All I Can Do Is, Pray.




Every morning I wake up with my hair ruffled and I set it straight to look prim at work. At times I fall and after every fall I manage to rise. I dance in the rain and I let the rays of the sun seep into my skin. I have had dreams of the seventh heaven and I have slept for nightmares too. The maddening revelations of every passing day surprise me but I value each moment of my existence. After shedding a teardrop, I laugh and I laugh richly.
This is how I live; this is how we all live. This is how we learn the lessons of life; this is how we come to terms with the routine. Like any other ordinary human being I too am habitual of this incredible assortment of ups and downs called life and I am at peace with its various moods.
I am a Kashmiri. I have seen blood on my streets and have yet touched the tulips of all sizes and all shades. I have cried at the martyrs’ graveyard and have also lied down on the lush green meadows of my valley. I have learnt the secret of coexistence of the dark and the bright flags of life.
Have I?
I woke up with my hair ruffled this morning too, but today I didn’t think of setting it straight. Today I didn’t want to look prim  at work as today I also woke up to the pictures of insane brutality in Gaza ; pictures that rip you apart, images that  leave a knot in your throat. I have not seen this dark a shade of life before and now that I have, I don’t see myself at peace with its various moods. This cannot be the routine and if it is, I don’t want to settle with it.
The first picture I saw today was that of a little boy, sodden in blood, cuddling his dead mother in his affectionate arms. Too big a sorrow to bear; too cruel a sight to forget about. His innocent clueless face will trouble me for long and his bloodcurdling eyes will not let me sleep.
It might rain today but I will not tap my feet.
 I won’t be able to stand up on my legs if I fall today, for I cannot get over the picture of a devastated father carrying dead bodies of his little ones. My heart is at a standstill and my soul frozen. How do you clear your mind of an image of a man bent under the weight of his two babies dressed in blood -stained shrouds? His being has been crushed to smithereens. How will he straighten his posture again?
Is the moral sense of the so called civilised nations shrouded too? Have the luxuries of life benumbed us?  Unfortunately, we don’t have any answers.
In another post on a social networking site, I saw a young, poor woman crying profusely but at the same time she had her arms wrapped around her three little children. She looked terrified but strong. Resilient and resolute. May be her arms guarded her little children well; may be her arms protected them from bombing! I hope! I hope your hopefulness has proven fruitful, young lady and I pray your world keeps blossoming in your arms till eternity.
I hope and I pray. That is all I can do. I am so sorry Gaza, but that is all I can do. Miles and miles away from you, I can see your grief and I can feel your pain. Miles and miles away from you, all I can do is, pray!

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