RETURN

  A mother’s lamentation...

“You came to my life when I was just seventeen

I was a young bride then, delicate and shy

When suddenly, a fatal night dawned upon me

Your father’s corpse was carried to our doorstep

Killed in a political riot ...calamity struck our lives

Our house was devastated by pillagers, your grandparents were shot

I fled for life, for I was carrying another life yet unborn

Endless days of hunger, concealment, my life was draining out

To my rescue, a benevolent passerby took me to a refugee camp

There, in the midst of sorrow and strife, I gave birth to you

A ray of light illumined my bleak spirit

A wonderful boy, my beam of hope, the inspiration of my existence

My youth was devoted to your upbringing

 In your pristine eyes, I saw a heart for the poor and needy

I wanted you to grow up to help the destitute and the outcast

For I know the pangs of the homeless, the sufferers of fate

I sought to the fulfilment of my dreams

Alas! My ominous fate was inevitable

Mesmerised by irresistible carnal temptations

You walked away from my life in pursuit of lucre

Left me a geriatric destitute

My desolate bosom wept for you each day over the passing years

My staggering hands wanted to hold you just for once, before the Eternal Silence

To hug you and tell you that your mother loved you a lot...

I am leaving behind not any treasure, but only my blessings.”

This note reached the son when his mother was no more. He was full of remorse and compassion. While she was alive, he never cared to visit her or even post a single letter, never cared to know and understand her. He had been severely ruthless to her. Now there is no means for redemption. She is lying at rest and he is the sinner. At dusk, staring at his mother’s tomb, he takes a vow... 

Soliloquy of a son at his mother’s grave... 

A good soul cannot be perished by death... 

I had been dispassionate, unworthy of your love

Recollections come to my mind of my childhood days

The soft hum of your tune at bed-time

The tender touch of your fingers, the aroma of your falling locks

The smile on your face...

A ruthless son suffered death much before you did, carried away by hollow lust

Killed human instincts within his pious soul

But my tears will not be the response to your death 

                                     YOUR PROFLIGATE SON RETURNS                                                            You’ll live through the hundreds that I’ll serve
I’ll bear your silence in my heart till I fulfil your dreams

I beg for your forgiveness...Let your prayers follow me...”

Hence forth, with sheer determination, he laboured to start a partnership business. Today he is a successful businessman in India. As a tribute to his mother, he is running an Orphanage in a remote village in the eastern district. This ANATHASHRAM is named after her. Perhaps it’s his desperate attempt to achieve salvation...