Lord, am I not your child, too?

         Dear God, Remover of all Obstacles, Lord of the Ganas, Oh Four shouldered one, Rider of the Mouse Vehicle, can you spare a moment for the pleas of one unused to prayer?

         May I ask you if your yearly visits to the abodes of your many devotees have always been attended by noisy revelry? I seem to recall my grand-father bringing you home with only a couple of others to be your escort. Of course we had the felicity of welcoming a smaller You, requiring only one to raise You in his arms, one more to ring a small brass bell or sing the compositions written specially in your praise by poet saints of yore.

         Cannot a joyous occasion be celebrated with less disturbance to the ill, the infirm, the old, the infants, those asleep or even the unbelieving?

         Since when, oh, Lord, have you developed a taste for the garish loud mimicry of popular Bollywood numbers that spews from squawky amplifiers on carts that bear you home in triumph? The words are those that laud you but the tune panders only to the taste of those who cannot find the words themselves enough to enthrall.

         Lord, they gyrate in front of you; they throw themselves not in ecstasy of your advent but in the steps of that latest dance number. They disrupt the traffic, making public transport a laughable thing, walking is faster if legs could but carry one the distance.

         That lady there, she is pleading that her child is waiting for her at her class, she needs to just get to the next road, but the procession takes no heed, passing in slow majestic disdain of such mundane things. If she had sense, think those who pause at least to think, she should not have sent her child to tuition today!

         But, Lord, Swine Flu has already eaten a hole in scholastic schedules; this desperate parent wanted the child to catch up on lost time. She even borrowed her neighbour’s car, the wise neighbour who reported sick to work rather than face milling crowds. Fate gives a tired smirk and shrugs her shoulders; she is not responsible for optimistic and idealistic fools. If all of the cynical city stayed home today and let the roads be full of only revellers, how much work would be done?

         Lord, I went to work; I live a short walk away. But, I think I would have gone anyway, because, to me – work is worship. Lord, was I wrong to choose that option? The patients I have seen do not think so; here one grateful mother clasps my hand in a quick squeeze of gratitude. I may not have saved lives in any miraculous way, but my presence has soothed the anxieties of at least a few.

         That brave child leaning against another older woman, who is she? Yes, she may be in her twenties, but she is a child too young for the burden she bears. Why, Lord, you saw Yama beckon her father fifteen days ago, now he has cocked a finger at her mother too. Her mother lies in the intensive care; she is brain-dead, heart and lungs kept alive by machines.

         This young child, alone now, is still firm, still upright, fueled by a wish to make that mother’s dream come true. She wishes to donate her mother’s organs so others may live. Of all the gifts offered to you, Lord, is not this one shining beacon of example? Yet, she and her grand-mother struggled to get to the hospital, to say a last good-bye. No taxi was willing to ply on this day.

         Today, two people got sight, two got a new life, she celebrates that her mother gave the most precious gift of all. Is she any the less for not participating in the festivities? Am I the lesser for having been there to facilitate it, to make it as easy on her as possible?

         Lord, when coming or going, or even as you stand resplendent in your full glory; I understand the crowds that flock to see you. I marvel at the bright colours and rich silks, I gape at the mountains of sweetmeats and savoury delicacies piled for your consumption and for distribution to the devotees.

         There are bright lights and the cacophony of sound, sorry, the musical celebration, continues. People pay obeisance to you and their fingers drip notes and coins into the collection box. They visit as many of your manifestations as they can, the blessings must multiply as they do.

         My eyes also see the family stretched out on the pavement as I head home, the weather makes their ragged attire comfortable if not conformable, as they lie spread-eagled in awkward sleeping postures. They feasted on thin lentil gruel and sticky rice today. It is their daily fare. I do not know what happens to that pile of eatables Lord, but if a little could find its way to they or their like, it would be so good.

         The baby wails as yet another energetic drummer heralds some straggling procession. The mother barely wakes as she clasps the child to her bosom and hushes it with the offer of its only sustenance. At least the child will have a full belly tonight.

         Lord, can you not stay with us all year around and look after unfortunates like these? They cannot afford to invite you into their homes, but if you were to place a benevolent hand on their heads, you might find you already reside in their minds and hearts.

         As you do in mine, dear Lord. Only you are always there, you do not come and go. I feel you in every throb of my heart. I thank you in the light; I thank you in the dark. I thank you for giving me the bounty of strong limbs and willing body, for a clear mind and gainful employment, for loving family and faithful friends.

         I feel no need to stand in man-built enclosures and rigid dictated postures to ‘see’ you. I make no use of ritual or rite to mark your presence in my life. I live that life with clear principles of good, with intent to help as many as I can, to give without any knowing that I gave – neither the recipient nor the onlooker.

         I am termed unbelieving Lord. I am assured that I have forsaken the right path, Lord. I was so sure that I had not. I was sure, until yesterday.

         Forgive me, but yesterday, I was tired from nearly 36 hours of work and I needed sleep. But all night the music blared from loud-speakers. None dares to complain of an ingression made in your name, Lord.

         Harsh thoughts arose then and if I had the power, I believe I would have been incited to violent destruction of property. It made me wonder and question, it made me think less of those who would be so uncaring. It made me as rigid as those who term me an Unbeliever. Perhaps I deserved that harsh term if I could not find tolerance for all in my heart.

         So, Lord, I ask Forgiveness. Not for my ideas or beliefs, but for my intolerance.

         Am I not your child too? Forgive me.



Links about the Elephant-headed God:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ganesh_Chaturthi

http://www.indiaparenting.com/indianculture/festivals/fest061.shtml