To The One Who Watches his Children Suffer

Before you read this short poem, I would like to mention that this was one of my diary-entries many months back—one of those things that are written and forgotten. I found it today while flipping through the pages of my estranged personal diary, and felt like sharing. More than the momentary grief or suffering, it speaks of a thought, a doubt that has often troubled me. I am not an atheist, not a theist too in the sense that I don't worship anyone or pray daily. Which often makes me wonder—if god does exist, should that be important anyway? Is it only me, or the people who pray daily, who follow some kind of religious or spiritual routine are really happier in life? Maybe it is because of the meditative aspect of the ritual, that is bound to induce peace into one's mind. But talking of a "god" in real, practical, rational terms... how important is it to show that you love him, respect him or perhaps, fear him?

Last night it so happened,

That I couldn't bring myself to sleep.

Frustrated, afraid, depressed and low;

Every minute I would begin to weep.

I looked up, with a gaze so blank,

And imagined what could be beyond.

Not the sky, the stars or the tainted moon,

But the power that rules both dusk and dawn.

"God!" I yelled, at the top of my voice,

"Why through this, do I have to go?

If you are the one to take care of me,

Why is your involvement, in my life so low?"

"I don't pray, don't bow before thee

—Every morning, like the others do;

Don't visit the shrines or chant your name,

Or make attempts to appease, the one that's you."

"But should that matter, for someone who is you

—called the 'Father' and humankind's guide;

—The one who rules us and this evil world

And to whose whims, we have got to abide."

"I am, but, human, oh mighty king!

And also one of your many children;

Why then, does my god not care,

That his child is grief stricken?"

"I am sorry, for I can't help but think,

That I am paying for not praying to you;

And for believing that you live in my heart,

So I need not pretend to worship idols as you."

"Fine, my lord, if that is how it is

If pretentious formalities are all that say;

But, I thought you are the generous one,

Who loves his children whether or not they pray."

With the pillow on my face, I cried out my heart

Venting all that had rested within

Realizing who the one I was messing with was;

I did, I admit, shiver within.