First, you were born
In that cul-de-sac dark lane.
That too in a poor Muslim home.
The Muslim home was that of an Imam.
Then found an alphabet shelter in,
What is called, a Madrassa under a tin shade.
Reciting like a parrot, only Quran.
You offered, without fail, five times salaat.
Sporting a lungi and white skull cap
You begged salvation by crying
And spreading arms heavenwards.
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