Human Poem by Nikhil Parekh

I would hate it if you called me an Indian; tracing my rudiments to an unfathomable myriad of customs and aboriginal traditions,

I would hate it if you called me a Russian; linked various stages of my life to stringent vodka; and exhilarating games of chess,

I would hate it if you called me a Chinese; harboring tiny pairs of eyes; and an intrinsic tendency in my blood to feast on tantalizingly roasted sea food,

I would hate it if you called me an Englishman; blurting countless sentences a day in bombastic slang; blushing to more crimson than the scarlet rose; in poignant alacrity of the stupendously cold winds,

I would hate it if you called me a turbaned Sikh; disseminating oligarchic cigar smoke towards the azure cosmos; brandishing my enemies with valiant strokes of my scintillating sword,

I would hate it if you called me a staunch Muslim; ferociously beating the drums in order to appease Almighty Lord; sagaciously reading through the Quran-e-Sharif; umpteenth number of times in the sweltering day,

I would hate it if you called me a Christian; profusely relishing port wine and robust lamb; whispering with snobbish sonority; as the breeze tried to swipe the majestic candles away,

I would hate it if you called me an Afghani; pampering my royal beard to the fullest as the minutes unveiled; glowing more fairer than the Sun at times; as the moon bloomed full throttle in the resplendent sky,

I would hate it if you called me a Japanese; existing in a world of earthquakes and technology; attired in an oriental tycoon suit; and horn rimmed glasses fitting snugly to the bridge of my nose,

I would hate it if you called me a Scotsman; embellishing my dwelling with exotic ivory and titillating cheese; frolicking in the Alps with my boisterously ebullient kin,

I would hate it if you called me a German; towering like a gentle giant above the ground without a boot on my ingenious feet; riding in supreme exultation every instant on the frontiers of spell binding innovation,

I would hate it if you called me a Hindu; chanting entury old hymns in front of the Omnipotent Lord; entrenching my feeble wrists in a vivid festoon of sacred thread,

I would hate it if you called me an African; dancing in frenzied passion to the beats of the voluptuous jungle; with a jugglery of Herculean muscle protruding from beneath the layers of my magnificently sooty skin,

I would hate it if you called me an Australian; fantastically juggling bountiful discs towards the sky; munching mesmerizing burgers; as the sands by the sea metamorphosed to a perfect golden,

I would hate it if you called me a Burmese; indigenously thumping the soil to appease the rain Gods; swimming voraciously amidst the waves; to capsize my share of fish,

I would hate it if you called me a Pakistani; marching through the streets like a king in my robes of Persian silk; enriching myself in a world of song and princely poetry,

I would hate it if you called me a Buddhist; admiring my tonsured scalp which shone more seductively thanthe cascading waterfalls; incessantly gallivanting through a tunnel of statues and monarchs,

And I would equally hate it if you called me or compared me even a fraction with Almighty Lord; possessing magical powers to transform threadbare mud into glittering gold,

Instead I would be overwhelming honored; could slain my life this very instant for all of you out there; if only you christened and embraced me; as a human.