after “Looking for Ram, Looking for Allah” by Manash Firaq Bhattacharjee

Thousands of lifetimes ago, I was named Ram,

then Khusrau, once Bhimrao, then Ehsan. Every name is

life’s request for another dance with creation. Music of the cosmos: a

love-marriage between garbi and qawwali, and no name

exists in the warp and weft of rhythm. But when you, saffron-drunk, long for

a rip in world-silk, nametags in morgues are made to gape with question. “Kabir”

decorates a toe. Maybe it is mine. What I will say: I am in Muzaffarabad and

could be anyone. Did you kill your own god? Wrong question. So many names

and the horrors you’ve unleashed in mine. What you do

not understand, warmonger, is that gods are worshippers, not 

the worshipped. You bulldoze these graves as though you have no need

for your gods. And yet you invoke my name when you build your temples.