Madonnas and Jesuses

I traveled by bus last night. It wasn’t too crowded, but had to stand nonetheless. My friend was seated, and I was left alone standing. Since we were both tired, I was left to the silence for company. I had the option of thinking to myself, which of course, I chose.

My eyes began scanning the bus. My friend was seated in the seat adjacent to the one I was looming over. The others were taken by people of various shapes and sizes. They were images that were forgotten easily. Nothing special. I went back to ruminate over the past year. The bus passed a few stops.

Bored of those thoughts, the scanning began again. I noticed a cheerful child in a lady’s arms. She was the mother apparently. There she was playing with her child, oblivious to the surroundings. Children with mothers are beautiful. Its natural, since it’s the first love that a child experiences. But there could be something more beautiful. Two children, with their respective mothers.

Adjacent to mother nearest sat another mother son duo. And the little fellow here was fast asleep. There was that blissful baby sleep. And I watched in silence again.

It was quite later that I noticed the attire. One was in a burkha, and the other in a saree with the sindoor et al. I noticed that atleast two of the foursome knew nothing about the sindoor, or the burkha for that matter. They knew only the person. They knew only their mothers. They didn’t care if the lady in front, whose hair the active one was busy tugging at, was clad in burkha or had a sari on. He just wanted to play. And then I thought of Gujarat, and the Babri Masjid, and the Bombay Riots, and the Bombay blasts, and the Jihad in Kashmir, and God knows what else.

The bus jerked. I lost balance. I looked out. Saw my stop, and got out. That image remained in my mind.