Delhi, sobs of a Muslim child
The writers are freelance journalists. They can be<br />
<br />
contacted at adeelanaureen@gmail.com
People mourn next to the body of a riot victim in New Delhi on February 27, 2020. PHOTO: REUTERS
Delhi has seen some of the most tragic and harrowing incidents where Muslims were targeted by an RSS-orchestrated pogrom.
As reports of anti-Muslim atrocities pour through social media, the world has come to know about the carnage. Burnt properties, desecrated mosques and mutilated bodies discovered from drains and gutters have become a stark reminder to the world’s conscience that the neo-Nazi agenda of the MAD (Modi-Amit-Doval) circus is a blot on the face of India.
The trauma suffered by young the children of the Muslim community will keep haunting them for the rest of their lives. To express the pain and fear of Muslim children, an ode reflecting their anguish has been written to become a testament to the dark chapter in Indian polity, with the hope that some people with a conscience will read it and try stopping the insanity of the MAD circus.
This poem is an inspired version of our two poems on Gazan, Kashmiri and Syrian children, published in a mainstream newspaper on November 2012 and March 2018, respectively.
Delhi, sobs of a Muslim kid
Lynch mobs shouting Jai Shri Ram
And Doval advising me to stay calm
Ruined, devoured, ravaged and battered
My life is totally shattered
As the police trucks rumble pass my gutted home
And I glance over the burnt mosque’s dome
The skyline devoid of birds and painted in monochrome
Whispers, choked throats and hushed tones
Screams, sirens and blood brine
Like blackness in the depth of a coal mine
The country side has become a large guillotine
Greetings from the hell hole of Khajuri Khas
To Tehran, Dubai, Moscow, Riyadh and Kansas
Of dead bodies and carcass
Seelampur’s bloo- stained canvas
Shameless death of humanity’s colossus
We have called for help to the deaf ears of the Ummah
A dead beast good for nothing
With pigmy leaders always bluffing
Carcasses of decaying bodies of a billion plus
Feet of clay with virtually no truss
We have become nameless and non-existent
Thanks for your non-support
It has been so persistent
Jafrabad has a dusty wild mosaic
With systems gone archaic
Of burnt streets and shacks
Like a town of smokestacks
Fathers carrying slain bodies of kids in hides
And kids burying their parents, besides
Atomised neighbourhoods, clans and divides
We have become ‘Posters’ for warring sides
Dogs gnawing at the flesh of human bodies
The stench of blood in dark allies
Masked men passing through valleys
RSS traumatising us through rallies
And the media counting death tolls and tallies
Dead bodies tangled in the rubble and broken chairs
We hold daily funeral prayers
Ah, Maujpur has become a graveyard under the media’s glare
No more rainbows on our sky, my dear
No gaggling, no laughing, it’s a city in despair
Life has frozen in a dark tunnel of corpses and coffins
Of phosphorus smells and toxins
A city of human dust bins
A slaughterhouse of Muslims
You cannot bury the dead in time
Wait for intervals in the bombing rhyme
In daily routine of gun fire chime
The earth is soiled, filthy and begrime
And there are no seasons in Chandbagh, just burnt grass
No more chirping sounds of sparrows, alas
No bustle of market, no school, no class
Life is like walking daily on broken glass
No colours, no play, no hobbies
No memories left in the house of Zombies
Daily count of dead bodies
No meadows, gardens and green valleys
Grim destiny and the short span of smiles
Fetching water from ten miles
Our scary lifestyles
Heaps of boulders and trash piles
I am hushed and scared
Uncertainty stalks the neighbourhood, left uncared
Dark shadows of snipers on roof tops, prepared
The shrieks of someone slaughtered or snared
Or hurled down from a five story block, score squared
Here humanity is impaired
The sparrows of Gokulpuri are no more
My young brother lying bare on the bloodstained floor
I peep through the front yard’s broken door
For there is nothing left but a twisted baby cot
As I clean my brother’s blood clot
And look up to God in distressed fraught
I see the angels descending for the final escort
His bruised legs are getting cold
And the blood oozing out uncontrolled
My tears cross the threshold
His hushed hiccups becoming breathless, behold
The writers are freelance journalists. They can be contacted at adeelanaureen@gmail.com
As reports of anti-Muslim atrocities pour through social media, the world has come to know about the carnage. Burnt properties, desecrated mosques and mutilated bodies discovered from drains and gutters have become a stark reminder to the world’s conscience that the neo-Nazi agenda of the MAD (Modi-Amit-Doval) circus is a blot on the face of India.
