THE MOTHER

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When religion fails to speak the truth,

When mothers’ cries remain unanswered,

Be the God yourself !!

 

The music of orchestra graced the gorgeous fire which lighted up the city of Peshwar. Fire has always been the source of energy since ancient times. It is that vital origin which gives shape to the sun’s corona, a beautiful, majestic yet frightening  creature who happens to sustain a planet called Earth. It is this same fire, which drains the hearts of millions in utmost joy : the joy of letting go of loved ones to a safer place than this planet , to a secured place where the fire of faith delights the lord with the trident , where the fire of love kisses the Messiah , where the fire of universality smiles in pride, having the full cognizance of the existence of THE GOD , who, like various languages , have taken various names which  the people were too smart and perhaps obsessed to understand .

Tahamina kept on staring at this fire with awe as it charred the soft skin of hundreds of children, allaying them with a promise of a secured land, much better than this planet where power has become a synonym of destruction and greed is a virtue which needs to be nurtured.  Tears didn’t drop from her eyes. Rather she was mesmerized by the scarlet hues which pierced through those seared bodies.

‘Another 16th of December’, she thought as hundreds of people  ran around in distress, in chaos, in affliction.

Just 2 years back, Damini had showed the vulnerability of lives of people; she created a stir among nations , only to result in protest marches, peaceful candle light marches; the intellectuals did make a hefty use of it ; they wrote  conference papers on rape; bloggers were blessed by a deluge of readers as they ‘ voiced’ their  insurgence ; many a writer became a best seller by writing on the issue and perhaps the directors have started to work on it too. Within 6 months, in June 2013, another rape case came to everyone’s notice but this one, unlike the so called minor other ones, and this major Damini one, was blessed with the ‘ political’ connotation.  Tahamina was amused by the government’s reaction towards Kamduni rape case. She was a journalist after all ; she liked to indulge herself in news , global and local. Perhaps that is what she had , after losing her husband in Mumbai terrorist attack, an incident which changed the course of her life.

She stood in front of the school building, pondering over these.

‘ It is a good thing that Talibans killed the children .’, she thought. ‘At least the girls are spared from being raped when they would grow up’. Mother of her son’s friend was crying loudly, at the top of her voice, as both of them waited for the dead bodies of their children to be delivered to them. Tahamina stood motionless. The bodies were too damaged to discover the identities but still the police and medical teams were doing their best to help the afflicted parents.

Her silence was broken by a shrieks of a mother who found her  son half alive and was crying for financial help. The girl was  badly injured , almost 90% burnt but was alive ; unfortunately, her parents were too poor  to pay for her treatment as she was being carried to the hospital. Tahamina knew the couple and ran towards them.

“Apa, I will give my savings to save your daughter’s life”, she said to the crying mother.

“But you have to pay for your son’s burial “.

“No. I would let him have a mass burial “.

The mother was too lost in her own grief to ask anything.  She knew how Tahamina had given her everything to NGO and she had a few savings which she needed for her son’s burial. For Tahamina, she did the right thing. That is what she had taught her son: to be with people. Now, he was going to get buried along with his friends with whom he shared his life. Had Lord Tennyson been alive, he would have changed the last lines of his poem to ,

“ Sweet my world, I live for thee “.

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