Midnight's Children Poem by Nassy Fesharaki

I watch this and get sick
Sick of past that is yours and is mine
Sick of now of the world’s Saleem-likes

And I read Arberry's
Anthology, the Poems in Persian
On foreword I insist

Like the boy
There are words in my head
Writer’s voice, director’s

“Persian was official”
India and Iran
I think of Pakistan

Rostam there and Sohrab
And Jamshid
Zoroaster and old times,

I am sick; I stop
In my head a duel
Voice and word sword in hand

“For dollar I purchased movie rights”
Mehta said in a talk
“And Rushdie did re-wrote.”

I’m Saleem; gone with wind
Pakistan on camel, in planes, on the ship,
Memories are all shame

I hear CBC’s story
The Vinyl of McLean on David

They all march
Nehru with Ali Jinnah
And Gandhi on one side
In Durban, Africa
Passports burn, he spins
In senate, there’s a goat

In Kabul dictator
The same is in Tehran
Karachi, Ayyub Khan

Moscow and Kremlin
London helps the White House
Coup d’état in Iran

Boy is back, I am sick.
Not O blood, neither B
And the case is blank, DVD’s.

We’re in West
Story Indian
No one cares

Confession
“Rich be poor and poor rich”
The victim is Shiva

There’s nothing left for me
Voices dance in my head
Crazy and madman, I am sick

“Sri Lanka was first choice”
Mehta said in her voice
“But Fatwa kicked us out”

Crazy and madman
Crazy…I am sick
Crazy…I am sick

I had parts in these wars
East with West Pakistan
Politics and revolts,
Crazy…I am sick