By Rajababu

The newspaper thrown in with the morning tea,
To some, the headlines seem to be mundane, the same blasts, the same
garbage,
Reading the lines, one discerns communal tension,
The usual communities are however, not involved,
Who has picked on whom, I wonder, and why,
Does the growing economy hurt religious souls?
Does the Lord necessarily have to be publicly paraded?


The slain blood of the young father,
Trickles out from the wooden cot, the child cries on,
Did the life ordained to God have to go this way?
Or was it because the choirs replaced the bhajans,
To whom do these virtual things matter, and why,
Does a place of worship have to lead to bloodshed,
Is this the way the Gods ordained it?


How long does one reflect on these things,
I sat on the potty with the paper in hand,
Once my business was finished, I flung the paper aside,
And went to revisit my resurrection.