Whose God anyway?

Ramesh woke up that day to the cries of "Jai Sri Ram!"

It was a cold December morning. Already, there was something more chilling about it. He opened the dilapidated wooden door which stood precariously over the squeaking rusty hinges. As he looked out with sleepy eyes, he saw men. Men with tridents, hammers, spears and rocks were all running in one direction. Frenzied wide eyes, clenched teeth, jutting veins at forehead. They all seemed to have only one zombie-like purpose. He went on a high instantly. It was like a dose of marijuana put him into another trance after waking him wide open from his sleep. We will do it today, he thought. And nothing could ever stop us. With that insane zeal, he took his trident, tightened a saffron band on his head and ran out hailing Lord Ram. He felt like a warrior to Ram's cause and hit the structure like Lord Ram would have annihilated the devils from Lanka. 

"Jai Sri Ram! Jai Sri Ram!" 

"Sri Ramchandra ki ..." "JAI!" bellowed the saffron brigade after it was over. 

Ramesh was overwhelmed. He fell to his knees and folded his hands. And Sri Ram filled him. He had tears in his eyes. It was the ultimate culmination he were looking forward to for ages. It couldn't have happened in a better way. He felt redeemed. His purpose of life was met. There was absolutely nothing else that he had lived for. It was like meeting the Lord himself. He felt Ram's presence in every stroke of his trident that brought the unworthy structure down. Ram was everywhere. He was present in the chilly air, in the sunshine that blessed him, in every speck of dust and every leaf of every tree. Ram was the essence of Ayodhya and the reason for his existence. Ramesh was happy that he could finally avenge for his Lord.

Asif woke up early that day. In fact, he had hardly slept. He went to the window and looked out. Apart from the waking sun announcing a new day, there wasn't a soul on the street filled with amber leaves. Even in this crazy land, fall seemed to appear beautiful. He remembered the days he used to walk with his father under the arches of the old mosque in his village.The soothing sound of the morning azaan used to wake him. The serene calmness of the mosque with intermittent noises from pigeons used to greet his sleepy eyes every morning. Holding his father's hand, he used to walk daily, to offer prayers to the Almighty. And after that, he used to fondly piggy ride at has father's broad shoulders through the narrow streets of the village. One such day, he heard terrifying noises coming from the skies. And he hid behind his father. Metal shapes moving at high speeds were converging towards them. All he had was his father's kurta to which he held with all his might. A second later, there was nothing but darkness. As he came out from the rubble, he saw his father lying alongside a broken pillar. The mosque was nothing but a heap of stones. A pigeon lay roasted black along side his father. His father's leg was ripped off from his body and there was a pool of blood all around. Asif's father was dead. He did not know what to do next. He squatted besides his father, unable to think of anything else. It must have been hours before someone took him back home. He saw his mother wailing but he did not cry. He could not cry. And now, he was in the very country which destroyed his childhood and changed his life. Taking God's name, he headed for the airport. If his father deserved a death like that, so did they; he thought.

Eric did not have to try to stay awake. Constant rumbling of falling mortar was enough to do so. He and his team bunked and secured a dilapidated building complex for the night. It was to be their home until dawn broke and they could move to the base camp in Basra. Eric was alert while guarding from the window with the shattered glass. As he looked through his night vision goggles, nothing seemed to bother him. The place was completely desolate. Every structure bit dust. And those that stood would not for long. He had a hard day's fight today, with three men from his unit falling prey to enemy bullets. But he was satisfied. He had killed one armed man. And as he entered the small mud hut, he saw a lady wailing next to the man he had just killed. She had a little baby in her arms, who was shrieking too. Unable to think anything else, he killed them both. He emptied his entire magazine into the whole family. Then, he rushed out to join his group. Sitting there on the window with the shattered glass, he remembered the days he used to play ball with his father. Every evening, his father would return from office and take him to the park. He learnt to pick his baseball bat from him. He remembered how his father toiled day in and day out to support the family and how they wanted to see him go to college. He did not want to disappoint him and worked hard for his grades. Until, that dreadful day in September changed everything. His father did not come back from work that evening. His mother died when she heard the news. And a little of him died inside him too. He ran furiously four blocks to the church. All he could muster were a few tears and suppressed sobs. Next thing he knew was a quick application to enroll himself for the army, and two years later, fighting this unknown enemy, which had changed his life forever. Sitting there, and guarding his men, he did not repent killing anyone. If his father deserved a death like that, so did they; he thought.

Manav's existence mattered only to him. It would have been hardly inconvenient to anyone else had he died this moment. He spent his time with other urchins at the flyover red lights. As far as he could remember, he was always like this. Begging for money or earning a bit of it by wiping car windshields with a dirty cloth, his 'gang' used to manage enough money to survive daily. At times, he felt he was similar to the poor rabid dog who slept under the flyover. The flyover was his world. He spent all his time there, in the frantic honking office hours or the desolate mercury lamp orange nights. One day, a man wearing a kurta and jeans with a 'jhola' over his arm visited the eldest urchin in his gang. And soon, he found himself in a big house with three of them sharing a room. It was a missionary residence for the street kids. His life changed ever since. Though he missed the time he spent at the flyover, or did he? With equanimity, he accepted all the changes. He started to read and write, eat at proper time and help with the maintenance and cleaning of the place that was his home now. But he never went to a weird place called as church by the man in white robes who used to come once in a while to take them for prayers. What prayers? He thought. He was the only child who never went to pray, ever! He wasn't prepared to accept that anyone else was supreme. He believed that he was leading his life at his own terms. This idea comforted him. He found himself as an outcast. But it was them who had changed, not him. One day, he decided to run away from there. Where would he go? He did not know. May be back to the old flyover, he thought. At least once, he would go there. It was a cool breezy night that he decided to jump over the large iron gate. Silently, he pushed himself over, to his freedom. Excited by this thought, he ran and ran until his lungs cried out for rest. He ran all night to his beloved flyover, the place which truly had been home to him. Dawn was breaking now. Chimes of bells from the nearby temple rented the air. So did the call from the muezzin to the faithful. He saw an old lady crossing the road. She was carrying fresh flowers in her hands for offering at the temple. But then, oblivious to the sparse traffic in early mornings, she had neglected a fast car coming towards her. Manav ran, and pulled her in time. The old lady, initially irritated realized what had happened. She smiled and blessed him and handed him a fresh jasmine and a rupee coin. He bowed a bit and left her there. The fresh white petals of Jasmine looked lovely. He was enticed by the flower. Every white petal stood out and blessed him for his act. There was nothing more he needed. He deserved it; he thought.

A newspaper van took the sharp turn under the flyover, and Manav was caught in front of it. As he raised his head, the red bumper was the last thing he saw, and his pretty flower trampled under many feet that were surrounding him now. His God lay beside him, trampled and squashed.