The Gods of Men

‘Ganpati Bapa!’ Said one,
‘Morya!’ shouted the rest,
A truckload of men and an idol,
Two lorries of women dressed their best,
On their way to immerse their god,
In the waters of the sea,
They came upon a white structure,
The beautiful Mosque Ali,

In respect for the faithful,
Bowing their heads to their Lord,
The procession went into silence,
As they neared the mosque’s yard,
When the truck faced the white dome,
In the silence, a mouth cried hard,

And a shrewd fist threw color,
In a moment the white dome now dirty,
A silence in the air, all minds numb,
Blood froze in veins, breath flowing curtly,

Out of the many windows of the mosque,
Flew out a stone shamelessly,
On the forehead of an old woman,
It hit the aged skull briskly,

Her blood blew life in the crowd,
And things changed abruptly,
Shouts resumed, filthy calls,
Honor left their bowel’s assembly,

The crowd of the truck and
The gathering from the mosque,
All mixed in one created a scene,
Such an ugly scene that,
Shame closed its eyes for hours,

Shame saw, when it opened its eyes,
A carpet of dead bodies,
Blood and blood on the breast of earth,
Dead men blind to their follies,
The broken wall of the mosque,
The broken idol in the puddle,

Fathers dead, mothers dead,
No children alive to tell,
The maulvi safe in his chamber,
The pundit still ringing bells,

The Name that you misuse,
Shamelessly all your life,
Shall disown you, grab your collar,
He Himself will then question,
Which Allah would you then call?
Which Ram, Ganesh, which Kishan?

No Hindu was in the crowd,
Who liked not the white dome,
Nor any Muslim did approve,
A woman being stoned, her broken bone,
Their souls were being checked,
They all failed the test,
The mischief of two soiled souls,
Became the destiny of the rest.