to the dynasaur,
Now return to recharge the earth
With ablutions of gore.

Not a tree that does not bend
To the whisper of their tread;
Not a bird of free discourse
Who is not full of dread.

What were cities and high-rises
Are lethal caves and grottos;
I see mammoths stomp the streets
Where used to be autos.

Monkeys with monster tails
Are sentinels to nations;
Creatures with elephant heads
Preside over deliberations.

For long did mere humanity
Enfeeble the earth;
Sapiens seem once again
To recoup a primitive birth.

What pride that this revolution
Should boldly portend
From a hallowed territory
Of no beginning, no end.


All is not Lost

All is not lost.
The young still feel the sting
Of oppression.

Setting aside the quiescent
Counsel of terrified time,
They rise, singing a defiant rhyme.

Women, dragged by the hair,
Lead the march of assertion
Against the strategy of fear.
While the batons of state
Sought the men for correction,
Women in hijab shielded the men.
A new dauntless beauty was born,
Promising a conjoint dawn.

From Arunachal to Chennai,
From Punjab to the Hooghly
The roar goes up—“we
Will not be Zion, we will not be Nazi.”

The perfidious who seek to sunder
confront an unsought wonder:
those that the new law has included
For nefarious favour march
To embrace the excluded.

Gandhi smiles from the sky
At the tenacity of his legacy.

Young women and men
Lay the foundation
Of a second struggle for freedom
And common love.

Let the failed elders now
Take heed, relinquish petty
Feuds, and come to the table
Of emancipation that the
Young have seamlessly laid
And sanctified with fresh blood.

Let there be no going back now.


Suddenly, the gods are missing,
The people are everywhere.
Those that were circumspect
Seem to have shed their fear.

Thunder from the pulpit
Is a shriek and a shout,
A howl and a wounded plea
From traumatic loss of clout.

When little men come to knowledge
Of persistent subterfuge,
The affront liberates their cowering souls
Into the power of deluge.

What had seemed invincible
Becomes a pack of cards;
They come to look like mannequins
That strutted like gods.

Hang on, dear people,e verywhere,
Oppressions have little sway
Unless we choose to be befooled
By the trickster of the day.

Do not give the found-out gods
Excuse of violent wrath.
Walk in peace and shared truth
A democratic path.