(December 6, 1992)
From the annals of our tortured history,
A haunting echo, an agonizing plea.
‘What was my fault?’ says Babri.
Why was I gutted, reduced to debris?
Decades ago within my ramparts,
When malice was yet to take seed in hearts;
So many faithful assembled to pray,
At the turn of night and dawn of day.
The ‘Adhaan’ from my ‘Minaar’,
Echoed through the lanes and in the ‘Bazaar’.
In the ancient town of Ayodhya.
But what fate lay in store,
I hadn’t the faintest idea.
Thence began my tryst with violence.
My doors were locked up, my voice silenced.
I was under the protection of the highest authority.
Since I was declared disputed property.
Those directives a mob proceeded to thwart,
Under a well conceived, wicked plot.
They wielded sledgehammer and pick axe.
Sanity stopped short in it’s tracks.
The nation hung it’s head in shame.
As they pulled down my archaic frame.
For this felony who was to blame?
Who can wash off this terrible stain?
My ‘Gumbad’ and my ‘Mimbar’,
Under the assault cloven asunder.
In a few hours reduced to rubble.
Honour and integrity took a tumble.
The world remained a mute spectator.
While I was violated, under the gaze of my caretaker.
The Indian Republic, The World’s Largest Democracy;
Hijacked by goons, mutated into an autocracy.
Isn’t it a sad irony?
The very people who lynched me,
Are now in charge of this country.
I waited patiently for justice,
The rule of law and due process.
They finally pronounced the verdict.
It seems, I never did exist.
I ruefully accepted my destiny.
I’ll remain forever etched in memory.
Innocents have paid a hefty price.
And I made the final sacrifice.
My walls weren’t holy, nor my grounds sacred.
I was victim to an onslaught of hatred.
I was a Muslim place of worship.
Like so many of them, I lost my citizenship.
They propose to build an imposing temple,
Where legislation and lofty principles were trampled.
They’ve set a ghastly precedent,
With this shocking turn of event.
One mosque may be gutted, however;
The faithful shall congregate elsewhere.
They’ll gather again at the call for prayer.
They’ll bow and prostrate to The Maker.
There’ll be no shortage of the devout.
How long can evil hold it’s clout?
Mischief has a short tenure.
The Lord is the Best Record Keeper.
~ Dr. Ayesha Subhan
