No
I do not want to recite the ‘Kalama’
and convert myself from Saroop to Salma.
because I am not detached or different from.
all those Salmas, Fatimas, Suraiyas and Zaheeras
of this city, this country, this world.

Whenever
the Dushasanas of this land
tear off their clothes,
I am also left naked.
Whenever
these wild brutes touch their bodies,
rub, open, maul, press,
suck, tear, pierce, fuck, butcher them,
I am slaughtered too
by those hundred thousand dick-daggers.

Whenever
the kitchen-stoves turn into cannibal crocodiles,
I also turn
into flame, fire, ash, air.

I die every moment these days, breath by breath.

Whenever hungry orphan children cry for milk
my breasts overflow for them,
for all of them.

Whenever
Rehmans, Sulaimans, Irfans, Amans and Imrans are hacked
with swords, sickles and tridents
my courtyard also remains deserted, my bed empty
and the skin ripped off from my hennaed palms.

Whenever
Shahpur, Dariapur, Juhapura and Jordan Road
of my city of Ahmedabad are set on fire,
and Wadi of Vadodara, Halol, Champaner, Paanwad and Godhra
smell of burnt bodies, buildings, business-centres
a harvest of blood and flesh . . .
what reason have I to live?

But wait a moment. Hold your tongue, poet!
You will never perish
like those Salmas, Sulaimans, Shahpurs.
You are Saroop . . . Dr Saroop Yogesh Dhruv!
You have the luxury to write
and to live

So the very least you can do is this:
live on
for the sake
of all those Salmas, Sulaimans and Shahpurs.
Lift your hand, seize your pen
raise your arms for them.

Tell me, poet,
are you ready?