I, an Indian Muslim,
shall never speak of my pain,
inflicted by inked fingers,
and ever share equal blame.
I, the victim,
should sing praises to the oppressors,
for the mercy, they keep showering,
for letting me ‘exist’.
I, the subaltern in the Promised Land,
that was to be equally mine,
stay confined to a ghetto,
haunted by the dangers lurking outside.
I, an eternal threat,
every child that I bear is another enemy of the state,
or phobia if I dare say,
that I may outnumber them in 200 years, or someday.
Today, they tell me this country is not mine,
my forefathers, not my kind.
I, the ‘son of Babur’,
should have a bullet lodged into my skull.
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I, the lesser Indian,
stand on a thin-thin line,
again to prove my patriotism,
demand, you may as many times.
I, an Indian Muslim,
the order is ever-changing,
Indian when I shed my religion,
and a Muslim as ever undesired.
I am an Indian but a Muslim,
bullied and marginalised,
lynched, dreaded and always deserted,
by the ones, I thought were mine.
I, an Indian, but a Muslim,
thirty crores of my kind,
need more than reassurances
that all will be fine.