Childspeak on Mother's Day

Mothers Matter- by Abhiraj Singh (Age10)

Mother's Day is an international event celebrating our Mothers and all that they do for us. Throughout the World many people today gift their Mothers cards, flowers, gifts and even hugs! I am sanguine that many people must be planning to surprise their Mothers today.

The purpose of Mothers Day is to remind people of the greatness and compassion of Mothers. Our Mothers give us unconditional love and predominantly Life. Without these blessings where would we be? Sometimes we forget about all that our Mothers give us, however on Mothers Day, millions of hardworking, kind and amazing Mothers are recognized for their wonderful deeds in life. Today, on 15th of March we will show our gratitude towards our Mothers. We could express our gratefulness by even simply helping our Mums!

Depressingly, despite the fact that people know what their Mothers have done for them, they cruelly send their Mothers to homes for the elderly where they maybe mistreated. After several years of happy Mom-time, some heartless people send their Mothers as if she was a package being posted, unnoticed and uncared for. One of the many reasons people send their Mothers off to an elderly home is because they unjustly assume that keeping an old Mother with them is a waste of time, food and money. Although they sound comfy and caring, homes for the elderly in reality can be a sad place to live.
Primarily elders such as our Moms love us unconditionally and do not under any circumstances want to leave and live away from us.
Secondly Carers who work for a salary, may handle our frail Mothers roughly and hurt them.
Finally forcing our Mother to live somewhere uncomfortable and unfamiliar and in a place where anything could happen, is just irresponsible and vicious. Plain vicious!

Even though some people are unkind towards their Mothers, there are many children who amuse and please their Mothers with tricks and jokes and lots of love.
Sadly for those without a Mother, Mothers Day is a painful day, a reminder of their big loss. This is why we, in our not very long life, should take every opportunity to count our blessing that come in a Mother's disguise.

Personally, and like most children I think my Mum is awesome, perfect and great. She is a great role model. She made a big decision about staying at home to look after me and it has benefitted me. It helps me in my studies, plus it meant I could spend lots of time learning from her and playing and having fun with her. My Mum is the smartest, bravest and the most beautiful person ever. I know she will always love me and I will always love her.

 In the end for all Mothers, a Shloka from an ancient Stotra:

 Kuputro Jayet, kwachidapi KuMata na bhavati

A Son can be bad,  but a bad Mother, can never be.

For My Ma - By Megha Basu (Age 11)

 

From my heart, I want to say,

For me, you are brighter than the day,

The World would've been so very bare,

Thank you Ma for being there.

 

You are the one who gave me Life,

Bearing all the pain, hard to describe

I came to you in the month of November,

Your smell is the first thing I remember.

 

Ma, my tears give you pain,

When I smile, you smile again,

If I am troubled, you can't sleep,

Sitting beside me you silently weep.

 

You have been my pillar of strength,

Telling me to fight and rise again,

Honesty is what you have taught me,

That is how I always will be.

 

Your praises fill me up with joy,

Your trust in me I will never destroy,

I cannot imagine a life without you,

Hold my hand while I pass through.

 

Your lap is my place to hide,

When I am scared or cast aside,

The World would have been so very bare,

Thank You Ma for being there.

 

 

Mummy Oh Mummy!!  - Acrostic Poem by Anjika Singh (Age 8)

 M y Mummy cares.

O h Mummy! what would I do without you?

T he only thing that cheers me up is you.

H appiness is being with you.

E verlasting love is what ties us.

R espect you, I always will.



Letter to My Mummy - By Ira Angre ( Age Almost 9)

My Dearest Mummy,

You are the light of my Life, which shines brighter when you speak. For me you are the World. I love you so much. I love you more than ice-cream. I love you more than anything in the World. I love your cooking. It make me eat more. You shout for my good, so that I can go on the correct path instead of taking the wrong turn. You are also very strict for our good. You brought us up and gave birth to us which we appreciate. You always are concerned for me. You don't want to see me in a bad mood, always a happy smile.

Happy Mother's Day!!!!

I Love you.

Iru

 

 

The Grey Eyes beyond the Grey Door

I have walked these alleys for years. Cool and shady, a welcome reprieve in the summer. Have quickened the pace in winters when they turn windy and freezing. 

Have skipped and hopped to the grey door as a young girl.

Strutted and sashayed to the same door, as a woman.

The steps that took me there, were always eager and happy. They knew they belonged to where they were headed.

