By Anupama Bhargava
I am Ram
I am supposed to hate Rahim.
I am Rahim
I hate Ram.
I will therefore wipe his sterile frame
with deviant strokes of violence.
Ram says: I'll purchase his damn history
already hunched like an ancient man and parcel it in the
newspaper to be burnt alive!
Screams flee through these muddled selves
as each shoot the other through the temple.
They have successfully puppeted the lips of
And taught them the pidgin language of
hatred, now deep in their leather.
Their trigger hand is already sticky with
They still stay nonchalant,
Sacrificing their brothers and burying them
under the weight of mortgaged promise to get justice for the
death of someone, whose name
Fingers can't seem to trace
But whose teachings are (they hope) deep in
Mourning finally found its way to sail into