When the Babies Reached

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Photo credit: Birmingham Museums Trust/@birminghammuseumstrust

When God was packing babies,
To be sent to earth,
A baby said, “Give me parents,
Who would await my arrival,
Where I would be away,
From war, strife and anxiety,
Where I would have,
An extended family,
To care for me,
Even if my parents die.
I have lived a life of misery,
In my previous life.
I never knew I lost my parents,
In a war for no fault of theirs,
I kept on sucking the blood,
From my mother’s breast,
Thinking it was milk.
Nothing mattered to me,
Till I was in the comfort,
Of her body so cold,
Till rescue workers,
Took me away to a place,
Where they kept orphans.
I want love and care,
In this life of mine.
Don’t want to live,
The life of an orphan again”.

God thought for a while,
And said, “I have decided,
To send you to a place,
Where you would be,
Cared for, loved for, nurtured,
Not just by your parents,
Even your extended family too.
Go my child, there’s no war,
There seems no strife,
It’s a country of varied cultures,
Each unique in its way.
Your birth won’t mark,
A silver spoon in your mouth,
But the toil of your parents,
Will ensure your daily meals”.

The baby was born,
To a poor couple,
The first born of theirs.
Joyous was his arrival,
For the country he reached,
Revered the gender of his.
True to God’s words,
His parents toiled,
But gave him enough food,
For survival and love,
In plenty in a platter.

When this little boy rejoiced,
Happy at God’s ways for him,
Slowly things around changed,
The country where cultures,
Mingled amicably suddenly,
Became a hotbed for hatred.
If his previous birth marked,
Hatred from outside,
This birth saw hatred,
From within for the caste,
He was born into.
Yet they escaped atrocities,
By tiny fractions,
Till the day a disease,
Plagued the entire region.

Though they were not,
Hit by the disease,
Where was the energy?
Where was the food?
Which parents could provide?
Which relatives could help?
And in spite of being given,
Everything by God as he asked
This child questioned,
The meaning of his existence,
In a different type of strife,
Just because he was born,
Into a caste which was,
Considered of low birth.

Shunned by humanity,
This child breathe his last,
With yet another bad,
Experience in this birth.
As he met his creator,
He said, “Don’t send me…,
God immediately shut him,
And said, “I am sorry child,
Suffering is not what,
I intend for my kids.
But I can’t recognize,
My own creation,
How they have imbibed,
Negative traits that makes,
Them so demonic.
I am sorry my child
My creation no longer,
Seems to be mine”.