Hindustani Musalmaan: An Indian Muslim
On an evening stroll down my street,
the azan echoes, stops my feet,
reminds me it is time to pray,
but I start musing on that day:
Bhai, what kind of Muslim am I?
Am I Shia or I’m Sunni?
Am I Khoja or I’m Bohri?
From the village or the city?
Am I rebel or a mystic?
Am I devout or sophistic?
Bhai, what kind of Muslim am I?
Do I prostrate in submission
Or am headed to perdition,
Is my cap my identity,
Or the beard shaved off completely,
Recite Quranic verse, I could,
or hum the songs of Bollywood?
Do I chant Allah every day,
or fight the Sheiks in every way?
What kind of Muslim am I, bhai?
I know I’m an Indian Muslim.
I’m from the Deccan, and UP,
I’m from Bhopal, and from Delhi,
I’m Gujarati, and Bengali,
I’m from the high castes and lower,
I’m the weaver and the cobbler,
I’m the doctor, and the tailor.
The holy Gita speaks in me,
An Urdu newsprint thrives in me,
Divine is Ramadan in me,
The Ganges washes sins in me.
I live by my rules, not for you,
I’ve smoked a cigarette or two.
No politician rules my veins,
No party has me in their chains
For I am an Indian Muslim.
I’m in Old Delhi’s Bloody Gate,
I’m in Lucknow’s magical maze,
I’m in Babri’s demolished dome,
I’m in the blurred borders of home,
in poverty of slum dwellings,
the Madrasa’s shattered ceilings,
the embers flaming a riot,
I’m in the garment stained with blood
I’m Hindustani Musalmaan.
The Hindu temple door is mine,
as are the Mosque minarets mine,
the Sikh Gurudwara hall is mine,
The pews in churches also mine;
I am fourteen in one hundred,
But in these fourteen not othered,
I am within all of hundred,
and hundred is the sum of me.
Don’t view me any differently,
I have a hundred ways to be
My hundred nuanced characters,
from hundreds of storytellers.
Brother, as Muslim as I am,
I’m that much also Indian.
I’m Hindustani Musalmaan,
I’m Hindustani Musalmaan.
Translation from the Urdu/Hindi
Watch a video of Haidry reciting his poem before a crowd of enthusiastic supporters.