The morning was a usual
one, a leisurely Sunday 9.00 am with breakfast and newspaper and some family
time. While I was digging into my protein induced meal, my parents were
discussing the world and their inhabitants around our family. Not interested in
the lead characters of the discussion I chose to concentrate on the headlines
of the daily.
Moments later I realized the discussion had come to a halt. I looked up and found two pairs of questioning eyes darting towards me. Mom repeated the question which apparently didn't reach me on its first attempt for I was engrossed in those worldly headlines.
I was asked if I remembered that I had to sponsor bhog at our community club's temple with my first salary. A promise, mother had made to God when I was at interviews. A promise, I was aware of, something that all the ladies of the club made for their children without fail; a tradition had shaped up out of its own.
It never had fancied me though and ergo, the promise or its reminder did nothing to fan my enthusiasm for it. I had nodded my consent earlier but now my heart played a different harp.
The bhog, the blessed meal, would be served to people who are already well fed. People who fasted not because their pantry was empty but because they wanted to lose some kilos. People who never hesitated to throw away excess food they had on their plate out of miscalculation of the quantity. What was the point in feeding such stomachs when there were people famished for days? Such hunger does not occur out of choice. It’s a product that mushrooms out of poverty and its vicious circle.
Moments later I realized the discussion had come to a halt. I looked up and found two pairs of questioning eyes darting towards me. Mom repeated the question which apparently didn't reach me on its first attempt for I was engrossed in those worldly headlines.
I was asked if I remembered that I had to sponsor bhog at our community club's temple with my first salary. A promise, mother had made to God when I was at interviews. A promise, I was aware of, something that all the ladies of the club made for their children without fail; a tradition had shaped up out of its own.
It never had fancied me though and ergo, the promise or its reminder did nothing to fan my enthusiasm for it. I had nodded my consent earlier but now my heart played a different harp.
The bhog, the blessed meal, would be served to people who are already well fed. People who fasted not because their pantry was empty but because they wanted to lose some kilos. People who never hesitated to throw away excess food they had on their plate out of miscalculation of the quantity. What was the point in feeding such stomachs when there were people famished for days? Such hunger does not occur out of choice. It’s a product that mushrooms out of poverty and its vicious circle.
I knew I had to follow my
heart. I discussed my plan with my parents. They thought feeding unfortunate was
a noble thing but one cannot back away from a promise either, especially one
that made to God. Hence, it was decided I would share a feast with a local
orphanage and would also sponsor the bhog.
The day of feast was magical. The warmth, the smiles, the happiness, all so contagious, filled my heart with joy and love. I did not attend the bhog though, which was organized the next day much to the chagrin of my family. I visited the orphanage in its stead, this time with mithayis. This to only witness and experience the smiles that played on their angelic faces. Was totally worth!!
The day of feast was magical. The warmth, the smiles, the happiness, all so contagious, filled my heart with joy and love. I did not attend the bhog though, which was organized the next day much to the chagrin of my family. I visited the orphanage in its stead, this time with mithayis. This to only witness and experience the smiles that played on their angelic faces. Was totally worth!!
 |
| Courtesy: India.com |
“I am participating in the #DilKiDealOnSnapdeal activity at BlogAdda in association with SnapDeal.”
No comments:
Post a Comment