It is four months since I took up residence here at Jogabai Extension, an out growth of the predominantly Muslim locality known as Zakirnagar .The outgrowth is said to be an unlawful encroachment on the dried up bed of river Yamuna. I stay in the ground floor, in a small room, of a two storey, un-plastered house built on fifty square feet of sand filled land. One of the doors of my room opens on traffic less street which is used by pedestrian cyclists and occasionally two wheelers as of now
.Ever since my stay here, when ever I happen to wake up any time in the night I would be met by a disturbing and terrific tradling, squeaking sound of a bullock cart zooming past till the muezzins’ call of adhan went up at the crack of dawn , and beyond. The rhythmic whack of baton in perfect rhyme with mad raining of hooves squeaks and treadles... The impressions would evaporate no sooner they would get registered in my mind matter of factedly.
Today I went in a different direction for my morning cup of tea in the open and walk and for that matter I ventured further north towards the Yamuna on my return journey. Was it an alive being with the senses of thirst, hunger, pain? Its mouth open in perfect 30 degree angle, bisected by a straight nearly cylindrical muddy tongue struggling to shoot out from the base. The mouth and tongue seemed locked still in a picture frame- out of thirst, hunger, pain or constriction it is difficult for me to say.
The bruised black open mouthed buffalo-bull answering the intermittent raining of batons with spurts of vertical jumps and then resuming the run. The cart was the size of a mini-truck laden with a mountain of grey sand loaded from the Yamuna bank. It was 7.30 in the morning. Alas! One more prayer had gone up from the minaret’s, dotting the sky line. “For Allah’s sake stop this cruelty”. It was 120 days and 120 nights the poor creature had been undergoing the merciless travails and how many more days lay ahead of him to be a perfect clay.
I sat brooding on the side walk with a Rs.3/- pen and a piece of soiled paper: “Ah Allah has not enabled me to have a digital camera to capture the life of men”., a small caravan of 3 elders and probably seven children passed by the size of procession never swelled till the grave yard. None of the faithful gave their ritualistic at least few steps together to the corpse and the bereaved. The oldest among them in his 60’s walked with the body wrapped in sparkling white coffin the two ends of which was tied giving the package a shape of bottle, in his lap. The body was that of a child but not of a baby.
One of the children walked behind holding a small polythene bag which showed a packet of incense stick a match box and some other stuff. In his left hand, with the other he held her sister’s hand firmly who seemed half his age.
.Ever since my stay here, when ever I happen to wake up any time in the night I would be met by a disturbing and terrific tradling, squeaking sound of a bullock cart zooming past till the muezzins’ call of adhan went up at the crack of dawn , and beyond. The rhythmic whack of baton in perfect rhyme with mad raining of hooves squeaks and treadles... The impressions would evaporate no sooner they would get registered in my mind matter of factedly.
Today I went in a different direction for my morning cup of tea in the open and walk and for that matter I ventured further north towards the Yamuna on my return journey. Was it an alive being with the senses of thirst, hunger, pain? Its mouth open in perfect 30 degree angle, bisected by a straight nearly cylindrical muddy tongue struggling to shoot out from the base. The mouth and tongue seemed locked still in a picture frame- out of thirst, hunger, pain or constriction it is difficult for me to say.
The bruised black open mouthed buffalo-bull answering the intermittent raining of batons with spurts of vertical jumps and then resuming the run. The cart was the size of a mini-truck laden with a mountain of grey sand loaded from the Yamuna bank. It was 7.30 in the morning. Alas! One more prayer had gone up from the minaret’s, dotting the sky line. “For Allah’s sake stop this cruelty”. It was 120 days and 120 nights the poor creature had been undergoing the merciless travails and how many more days lay ahead of him to be a perfect clay.
I sat brooding on the side walk with a Rs.3/- pen and a piece of soiled paper: “Ah Allah has not enabled me to have a digital camera to capture the life of men”., a small caravan of 3 elders and probably seven children passed by the size of procession never swelled till the grave yard. None of the faithful gave their ritualistic at least few steps together to the corpse and the bereaved. The oldest among them in his 60’s walked with the body wrapped in sparkling white coffin the two ends of which was tied giving the package a shape of bottle, in his lap. The body was that of a child but not of a baby.
One of the children walked behind holding a small polythene bag which showed a packet of incense stick a match box and some other stuff. In his left hand, with the other he held her sister’s hand firmly who seemed half his age.
Interestingly I found almost no lips muttering a prayer for the poor soul. A few days back a coffin bearing caravan had also passed that way then countless faces with down cast eyes had turned muttering prayers to bless the soul. Passer byes and shopkeepers and hawkers had lent their steps to earn the pleasure of Allah and honor the tradition of Prophet... It was a caravan of well-fed and well-clothed the size of which went on swelling till the procession reached the grave yard at the end of the road.
This was a patch of soiled men of clay. The next day when my bruised heart sought solace from another one, one of my Hindu friends said;” It is because of their previous bad karmas because of which they are suffering. My Muslim friend said “it is the will of Allah the master of all affairs, a sin to thing otherwise”
This was a patch of soiled men of clay. The next day when my bruised heart sought solace from another one, one of my Hindu friends said;” It is because of their previous bad karmas because of which they are suffering. My Muslim friend said “it is the will of Allah the master of all affairs, a sin to thing otherwise”
