The Parable of Profanity

Ever has it been, when presented with the audacity to claim what is not in his righteousness, has man claimed through the thick and thin of conscience, trespassing on the grey areas of morality, adorned by false interpretations of ideals, guarded by unrelated realms often of religion or patriotism. With borders separating the preys from predators, it is just a matter of perception which becomes a function of geography, which draws a mental line between the two. Retaliation in wake of having suffered wounds, physical or emotional, is a vile catalyst interchanging the roles of the hunter and the hunted.

Terrorism, a word oft spoken of, practiced as a religion by the monks of misanthropy, is an unpredictable, uncurable epidemic, claiming sporadic lives of those they consider atheists. Terror attacks have blemished the chronicles of our lives, in a red as crimson as the blood they set free, off the victims laying incapacitated, seeking a divine redressal, or ceasure of torment. With media selling grief, for nothing else facades its abundance, is a prophet of figures, numeralising the casualties, survivers, monetory loss, paving a path of numbers for an essentially emotional and corporal footpath strewn with eradicated dreams and severed limbs. The loss of a family member is inconsolable by any means, and any attempt to compensate for it, is an insult to the

souls lost in a profane battle of the unmatched. Tears dry falling prey to the whims of nature, wounds end up in scars, unhurting yet making the fabric of flesh and consciousness grotesque. The survivors' memories now house a trauma beyond the scope of recollection, their near death experience and the helplessness at being denied the confirmation of security, although their own motives are least offensive for others, is a matter of shame, and enforced subordination.

The bomb blast in the German Bakery, Pune, was a vulgar blasphemy in the name of humanity. So is every other similar incident. Having been to the place myself, I could relate to the green painted woodwork of the small shack like joint, now laying in smithereens. The shrapnel from the explosion did not pierce my body, but left unhealing gashes in my conscience. The stories of the victims who breathed their last betwixt the shambles of debris, memories, unfulfilled dreams, in the last moments of their lives fleeting past, touch our hearts when we read them, draw vows of sympathy, but change neither their calamity, nor ones that will follow. Having lost brothers and sisters in this morbid moment of triumph for those who perpetrated it, I stand helpless for the loss is beyond recovery, reproval or redressal. Wearing "black" to mourn those who could've "lighted" our future, considering the offices they held (or would have, inevitably), is an inappropriate condolence.

Those who survived the carnage, I respect them for their strength and stability of mind, when I myself am so effected at this large a distance, I can hardly imagine their mental condition.

I bow to those who had to leave us, when our world could've been much better a place with them, I pay my obeisance, with all due respect and humility.

God bless their souls.

In memory of

Ankik and Anindyee Dhar

P Sundari

Vinita Gadani

Shilpa Goenka

Shankar Pansare

Gokul Nepali

Saeed Abdul Ghani

Nadia Materinia

"Mortals by form, immortalised by faith."

Rest in Peace...

*Amen*

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