Tag Archives: holy

POEM: DHAKA TERROR

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Copyright@shravancharitymission

 

You adventured to kill, but in the process, you too got killed,

And one wonders, who asked you to kill?

For if it wasn’t your teachers, and friends in college,

Your peers in places, your siblings and folks indoors,

And God in heaven,

Just who was it, who asked you to kill?

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You shot so many in a bloody,

When someone had to shoot you in a scurry,

You stood for someone unknown,

Trusted him more than the known,

But was it for any holy throne?

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To you sermons through social media mattered more,

And not the grace of Holy Text,

Nor the lineage of societal touch, that you chose to ignore,

You hallucinated, as if killing was the right path,

And the rest needed to be ignored.

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And now when you’re gone,

Leaving behind a storm,

God says,

Son I had sent you there,

To conquer the storm, and not to create a storm.

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Where the world was your oyster,

And so much was still there for you,

As you had hardly arrived,

To create capture and destroy,

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But isn’t it sad my son,

That you only created the bloody killings,

Destroyed human values,

And, captured the Holy Grail.

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And remember my son,

If all would start killing who will create,

And for you,

Without seeing the world,

Without feeling the world,

And without admiring the world,

You decided to slaughter the world,

So now remain unwept and unsung,

In your unrealized world,

While my slain sons and daughters shall rest with me in peace.

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This is a tribute to all those killed in Dhaka terrorist attack. Most of the terrorists who struck here were young and from high families so then how did their values change so much in a short period of time that they created this mayhem?

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By Kamlesh Tripathi

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https://kamleshsujata.wordpress.com

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SHORT STORY: GUILT

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By Kamlesh Tripathi

ganga guilt heaven

    When I was young. My maternal Granny often used to remind me as an endearing edict. That when I die, take my mortal remains to the banks of river Ganga (Ganges) for cremation, considered, the ultimate holy grail. To the splendorous gateway of heaven, in Hindus. But I was not sure. If she ever realised, whether a ten year old kid understood, what she meant. Surely, I had no idea, of what a ‘cremation’ on the banks of river Ganga meant, until one day. I actually saw a dead body being cremated, while I was crossing river Ganga, at Kanpur in a train. And, that shook me as a teen.

    My Mom, was her only issue. So, she understood her mother’s writhing trauma. That was encased in her subconscious, now for ages. And she often hovered around her. Sensing, Granny might repeat her request for Ganga, at the pangs of life beyond death.

    For me, life continued as usual and with that my meandering rigmarole. In the guise of school, college, career and then raising a family. But, all this, didn’t deter her from placing her request, whenever she had an opportunity. And, as life flew. One day I lost my Mom, and with that Granny’s infrequent requests, became more like frequent holy warnings—that she be taken to the banks of river Ganga.

    But, in the drift of life. For quite some time, I was posted away from my hometown. During that period, whenever I spoke to her. I did assure her a cremation on the banks of holy river Ganga. But when the destined moment came unannounced. I could not reach on time, and she was cremated on the banks of river Gomti in Lucknow. About eighty km before the banks of river Ganga.

    That gave me a feel of intense guilt that continued lifelong. As if, between Gomti and Ganga, she had lost the battle because of me.

    Ever since then years have passed. But she hasn’t complained to me. My guilt says she couldn’t reach heaven. Where my heart says, she smiles at me from heaven.

    And today. I am returning from the banks of river Ganga. Where, I came to  tide over my guilt. To request Holy Ganga, if not already, take her to heaven even now. And to offer my lifetime apologies to her. From the serene surroundings of holy Ganga.  But I guess I came quite late. Because now even I have started thinking of the holy Ganga.

    There are a few things that are non-negotiable in life: one happens to be death.

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SHORT STORY: DIVINE ALIGNMENT

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c1c

    Today, once again, early in the morning I was woken up by a phone call from Sukhwinder Singh. He is a Granthi in a Gurudwara in Faridabad. But he also happens to be my friend, in the abstract spirits of comrade-in-arms. It appears he has a satellite connect with God and is able to figure out. When, over a period of time my entire self goes into a depression, thinking about my younger son, whom I lost some six years back. And just then he calls up.

    He doesn’t understand English and I can’t talk fluent Punjabi and so we make the most of it in Hindi. His occasional calls pep me up but I am not sure if it’s the other way round too. And, unlike most Sardars he is short and stout and often wears a saffron patka. We came together in life because we both share the curse of losing our sons in a space of a week.

    It was sometime in mid-February when I had admitted my younger son, when he was towards his last in a hospital in Faridabad for palliative care, where I found Sukhwinder’s son also admitted for liver disorder. He was in serious state, around twenty years of age; and the next day he expired. Our rooms were adjacent and so I had enough opportunities to picture and frame him in my mind. And, upon the sad and untimely death of his son, that afternoon, I walked across to his room and paid my deep sense of condolence. Thereafter, in a ballooning bundle of grief, he along with his wailing wife, family and the body of his son left the hospital.

    I was feeling sad for him. But I too wasn’t far behind. As my tragedy too, befell upon me within the next four days. I was thereafter on leave for a couple of weeks. And when I resumed office. Every morning I used to drive past a Gurudwara where one day I spotted Sukhwinder. I stopped my car and went up to him. Just to ask how he was, and quite frankly also to discern, better or worse than me. He was looking the other way when I put my hand on his shoulder. He turned around and without wasting time, I reminded him of the hospital and politely enquired about him, post his son’s death. He could recollect me in seconds and asked about my son. I gave him the tragic news. He sounded hurt. I decided to leave after a brief chat, but he ordered for a cup of tea. And our friendship thus began.

    Since that day till the time that Gurudwara was on my way to office, once in a while we used to meet over a cup of tea and he used to narrate quite a few invigorating episodes from ‘Granth Sahab’ and ‘Gita’ that helped me tide away, and soften my tragedy.

    It is now more than six years we continue as friends and we make it a point to talk to each other at least once a month just to share happiness and sorrow, and probably one day when we stop receiving calls from each other one of us will know the other has kicked the bucket.

    Our world is full of affinity, when it comes to being from the same religion, sect, ethnicity, language and food. But after I lost my son I realised there is also an affinity that takes birth out of unusual tragedies in life. I and Sukhwinder had similar tragedies leading to a very unusual experience in life not known and felt by many, and that brought us together.

By Kamlesh Tripathi

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