In the Old City, is the alley and towards the right side stands a Corridor, at end of which is the Grey door.

The Grey door both in my memories and in real, creaked on its hinges, and shut with a loud bang, announcing every arrival and departure.

The Mohalla, felt like my Territory, even though I did not live there. I visited. But the Mohalla was mine because what lay behind the Grey Door was mine. And what made it mine was the old Board hanging above it with its bold letters in white, which were repainted regularly. The Letters read: 

                Shri Rattan Chand Sharma (Retd Tehsildar), 

                74 Mohalla Afghana

                Pacca danga

                Jammu Tawi

This address used to be our permanent address for all official and legal purposes. We shifted houses regularly, sometimes across states and once even across Continents. This Address used to be the one ‘permanent’ in my young life. 

The Person behind this Address was in my List of Most Handsome Men Ever, somewhere along with my Father and Lord Shiva.

Retd Tehsildar ji, the man of the House, fair complexioned, with a thick head of hair and grey compelling eyes, commanded attention. Strong, just and extremely kind, he was known to have never raised his voice at anyone. His calmness always comforted me and his wisdom made me secure.

I grew up hearing stories of Retd. Tehsildar ji’s goodness and the respect he had earned because of it. Even the little I heard of his personal journey read like a book I would enjoy reading and learning from. His Mother, whom he loved dearly, was famed for her beauty. The stories that were passed down, told of how if she styled her hair one day, she was not allowed to apply kohl to her eyes. The day she applied kohl, she was not allowed to wear bright and beautiful clothes. Her dazzling beauty was too much to handle for her Matriarch who feared someone would cast an evil eye.

From Partition, to Indo-Pak Wars playing out, right at Teshsildar ji’s backyard, the stories left me agog. The Wartime incidents of sensitive Border Towns were shocking. His beloved dog was poisoned by the ‘enemy’ during those troubled days and he never brought another dog home. 

A State which has been a playground for personal egos and political ambitions and where Minorities have been relentlessly persecuted and History hushed and changed, I saw a Man deeply religious and secular in practice till the end. Thanks to him I have never seen a conflict between the two, religion and secularism, either in theory or practice. The Clarity that strengthened later, started with him.

He was always humble and polite. Be it when he was with his Guru Maharaj/ Spiritual Teacher, seeking knowledge or when he enquired after the orphaned/fatherless children he helped educate.

Even in his death he wanted to give more and left instructions for his sons to give away the money which would otherwise be used for Adh-Barkhi and Barkhi (post-death Rituals) to those who really needed it. He taught us to give and to give with Faith and freely.

On many an evening, during my summer break, after dinner I would climb the many stairs, to the little room on the third floor where he would retire to meditate. He would always kindly let me in with a little laugh and share his blanket and tell me and any other grandchild who had dared to sneak in with me, stories of Rishis and Saints, goodness and giving, courage and action. We would be mesmerized by the sparkle in his beautiful eyes and by the deep baritone which was always reassuring. And nothing has come close to the title he conferred upon me of ‘Sant/Saintly bachha’. I am yet to prove him right but hold onto that memory dearly.

He along with my Father raised the bar very high for all my potential suitors. The handsome grey eyed man pampered his wife, all their married life. No one can claim to have heard him raising his voice against his dear wife. And even in the last few years when he was losing his memory due to dementia, her illness and discomfort would cause him the most pain. He would pace restlessly till he was assured of her well being. He was the perfect gentleman and theirs was the most charming love story.

The owner of the Grey Door and what lay beyond, was the patriarch of a Family of seven children and many nephews and nieces. The brood only got bigger with marriages and births. The fact that his Daughters are as strong and fiercely independent as his sons is an ode to his upbringing. The knot that keeps this large family together has been painstakingly tied by him. And how much he valued this familial love was clear in his last note to his family, asking them to continue to live well and with love for each other.

Mine were the first pitter-patter of feet in his life after his own children.

I always secretly thought I held a special spot in his life, which would remain unthreatened. I was in for a shock in Nov 2011. I remember flying from London to Jammu for my Cousin’s wedding. The first evening there, I went upto him to greet him. His strange response was bewildering.  Did I dare say that there was no spark of recognition? This was before others in the family had recognized the dementia he suffered from in his last years. I was confused and hurt but his presence was more important than my unrequited love. I truly loved him and could chin up and bear any slight coming from him. In fact I spent a lot of time mulling over my behavior and what could have lead to the cold reaction. His diagnosis brought pain and yet some relief that it was not me but age and ill health that took away my share of love. I stubbornly decided to give him even more love.

