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Poem

In the tapestry of time, 
history became him.
He wrote of equality, 
in the face of adversity. 
He wrote of a diverse nation,
from the shackles of caste,
sought liberation.

He was hungry. He was 
hungry and just wanted to
eat. He was lynched. He was 
hungry and he was lynched.

A scholar, leader, visionary
so bright. Fighting for the 
downtrodden, he showed his
might. His legacy stands with
drafting the Constitution. He 
moved mountains with his 
silent revolution. 

In front of a Hindu temple. 
The temple built on the 
foundation of inclusivity
and tolerance. He was a 
kid. 

A sense of hope ran 
across India. Hope for
a just and equal society.
A guiding light for the 
rights of diversity, a 
priority. 

His name was Ishaq.
He was killed because he 
took one banana from the 
‘Prasad’. He was Muslim. 

If he walked amongst us 
in today’s realm, would 
his heart weep, overwhelmed?
For the world he envisioned, 
just and fair, is now polluted
by division, history stands 
bare. 

“I have lost everything,” says the
father. Ishaq, meaning love, lost
his life to hate. Hate so ingrained
that it does not let people breathe. 

In the depths of pain and misery, 
Where do we stand? Amidst the 
crowd, do justice we demand?
So, tell me, this morose, 
unforgiving night, do we seek the 
dawn or wait for the unattainable
light?

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