Afruza Sent Me Some Dates
Month of RamadanAfruza sent some dates for meIn a packet marked brotherhood.
Written in a chit‘Relish the dates, bhaijaan’.
I do not observe RozaSo no sehri or iftar eitherAfruza sent me some datesfrom her share of iftarIn a packet marked brotherhood
Someone whispered in my ears‘Dates from Mecca are prohibited’.
Afruza sent me some dates from Mecca.Taking the black dates into my handsNo thought of Allah or God crossed my mindThe picture of the date plantsStanding on a distant desertWithstanding the scorching sunshineIs flashing on my mental screenThe picture of the date plantsStanding bathed in the misty moonlightIs flashing on my mental screenThose that do not call out for Allah or Godcall out for human beingsRelentlessly
It is not knownTo those date treesWho is Allah?Who is God?
Afruza sent meSome dates
Afruza Afruza AfruzaThat very AfruzaWho even after having a mosqueHad built a temple in her bosom.
Month of RamadanAfruza sent some dates for meIn a packet marked brotherhood
To the address ofSecularism.
Birth of a Poet
You tell his namewhose birth never took placeAt your sheer indifferencehe went backfrom the murmuring ghats of birth.To give birth to whoma woman waited foreveryou tell his name
On whose door the words became bashful visitorswhose secret partner on bed waswords resembling the mermaid of fairy-talesYou didn't look at him.At your boundless indifference he went backthe one who keeps on looking for his birthplacejutting his head out of the window of a trainyou tell his name.
He hasn't been able to remember himselfWhy did he come to the midst of the topsy-turvy of wordsto erase himself so muchwhy did he try to construct himselfbeneath his blood?
He couldn’t become a reflected image evenfor whose birth there was no mirrorYou tell his name who was not bornHad he been bornhe, sitting on the river bankwould have been lured away by the waves of the sea!
If he had been borna creeper would have climbed one of his legsthat creeper which would have snatched the lips of the windOn his other foot he would have worna single shoe made of stone so thathe could have trampled underfootthe glasses dancing in guffaws.
When he remains asleephe is most awakein the dreams of thatbearded German.
To open the doors below groundWhy didn’t you let him be born?Why didn’t you let him be born?
He couldn’t find outa bush of words with no sound at allYou people have uprootedall the quiescent bushes.
You tell his name who wasn't born at allthe one who wouldn't have expended sense of justice by any meansMoving alongside youDescending, on and on, the staircase of your bosomthat eternally restless soulIf he had been bornhe would have gone to sleep with the gibbous moonbeneath the golden shower flowers
A cowshed full of cowswould have danced in glee at his birthA woman would have been singing the whole night rural idyllsHe, who was not even bornwould have walked along the footpathalong which readers the readers come and go,Who would have woken upsleeping liquorwho would have woken upthe sleeping leveretsin the houses of the small hours!
He touches and feelsthe bones within his bonesHe touches and feelsthe flesh inside his fleshand seeking findsa soul constructed with languageA little soft time that dropped from historythreatens that tired soulwho wears ash-coloured attire.
He died even before his birththe signs of his death like wails, those too,You haven't been able to discern with eyesAlas! You haven't been able to discern them.
On the banks of your utter indifferenceNo poet is born hereNo poet is born here!