The bond was special because the Retd Tehsildaar ji, had a dual role in my life. He was not only my Grandfather but quirkily enough could also claim to be my Father. My Parents after eight long years of marriage and five still born baby boys ran pillar to post to change their childless fate. When the Doctors failed and the Gods refused to be bribed, they were desperate enough to resort to someone’s idea of selling the Fetus in the womb to my Grandparents. The logic behind this incomprehensible idea was that my Grandparents karmic credit would shield me from my parent’s destiny. So I was sold off for a neat sum of Rs 11 to my Grandparents, even as I floated around blissfully in my Mother’s womb. Confident of my Grandparents good Karma my Parents spent that money eating Dosa and dreaming of a future with me in it. 

But during the Navratris in 2014, my 92 year old Grandfather had a bad fall. The blood clot in his brain would become the reason for a myriad thing. There was the coming together of the family. They stood more united than ever before. Months of sleepless nights for the family members taking care of him. The way they rose to the occasion, and saw the opportunity to serve and nurse their invalid Patriarch as their good karma is a credit to him. I heard of Sisters with young babies travelling to the hometown and breaking down upon seeing him. I heard of great grandchildren comforting my Grandmother in their baby lingo.

I heard of regular trips to hometown by brother and cousins during Diwali become primarily about Nanaji. I later saw boys in the Family become Men.

And I heard all from afar. And I prayed. When they told me he needed to go and he should get ‘mukti’ I shivered. 

In 2011 he hurt me when he failed to recognize me. Would he leave me heartbroken and guilty by leaving before I saw him? I was torn between wanting release for him and wanting deliverance for me. 

In the end, like always,he proved bigger. I left for India on 5th Dec. Was at his bedside on the 6th. I stroked his forhead and begged forgiveness for my own selfishness. I had a conversation with him in my head and I knew he heard me, although he lay unresponsive. I told him I had kept a count and noted that everybody had come and seen him. All his children were with him and all the Grandchildren had been with him. I was the last one to see him. I told him, that I knew he was waiting for me. And here I was, his eldest Grandchild. I told him he may go now. I promised we would try and uphold the things dear to him and assured him that he need not worry about his wife of 67 years.  He had taught us well. I know  so many from the Family must have had similar conversations with him but this was mine. And I am thankful to him and God that I could have it.

 I said the same things to him on the 15th, the last day I spent with him before I left to see my InLaws.

 In the early hours of 21st, he left, to start another journey.  

The grey door still stands but the grey eyes are gone. But I have seen some of what and how, they saw. I also see some of their wisdom and kindness passed on. 

The Tree is gone but the roots remain, holding the Earth together. 

That Time of The Year

That time of the year.
The Heart becomes more alive than usual.
It swells and shrinks.
It beats faster and hurts harder.
It is always on the edge.
Ready to burst with joy or break with ache.

The Nation.
The Heart shouts Home.
The sounds, smells, and all that noise.
The Heart recognizes, sometimes vexed and sometimes joyous.
The Language.
Like a Lover whispering in the ear.
The Heart is smug.
The anticipation building.
The Heart embraces, like a secret love.

The only time an unsure flyer, will look out of the window.
The Heart is brave.
The Himalayas receding in the horizon, and Tawi springing to life in all its serpentine glory.
The Hearts beats, but you stop breathing.
Every Christmas, Santa flies over the majestic Ganga, leaving gifts for the children.
Heart says Life is Magical.

That Morning, waking up to the Parents pottering about.
The Heart hears and is a young girl once again.
The abandon of the child, when with the Parents.
The Heart is lazy and free.

When handsome young brothers bow down to touch your feet.
The Heart rises with pride.
The hugs from the Womenfolk in the family.
The Heart forgets the chill and grey.
The Unconditional Love.
The Heart grows arrogant.

Children blossoming in the sunlight of absolute adulation.
The Heart is warm.
The gossiping and whispering late into the night with the Sisters.
The Heart is lighter and laughs.
The adoring Nieces and Nephews.
The Heart is young and sings.

The Village Temple, by the River but without Dadi, shedding tears, as she would watch us leave till she could see us no more.
The Heart remembers.
Every year the Parents look older, frail and more vulnerable.
The Heart is afraid.
The ailing Grandfather.
The Heart breaks.

