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| Friday, 13 September 2002 |
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Some mother's son She came back from school, my little one all perturbed and disturbed."Daddy," she cried, " I saw a man lying dead. He had stab wounds on his body and there was blood all over. It was horrible..!" I looked into her eyes and I saw the fright and hurt and pain, and my mind went to the body she had seen. A young man. Some mother's beloved son, some wife's loved husband, some children's dear father. A man who would never return into the arms and folds of these his loved ones. A man whose birth must have been greeted with rejoicing, not just for being the birth of a child, but the birth of a boy child. Whose mother must have looked up from her labour at some village or municipal hospital and seeing the faces of the nurses must have sighed the relief to know that she had delivered a son. A baby who like all other babies must have given his mother and even his father sleepless nights as he lay feverish in their arms, and then when the fever broke, exhausted but relived and cheerful they must have kept a vigil till the morning lights indeed showed him cured of some uncommon malady. Whose father like all other fathers must have carried him on his back, and encouraged him to take his first baby steps, who must have dreamt big dreams for him, like all fathers do for kids they dote upon. And as the years went by, school doors opened and teachers looked with interest at young face that seemed to question as well as know answers that classmates seemed slow to give reply to. I looked into the eyes of my little one and I saw a question forming on her lips. "Why did people have to kill him dad?" Why? Why did they kill a man who like other men his age must have looked for pretty bride and somewhere behind curtain found shy face who agreed to share a lot with him, and with blowing of trumpet and singing of chants must have moved into his abode and loved and looked after and waited upon her man. Her man. No more man. Just skin and flesh and bone, with no spirit within. Skin and flesh and bone that had broken into and slashed and ripped, on which blood like red paint gave a hideous colour. A mother's precious son! A child's father. A woman's beloved husband. Somebody's friend. Dead. I looked at my dear darling daughter, treasured, adored and much loved, just as lifeless body on the road had been to his mother, children, wife and friends, and a soundless sob rose in me. "How could one man take the life of another? How could mobs kill? How? "Oh God," I whispered, "instead of letting us fight with each other as to how best to worship you, let us learn to allow some mothers son, or woman's husband or child's father live...!" clements@vsnl.com |
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