The trauma suffered by young the children of the Muslim community will keep haunting them for the rest of their lives. To express the pain and fear of Muslim children, an ode reflecting their anguish has been written to become a testament to the dark chapter in Indian polity, with the hope that some people with a conscience will read it and try stopping the insanity of the MAD circus.
This poem is an inspired version of our two poems on Gazan, Kashmiri and Syrian children, published in a mainstream newspaper on November 2012 and March 2018, respectively.
Delhi, sobs of a Muslim kid
Lynch mobs shouting Jai Shri Ram
And Doval advising me to stay calm
Ruined, devoured, ravaged and battered
My life is totally shattered
As the police trucks rumble pass my gutted home
And I glance over the burnt mosque’s dome
The skyline devoid of birds and painted in monochrome
Whispers, choked throats and hushed tones
Screams, sirens and blood brine
Like blackness in the depth of a coal mine
The country side has become a large guillotine
Greetings from the hell hole of Khajuri Khas
To Tehran, Dubai, Moscow, Riyadh and Kansas
Of dead bodies and carcass
Seelampur’s bloo- stained canvas
Shameless death of humanity’s colossus
We have called for help to the deaf ears of the Ummah
A dead beast good for nothing
With pigmy leaders always bluffing
Carcasses of decaying bodies of a billion plus
Feet of clay with virtually no truss
We have become nameless and non-existent
Thanks for your non-support
It has been so persistent
Jafrabad has a dusty wild mosaic
With systems gone archaic
Of burnt streets and shacks
Like a town of smokestacks
Fathers carrying slain bodies of kids in hides
And kids burying their parents, besides
Atomised neighbourhoods, clans and divides
We have become ‘Posters’ for warring sides
Dogs gnawing at the flesh of human bodies
The stench of blood in dark allies
Masked men passing through valleys
RSS traumatising us through rallies
And the media counting death tolls and tallies
Dead bodies tangled in the rubble and broken chairs
We hold daily funeral prayers
Ah, Maujpur has become a graveyard under the media’s glare
No more rainbows on our sky, my dear
No gaggling, no laughing, it’s a city in despair
Life has frozen in a dark tunnel of corpses and coffins
Of phosphorus smells and toxins
A city of human dust bins
A slaughterhouse of Muslims
You cannot bury the dead in time
Wait for intervals in the bombing rhyme
In daily routine of gun fire chime
The earth is soiled, filthy and begrime
And there are no seasons in Chandbagh, just burnt grass
No more chirping sounds of sparrows, alas
No bustle of market, no school, no class
Life is like walking daily on broken glass
No colours, no play, no hobbies
No memories left in the house of Zombies
Daily count of dead bodies
No meadows, gardens and green valleys
Grim destiny and the short span of smiles
Fetching water from ten miles
Our scary lifestyles
Heaps of boulders and trash piles
I am hushed and scared
Uncertainty stalks the neighbourhood, left uncared
Dark shadows of snipers on roof tops, prepared
The shrieks of someone slaughtered or snared
Or hurled down from a five story block, score squared
Here humanity is impaired
The sparrows of Gokulpuri are no more
My young brother lying bare on the bloodstained floor
I peep through the front yard’s broken door
For there is nothing left but a twisted baby cot
As I clean my brother’s blood clot
And look up to God in distressed fraught
I see the angels descending for the final escort
His bruised legs are getting cold
And the blood oozing out uncontrolled
My tears cross the threshold
His hushed hiccups becoming breathless, behold
The writers are freelance journalists. They can be contacted at adeelanaureen@gmail.com