Poems: ‘I’m Hindustani Musalman’ And ‘Hum Sab Katuwe Hain’

हिंदुस्तानी मुसलमां (I’m Hindustani Musalman)

सड़क पे सिगरेट पीते वक़्त
जो अज़ा' सुनाई दी मुझको
तो याद आया के वक़्त है क्या
और बात ज़हन में ये आई
मैं कैसा मुसलमां हूं भाई?
मैं शिया हूं या सुन्नी हूं
मैं खोजा हूं या बोहरी हूं
मैं गांव से हूं या शहरी हूं
मैं बाग़ी हूं या सूफ़ी हूं
मैं क़ौमी हूं या ढोंगी हूं
मैं कैसा मुसलमां हूं भाई?
मैं सजदा करने वाला हूं
या झटका खाने वाला हूं
मैं टोपी पहनके फिरता हूं
या दाढ़ी उड़ा के रहता हूं
मैं आयत क़ौल से पढ़ता हूं
या फ़िल्मी गाने रमता हूं
मैं अल्लाह-अल्लाह करता हूं
या शेखों से लड़ पड़ता हूं
मैं कैसा मुसलमां हूं भाई?
मैं हिंदुस्तानी मुसलमां हूँ
दक्कन से हूँ, यू. पी. से हूँ
भोपाल से हूँ, दिल्ली से हूँ
बंगाल से हूँ, गुजरात से हूँ
हर ऊँची-नीची जात से हूँ
मैं ही हूँ जुलाहा, मोची भी
मैं डाक्टर भी हूँ, दर्जी भी
मुझमें गीता का सार भी है
इक उर्दू का अख़बार भी है
मिरा इक महीना रमज़ान भी है
मैंने किया तो गंगा-स्नान भी है
अपने ही तौर से जीता हूँ
इक-दो सिगरेट भी पीता हूँ
कोई नेता मेरी नस-नस में नहीं
मैं किसी पार्टी के बस में नहीं
मैं हिंदुस्तानी मुसलमां हूँ
ख़ूनी दरवाज़ा मुझमें है
इक भूल-भुलैय्या मुझमें है
मैं बाबरी का इक गुम्बद हूँ
मैं शहर् के बीच में सरहद हूँ
झुग्गियों में पलती ग़ुरबत मैं
मदरसों की टूटी-सी छत मैं
दंगो में भड़कता शोला मैं
कुर्ते पर ख़ून का धब्बा मैं
मैं हिंदुस्तानी मुसलमां हूँ
मंदिर की चौखट मेरी है
मस्जिद के किबले मेरे है
गुरुद्वारे का दरबार मेरा
येशू के गिरजे मेरे है
सौ में से चौदह हूँ लेकिन
चौदह ये कम नहीं पड़ते है
मैं पूरे सौ में बसता हूँ
पूरे सौ मुझमें बसते है
मुझे एक नज़र से देख न तू
मेरे एक नहीं सौ चेहरे है
सौ रंग के है क़िरदार मेरे
सौ क़लम से लिखी कहानी हूँ
मैं जितना मुसलमां हूँ भाई
मैं उतना हिंदुस्तानी हूँ
मैं हिंदुस्तानी मुसलमां हूँ

- हुसैन हैदरी

On an evening stroll down my street,
the azan echoes, stops my feet,
reminds me it is time to pray,
but I start musing on that day:
Bhai, what kind of Muslim am I?
Am I Sunni or I’m Shia
Am I Khoja or I’m Bohri?
From the village or the city?
Am I rebel or a mystic?
Am I devout or sophistic?

Bhai, what kind of Muslim am I?

Do I prostrate in submission
Or am headed to perdition,
Is my cap my identity,
Or the beard shaved off completely,
Recite Quranic verse, I could,
or hum the songs of Bollywood?
Do I chant Allah everyday,
or fight the Sheiks in every way?
What kind of Muslim am I, bhai?

I know I’m an Indian Muslim.

I’m from the Deccan, and UP,
I’m from Bhopal, and from Delhi,
I’m Gujrati, and Bengali,
I’m from the high castes and lower,
I’m the weaver and the cobbler,
I’m the doctor, and tailor.
The holy Gita speaks in me,
An Urdu newsprint thrives in me,
Divine is Ramadan in me,
The Ganges washes sins in me.
live by my rules, not for you,
I’ve smoked a cigarette or two.
No politician rules my veins,
No party has me in their chains

For I am an Indian Muslim.

I’m in Old Delhi’s Bloody Gate,
I’m in Lucknow’s magical maze,
I’m in Babri’s demolished dome,
I’m in the blurred borders of home,
in poverty of slum dwellings,
the Madrasa’s shattered ceilings,
the embers flaming a riot,
I’m in the garment stained with blood

I’m Hindustani Musalman.

The Hindu temple’s door is mine,
as are the Mosque’s minarets mine,
the Sikh Gurudwara’s hall is mine,
The church’s pews are also mine,
I am fourteen in one hundred,
But in these fourteen not othered,
I am within all of hundred,
and hundred is the sum of me.

Don’t view me any differently,
I have a hundred ways to be
I’m hundred nuanced characters,
from hundreds of storytellers.

Brother, as Muslim as I am,
I’m that much also Indian.

I’m Hindustani Musalman,
I’m Hindustani Musalman.

—Translated from Urdu by Dipika Mukherjee and Udit Mehrotra

Hussain Haidry, Madhya Pradesh

(Hussain Haidry is a screenwriter and lyricist. He was head of finance at a healthcare company in Kolkata until he left his job and moved to Mumbai to become a full-time writer. He has written lyrics for several Hindi films and series.)

Hum Sab Katuwe Hain (We Are All Cutuas Now)

We are all Cutuas
                      O Minister!
With our cut off heads
Cut off hands
Cut off legs
         And holding our mutilated souls
We wander
We, the fearful headless bodies
We are all Cutuas
                 Our Royal Highness!
We are the severed head of that mother
Which that sanctified axe chopped off
                In an intoxication
                Of sacredly sinful patriliny
                With our broken bodies
                We plant that decapitated head
In this soil…
We are all Cutuas
                  Your Majesty!

We are the fallen heads of that illustrious youth
Which that sword
Pulled out of the scabbard of hollow honour
And dipped in the poison of caste pride
Had hacked off...
And that no one heard
The laughter that echoes in the dank cave of our culture
We are the howls of that severed head...
We are all Cutuas
                  Your Honour!

We, who for aeons
Are the bleeding nose of that girl
Which the man’s ego
Which the royal pride had hacked off
Our noseless civilization bathes
Dipping in the blood of that girl
And looks for its Gods
We are all Cutuas
                      Dear Emperor of the World!

We are the severed thumb of that warrior
Sliced off by that crafty Guru
The thumbs continued to get sawed off
Arms got sawed
Fingers got sliced
Look, there are severed thumbs scattered across the sky
Look, the Council of Ministers is taking
The thumb impressions from those severed thumbs.
Look, the premier is wearing
A garland of those bleeding thumbs.
We are all Cutuas
                       O Noblemen!

We are all Cutuas and we are the majority
We stand
              On the highways of history
Adorned with our sundered identities
Better you leave this country, Emperor!
                   With your butter soft visage and perfectly unblemished body
This country is ours
This Aryavarta belongs to us, the Cutuas