The image was difficult for me to me to look back at it one more time
The image was painful for me to glance at it one more time,
The image was shredding my soul to pieces to look back at it one more time
The image was heartrending for me to look back at it one more time.
But yet like the sky and the ocean,
It is true and is there.

The image of dead, young, tribal woman from Assam
With her child still sucking from her breast,
Both dead like logs; but still holding on to each other.
With the love and passion that has flown from ages between a mother and her child,
The strongest bond that failed the bullets of the machine gun
That has foiled the ruthless ideology of some mindless people,
Whose only glory is bringing death and destruction and pain to defenseless others;
While keeping their needs, profits and gains alive at the cost of others.

Little do you know when your bullets punctured the soft rib cage of the helpless child;
And the chest of the mother riddled with pain and agony
That you are not killing your enemy
But yourself and your mother,
With your own hands for a small gain that will be trivial in the course of time.

Little do you know that your action will bring further pain to countless others
And death, destruction, arsenal and devastations to you and your own brothers and sisters.
For what did that little child knew when he died at his mother’s bosom
Of his guilt done to you and to your community?
He died unanswered, while drinking his mother’s milk for the last time,
Without being able to know why he was killed and who were his killers.

That image will haunt you and me for ages to come.
That image of pain will constantly ask this as this question to you and me
Why did I have to die for no fault of mine asked by the child?
What do we tell the helpless mother in the image was her fault for meeting her cruel end?
Do you have any answer?
Do I have any reply?

We both are silent as we have nothing to say
When all the innocents and the defenseless poor died,
And one day, if you live to see that day
May be you will be a ruler or administrator
Your dark past will be behind your back
And you will be cheered as the dedicated leader of the people,
And looking back at this painful image
You will shed a crocodile tear and curse the people responsible for this.

But when you go back to your loved ones
Looking at the eyes of your innocent kids
Will you be ever able to say that the pain of the image is false?
Will you be able to stand up and hold them with your bloody hands
And say that you have been innocent?
The pain of the image will haunt you and me for ages to come.

.    .    .