A few weeks.
The Heart feels everything.
Intensely.
It feels both strong and weak.
And then the Heart embraces Hope, as it leaves.
Till it returns.

The Underbelly Part 2

As a couple of months went by the horror and tragedy of the impact and the consequences of sexual slavery became clearer to me. The assumptions and beliefs I previously held about the women in prostitution altered dramatically.
Lets tackle the obvious questions anyone would have who is not familiar with the issue of sex trafficking.
How many are really forced/tricked into this form of slavery?
To my best knowledge almost all of them are in some way or the other duped or coerced into prostitution. In the 2.5 years of my field work I did not come across a single woman who willingly chose this line of 'work'. If I could do justice in describing the degrading and appalling conditions they live in all doubts would be erased. Well the ones whom you can say get into prostitution willingly are usually the daughters of the women in prostitution(I will call them WIP). But they join this 'profession' not because of its prospects but because of a total lack of alternatives.
I remember an 8 yr. old girl, a daughter of a WIP, telling me that she wanted to be a Gharwali (the madam or the brothel keeper) when she grows up. This was because she knew no better. She had no role models to look up to. She knew no other life. In her eyes the most powerful person was the gharwali who had financial freedom and who had means to control the lives of women like her own mother. There are other forms of prostitution like call girl rackets and beer bar girls but that is a different category. These forms of prostitution are also extremely exploitative.
Is it really all that difficult to come out of this situation?
Well first lets examine how most of these girls ended up in the red light area.
1. N was a happy 10 yrs. old living in some remote impoverished village in Nepal.She has 5 more siblings. One probably suffering from TB. If they are lucky they eat twice a day. She used to go to a village school, but had to stop because of a paucity of funds. Days of going without food and the worsening condition of her brother who is afflicted with TB, forces her parents to sell her to a lady who promises to get her employment as a worker in a carpet factory in Kathmandu or as a domestic help in Mumbai. She travels by foot, bus and finally train to Mumbai. And is sold into a brothel for Rs 10000.
2. B is a 17 yr old from a village in Andhra Pradesh. Her father, a cotton farmer committed suicide because of increasing debt and falling revenues. There are 5 mouths to feed. So our brave young B decides to go to Mumbai to some acquaintance who could get her a job. She is illiterate and is travelling outside her village for the first time. She meets a friendly woman in the train just before arriving in Mumbai who looks at the address and tells her she lives in the same neighborhood and offers to take her there. She is brought to Kamathipura and sold.
3. D fell in love and decided to elope with her lover. The lover promises her marriage. She runs away to Mumbai with him, dreaming about marriage and domestic bliss. She is brought to Kamathipura and is sold and she never sees her lover again.
4. P gets into prostitution because her mother is a prostitute. She knows no other life. She was born in the brothels. We call this inter-generational prostitution.
5. M remembers going to the village fair somewhere in Jharkhand with her family. The next thing she knows she is drugged, thrown into a sack, and then dumped onto the back of a truck. She is brought to Mumbai. She is sold and since she is only 8 yrs old, she fetches a really good price.
6.There was a particular peculiar arrangement that I saw in Grant Road. That of Bangladeshi WIP. They were living in the brothels with their families , husbands included. I found out that these women would service clients in the night, while their husband played cards in one of the many eating places nearby. During the daytime the women would sleep and the husbands would cook and look after the children. The would stay in Mumbai for 6 to 8 months, make enough money to go back to their villages. They would be back in Mumbai with their wives, and sisters,once they ran out of all their savings. Well I know the woman had no say in this arrangement and this was not a result of mutual consent.
7.L was a devdasi in a village in Karnataka. When the priests of the temple tire of her, she is sold to a Mumbai brothel. This consort of the Gods is no luckier than the others.
Could they not run away from the brothels?
When she arrives at the brothel she refuses to obey the gharwali. She is locked up in a small room.Starved, beaten, tortured. This continues for days. If she refuses to give in, she is finally drugged and repeatedly raped. She is raped by more than 5 men in one night. Virginity is much in demand. After months of this torture she gives in and is moved to a room in the brothel. She cannot read or write.She does not understand the language. She is not allowed to leave the brothel. Gharwali has goons to watch over her. Crushed chillies being rubbed onto her private parts is one of the many threats she hears day and night.As a girl told me she spent her first year begging every man she was forced to sleep with to help her escape. One of her regular customers was a policeman.
By the second year the girl is battered, and diseased. Her spirit is irreversibly crushed and she is ashamed and afraid to go back to her village for now she is 'dirty'. Some part of her still hopes to go back one day and resolves to do whatever it will take. Which is paying back the money the gharwali paid to buy her. This is not easy to do. She gets only Rs. 50 per customer. She also has to pay for her lodging, food, clothes and medicines. Add to this the interest on the principal amount, freedom is one distant dream. I never heard of any happy endings.
Some brave and lucky ones did manage to escape thanks to the occasional police raids. But the happiness is short lived. Once her family back in the village realizes where she has been she is beaten, disowned and thrown out. She returns to the only thing she knows.
Her destiny was never hers to make.

