Who are they?
If i call them Muslims
You charge me an extremist,
If i call them Hindus
You charge me a fanatic,
If i call them poor masses
You charge me a realist who sells poverty
For name
Where are they queuing, standing on fragile limbs
Squatting calmly on the floor, feeding babies, massaging dry bones?
Weeping children, coughing elders, bent frames
Mothers and would be mothers and sad anxious faces–
Here and there and everywhere
Skull caps, thick glasses, fancy hijabs, the masked and the unmasked,
The fat and the thin, sarees, shirts, lungis, pants, sandals, shoes, bare feet – a great diversity
But unity is our strength – sad and anxious look acts as a thread that shapes
The varied fragments into an agreed end
It’s eight in the morning,
By the grace of gods, by the mercy of Allah, by the blessings of babas and matas,
People from everywhere crowd the holy home,
The sun is up, the sun is down, the stars come and go,
And finally, the wait is over,
Mikes bellow, some names entered,
Many lie unwanted,
Is it an Aadhar centre?
Is it a post office or bank?
Is it a ration shop
Or a detention camp?
Or a bus stop or railway station
Or a festive spot?
Give your fevered brain a rest
Let your fertile faculty have a go
Come to the basics
It is a private nursing home
And the scene is same or worse in many
Other homes dotting the town B,
Homes with layered networks serve people with a smile
And people pay and keep the homes running,
If harassed, abused, insulted, people may go to
One more home, but the networks work in style
And the business will go as usual
People are free to sail their boats
But lease of the water is hold by men
Who have mastery in health care dealings
So, the people fall in line
It’s immaterial whether they do it–
In the end, or in the middle or at the start
Of their lives
