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I saw that
Old man
Offering
Prayers
To the
Mother
Goddess
Amidst
The chanting
Of the mantras
The observance
Of the religious
Rites, rituals…
And fragrance
Of the incense,
Not forgetting
Lighting of the
Holy fire.
In between
The yajna
Whenever
He got those
Little breaks,
When the purohit
Found himself
Busy with all and
Sundry…
The old man
Never missed
A chance to berate
His wife, before
The audience,
Pulling her on
Every little
Thing she might
Have done a-miss
While arranging for
The Puja.
He had forgotten
She was as old
As he seemed to be,
She was frail and feeble,
Her body ridden with
Arthritis.
He remembered
He was the
Man of the
House and so
Had every right
To pick on his wife,
Whose eyes brimmed
With tears, being sneered
By him before the
Onlookers.
Yet, as every
Subservient
Wife does,
She kept quiet.
Her silent tears
Didn’t move
The old man.
He continued
Worshipping
The mother goddess
Unperturbed by his
Wife’s state of
Unfolding misery.
I kept wondering
If the goddess
Would accept the
Prayers of this
Ardent devotee
Who’s trying
So many ways
To appease her
From day long
Fasts to endless
Sacrifices of
Money, time
And animals…
All for this
Stone idol of a
Deity.
Yet, this devout
Hindu doesn’t
Respect the
Living and
Breathing…
Grihalakshmi
Of his home and
Hearth.
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