I: A Terrorist

Exiled Bhutaneez
       

I neither had to empty
Any mother’s lap
Nor clutch
The breast of any feeble woman
Set fire
On one’s house
Or issue a decree
To hang someone
But, 
I am a terrorist!

Instead
Upon the chest of mothers
Who were even haunted 
By the firecrackers’ blast of Diwali festive bliss 
Instead
Upon the chest of our fathers
Who couldn’t even dare seeing
The blood of the chicks of Bhimsen worship in Dashain
The tyrant’s jackboots banged 
Time and again
And repeatedly they were asked the brutal question:
“Oe, ’ngolop!
Where else you blasted bombs?
Who else’s injured head you bandaged?
Who else’s injured back you gave compression to?
Tell!”

But 
I need not say anything
Need not listen to anything
To be a terrorist.

You know, my friend!
There is an understanding in this country
That a tenant’s blood flows
In the veins of a tenant
And
Here we have a law that says 
A tenant’s son must be a tenant.

There is an understanding in this country
That a coolie’s blood flows
In the veins of a coolie 
And
Here we have a law that says 
That must be a coolie.

Likewise
You know, friend!
There is an understanding in this country
That only a terrorist demands rights
Only a terrorist seeks for identity
A terrorist has terrorism in his blood
And 
Here we have a law 
That a son of a terrorist must be a terrorist too!

It is for the same reason
The infants become terrorists 
Before they are born—
The dreadful terrorists!

(Translated by Suren Sharma)
 
*traitor/ terrorist in Dzongkha, the only ‘national language of Bhutan

[Exiled Bhutaneez is a poet from Bhutan, living presently in Nepal.]