A sharp cry of anguish, an avalanche of tears, head thrown back in deep torment and burly figure on hospital wheelchair, shoulders slumped, weeps, not out of pain from broken, bandaged limbs, not of humiliation undergone in ashram built by loving hands but out of remembrance of a woman’s cry that echoes on and on and on in priestly head, “Father what, did I do?”
“Father what did I do?” shrieks Rajnee Majhi as cruel hands light fire, same that have just ravished her, now fan flames that leap out to her just as their lust filled bodies did few moments ago. They watch as young girl they have gang raped now cries out in terror as yellow blaze engulfs broken bruised body and carry her away towards welcome death.
“Yes!” cries weeping priest on wheelchair in Mumbai hospital, flown in from riot ravaged Orissa, “What did she do to deserve thus? Every morning, she gathered the little orphan children from my ashram around in our little backyard and my compound rang with chants of ‘Om Shanti Om” as she prayed for peace to the gods we never tried to change her from worshipping. “What did she do, to be gang raped and burnt to death, my little Rajnee Majhi, my little Rajnee!” sobs burly, broken priest. “All she did was serve humanity!”
Yes what did they do to deserve such? The question rings on as I see other two priests, one lying still on stretcher, trembling to recollect rods of iron, gouged, beaten, bloodied, left to die in jungle. The other with still cherubic face but eyes swollen with tears of how mobs lit fire to roast him alive, then found fire too quick a way to die, paraded him half naked through village street, beating frail shoulders that till then gave strength and solace to same people who hacked and heckled as they broke and busted same bones.
“What ails thee my country?” I whisper.
These men taught love, not through “conversion” rhetoric, nor whipping words, but with hands, heads, hearts that worked with cast out tribals, villagers, educating, teaching, uplifting so they could take their rightful place in a country that world proclaimed as "shining."
Was it wrong to teach them to glow with the rest of us?
What ails thee my country? What makes a Chief Minister educated abroad, an impotent bystander, not lifting a finger to protect, but hiding like a Nero behind political apathy?
If today you and I read and write this foreign tongue called English, not so foreign to us, it’s because same men and women labored to teach us in school and college, we, or our fathers attended. Why have we started turning on them, why are we allowing a Rajnee to be raped, burnt, why?Such attacks don’t stop with Christian bashing, Muslim bashing, Hindu bashing, they lead on to Brahmin bashing, non- Brahmin bashing, and ah haven’t we seen…North Indian, South Indian, Marathi, non- Marathi bashing!
And in some list they’ll find your name.
What ails us? Isn’t it time we stand, we shout “Enough?” Before we find haunting voice crying “What did we do?” is ours!
“Father what did I do?” shrieks Rajnee Majhi as cruel hands light fire, same that have just ravished her, now fan flames that leap out to her just as their lust filled bodies did few moments ago. They watch as young girl they have gang raped now cries out in terror as yellow blaze engulfs broken bruised body and carry her away towards welcome death.
“Yes!” cries weeping priest on wheelchair in Mumbai hospital, flown in from riot ravaged Orissa, “What did she do to deserve thus? Every morning, she gathered the little orphan children from my ashram around in our little backyard and my compound rang with chants of ‘Om Shanti Om” as she prayed for peace to the gods we never tried to change her from worshipping. “What did she do, to be gang raped and burnt to death, my little Rajnee Majhi, my little Rajnee!” sobs burly, broken priest. “All she did was serve humanity!”
Yes what did they do to deserve such? The question rings on as I see other two priests, one lying still on stretcher, trembling to recollect rods of iron, gouged, beaten, bloodied, left to die in jungle. The other with still cherubic face but eyes swollen with tears of how mobs lit fire to roast him alive, then found fire too quick a way to die, paraded him half naked through village street, beating frail shoulders that till then gave strength and solace to same people who hacked and heckled as they broke and busted same bones.
“What ails thee my country?” I whisper.
These men taught love, not through “conversion” rhetoric, nor whipping words, but with hands, heads, hearts that worked with cast out tribals, villagers, educating, teaching, uplifting so they could take their rightful place in a country that world proclaimed as "shining."
Was it wrong to teach them to glow with the rest of us?
What ails thee my country? What makes a Chief Minister educated abroad, an impotent bystander, not lifting a finger to protect, but hiding like a Nero behind political apathy?
If today you and I read and write this foreign tongue called English, not so foreign to us, it’s because same men and women labored to teach us in school and college, we, or our fathers attended. Why have we started turning on them, why are we allowing a Rajnee to be raped, burnt, why?Such attacks don’t stop with Christian bashing, Muslim bashing, Hindu bashing, they lead on to Brahmin bashing, non- Brahmin bashing, and ah haven’t we seen…North Indian, South Indian, Marathi, non- Marathi bashing!
And in some list they’ll find your name.
What ails us? Isn’t it time we stand, we shout “Enough?” Before we find haunting voice crying “What did we do?” is ours!
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