If I Cannot Find, I live to be Found

Today is the day. Today I get up, and wake my son. I make sure he is dressed and fed. Today is the day when I hug him tight and kiss his beautiful face, not once, not twice but over and over again. Today is the day when, as I say good bye I feel my heart break. The pain so fierce I think I might die. And I am surprised that I did not... did not die. When I see him walk away, I want to scream and shout, feral in my pain and fear. I want to hold him back. Tell him to stop and stay. But today is the day, I will not. I will bid him farewell and watch him till I can't see him anymore. Yes today is the day when I will live knowing I might never set my eyes upon him.  I will not know where and how he is. I have wondered if not knowing is worse than death and yet I cannot see life snuffed out of the child I brought into this world. I have to choose and I must protect. So today I will watch my heart walk out of my body. My soul will never be the same again.

 
But, I will live in the hope that my heart will find its way back to where it belongs.

 

I am angry and I am very afraid. I leave my Mother, my house, and everything I know.  I leave fear behind but the unknown and more fear await me. How do I walk away from the woman who taught me to walk, maybe to never return? Uncle speaks of a wonderful world beyond those Blue Mountains. But the voice inside me shouts that, that is a lie. For there can be no place on earth, more beautiful than my village. I want to pick fruit and climb trees in the apple orchard...one last time. I want to run to the Madarsa and clasp the gnarled hands of the friendly Imam....one last time. A game of football with Khalid in the fields behind the graveyard...one last time. Pull my sister Shazia's pigtails…one last time. Why did I miss school and spend time plotting and planning my next mischief, with my friends, under the almond tree? If I had not, maybe then I could stay. I should have fetched water for Mother and helped Shazia collect firewood. Maybe then, they would let me stay. I have prayed and promised Allah that I will be a good boy. But Allah is really mad at me, for today, I will have to leave. They tell me I must leave to save my life. My roots severed, I do not know how I will fly.

 
But, I will live in the hope that if I cannot find, I will be found.

 



Inspired by the Human Stories of courage,tragedy, survival and hope, I see and hear at my work at International Family Tracing, British Red Cross. http://www.redcross.org.uk/What-we-do/Finding-missing-family/International-family-tracing

 

 

 

A and A Celebrating Janamashtami

Janamashtami, the festival which celebrates the birth of Lord Krishna is truly a special day. His life, his message is for all humanity. Shree Krishna was dear to young and old alike.
My own A and A are big fans of Shri Krishna, reading and re-reading stories of his life. They started their day, this Janamashtami by thinking about Shree Krishna's life and his message.
Here is their take on Shree Krishna's life and message :

Today it is Janamashtami. It is a birthday of a special avatar and his name is Krishna. His birthday is mostly celebrated on August. He is a very special avatar to us.
One scary part of his life is, that there was an evil snake called Kalia. Whenever someone came to drink water from Yamuna River everyone got poisoned and died.
His Uncle Kansa was so mean and greedy that Krishna had to kill him.
Another incident was stealing Makhan(butter). Krishna did not steal Makhan, for no reason. It was for a very good reason. He did it because everyone was giving the butter to Kansa and not to the children.
Another incident of his life was that he had a friend called Sudama. Krishna saw so much love in Sudama,  that he gave his own palace to him.
 
If we love God, he will give us everything.
Happy Janamashtami to All of You.

By Little A ( 6 yrs)



                                                
Today it is a special day. It is Janamashtami. Janamashtami is the day Krishna was born. Krishna was a great person and he did great things in life to teach us how to live our lives.
Krishna was an Avatar and his message to us is mainly : That if we are united, together we can destroy evil and make a change in the world.

Here is an example of an incident in his life: Pootna was a demon, Kansa had sent to kill Krishna. Pootna disguised herself into a village woman. Krishna was very young and cute at that time. Pootna reached Krishna's house. Somehow she got a chance to be alone with Krishna, but Krishna sensed danger. She already had her breast smeared with poison. However Pootna was no comparison for Krishna. Young Krishna suckled at her breast and Pootna died. This teaches us that whatever form danger comes in, be alert and face it.

