I Am Tasleema Poem by Dr. Yogesh Sharma

I can not write a book right now,
I was thrown out of my house,
After a half meal; in fear,
By train or by air; I do not know,
Or slowly on foot.

There is a pain in my heart,
Given to me by Mullahas years ago,
The wound is still unhealed,
They say; I m sick,
Needs meditation; for my dear pen.

Cows, the honour of my town, crossing my way,
Urinating; throwing their tail in happiness,
Sharing the intellectual joy of intellectuals and artists,
On their way to university and art gallery,
Silenced by the tyranny of Mullahas.

On my way to Kolkutta; my second home,
The aimless procedures; files; replies; circulars,
Garbage of notes; comments and complaints.
Fear for vote bank,
Din and noise; all about for a small roof.

I was dispatched out; how and why,
Only to make Mullahas happy;
The D-day approaches;
The streets of the City was reddened by the marauding mob.
Alas! A hapless women was a danger to the nation,
But crores of notorious intruders are dear vote bank.

Cows returning their home with heavy steps,
Panic stricken children running for shelter,
Carrying bag full of books on their shoulders,
Crying with horrible memories,
And the comrades of death counting their votes.





As I board a plane, I turn round to see,
The blood of innocent in the sky,
Motionless birds in their nest,
But they have accomplished their task
Avenged the loss of Nandigram.

But I am a shuttle cock;
Hit by the vultures for their trade,
What have I accomplished?
Floating with painful memories,
For the wanton world; it is all cricket.

With today; searching answers for tomorrow’s challenge,
This is the way women go round and round,
The secular labor finds its rhythm in ballet boxes,
Emerging from the black art treading harshly,
In the sacrifice of Tasleema-a homeless woman.



From:
DR. Yogesh SHARMA