Treasure Island

Hardik Vaidya

(26 Dec 1969, yet to kick the bucket. / Mahuva, Gujarat, India.)

Muslim Material

If I were born an Indian Muslim,
How deep a Hindu would I have had to be?
Is a question that intrigues my mind till infinity.
Despite all scorn, suspicion, hate of brothers,
Squalor of fate, disdain of taste, and the fire of a burning stake,
How much of a Hindu would it take to help me keep my faith?
Faith in my self, in my god, in my mother, in my father, in my country?
In my land, air, soil, neighbour, and the salty lover in whom I lost eternity.
Who lives next door, is not a Muslim, but a Hindu Brahmin,
And in her sparkling eyes, I see the soil of my future,
The earth of my history,
The morn of my living,
The soul of my craving,
The birth of my being.
I get angry, enraged, mad, at God.
Why did he think I was poor at soul?
Why did he under estimate my strength of them all?
Why did he not consider me Muslim Material?
And made me instead born a Hindu Brahmin Indian?

Submitted: Wednesday, February 13, 2013
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Poet's Notes about The Poem

In India to be born an honest Muslim is a challenge. If you sport a beard, you are a believer in Islam, you earn a honest bread, you live and die for your motherland, your brothers and sisters will still cast doubt and call you traitors, as a Hindu I am ashamed, I am devastated, I am dead to see this death of Hinduism in India.

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