When Krishna was a boy , he was very mischievous. He used to steal Makhna/ Butter from the Gopis houses. Although he had a reason. The reason was that everyday the Gopis had to sell the Makhan in Mathura. So Krishna's friends barely got any butter, curd or milk to eat and drink. So Krishna taught everyone that children need to play  and eat well too.

There is another event that took place in Krishna's life. . Kansa was an evil man. Krishna was his biggest enemy. Kansa was also Krishna's Mama. So did Krishna not fight? No! he was brave and vanquished his Uncle. This teaches us even if someone close to us is spreading evil in the society, we still have to fight them. 

Another event which teaches us a lot involves Arjun. Arjun before the Battle of Kurukshetra. Both Arjun and Duryodhan were at Krishna's Palace. Krishna said Duryodhan and Arjun had a choice. They could choose between him and a million soldiers. Arjun immediately answered ," I don't want a million soldiers, I just want you". Duryodhan thought a million soldiers was better and later lost.
This teaches you to have Faith in God. If God is on your side, you will win.

Lastly, Arjun was on the battlefield and the battle was about to start. But Arjun's hands were trembling. The thought of fighting his Uncles and cousins scared him. Then Krishna sang the 'Bhagvad Geeta' and all his fears went. He bravely fought and Krishna remained his great friend.

There is also one more thing to remember: Life is like a Game, you win some and lose some, but you should never give up.

Happy Janamashtami!


By Big A ( Turning 9 next month )

Celebrating Goodness in the Face of Evil

Incidents like today and those others, which do not credit any media coverage, test my faith and resolve. My dear friend, a strong, intelligent and independent woman told me, that this is one of the reasons, why she is averse to celebrating our Country's Independence. You my friend, say that the city and the Nation have no heart. We have been long dead.

I agree with you, not because I am a woman who knows what it is to have her personal space violated. Who as a young girl has strategized how to ward off advances of men like 'Shakti Kapoor' the personification of the Bad Man in a 9yr Old's mind, who had seen enough Bollywood movies and seen enough of life, as it was around her.

There is no debating your anger. It is rightly placed. You have rightly said that we have anarchy in the name of State. I am angry too. I am furious and frustrated. And as a Mother and a Mother of a precious girl child, I have never known fear or worry, the way I know it now.

I agree with everything you say, my friend. But one.
I refuse to, NOT, celebrate men and women who gave their blood and sweat for this Land. They developed a beautiful Civilization and an amazing Culture. Agasti, Vishwamitra, Vashishtha, Gargi, Vallabhacharya, Chanakya, Adi Shankracharya etc. are names that have a body of work behind them which gives me goose bumps. They inspire me and give me direction.
And later on the men and women who fought the war of Freedom, so that this Country could be free to further strengthen this Culture and take the message of love for humanity and all Creation, far and wide. I WILL celebrate them.

This is the Land of Great Men and Women and Sages and Avatars. And though my resolve is being tested and I fear it will take a further beating, I will try not to not bow down. I will not let cultural and moral bankruptcy and pure evil obliterate the majestic work of many.

Its takes hundreds of years to develop a Civilization and shape a Culture. And it can fall apart in just a few years. We have been falling apart for many, many years now. We are riding the wave of breakdown, anarchy and chaos of every kind.

Today is not the day when I will ruminate on why's and how's. I am not even going to think on solutions. Because the solution is clear in my mind but its not instant or legal or administrative.
I am not looking to blame anyone today, because there are too many actors in this play.

But undoubtedly, this Battle between the Good and Evil, Right and Wrong is age old. There have been Narakasurs and Ravanas, who did what they did, because they wanted to and because they could. Till they were stopped.
The Evil is stronger in this Yuga undoubtedly. But as a great Man and my greatest inspiration said, it is my chance  to prove my mettle. Because I am going to be tested the most today, as a believer in the Good and Right. I will choose the Right side and do my bit in this Battle. I have chosen and want to walk the Path of Karmayog. I am going to try, to not speak the language of inaction, failure and pessimism. I will try to transform my anger to Right Action. I will try, and try harder.

Hence dear friend,  I will celebrate goodness and greatness in the face of this greatest evil. Because some maybe dead but you and I are not. We must continue to live and act.