God ignored Amrit’s prayers. Mohan died after four months. On hearing the news, I went to the sanatorium.
Amrit had grown old — her hair had turned gray, though she was just thirty-three. God had turned forty pages with one flip in Amrit’s life, and she looked in her late seventies. We cremated Mohan, and I helped Amrit to scatter Mohan’s ashes on the sacred river. We stood in knee-deep water, said prayers for Mohan, and threw his ashes on the dancing ripples. Suddenly, Amrit fainted and fell flat on the water. I grabbed her, and our relatives helped me to carry her inside the temple. She revived and said, “Bir, I can’t die. I have to take care of Satnam and be a grandmother some day.”
I couldn’t hold back my tears.
I returned to my job in New Delhi. Amrit moved to her village with her son, Satnam. Three months later, I got a telephone from Amrit, “Satnam is sick with tuberculosis, and doctors give him a few days. Please come to help me cremate him.”
I reached Amrit and helped her in this tragedy.
“Bir, why did Satnam get the germs? I slept with Mohan, and he kissed me million times, and I’m free from tuberculosis.”
“It is all written in our Karma,” I said.
“Why is my Karma so cruel to me? I would love to go to heaven and meet Mohan. I wish there was a ticket to the next world. I would be glad to purchase that right now. But my Karma is going to roast me on burning charcoal.”
“Cheer up, start your teaching job, and pray.”
“I’ll try. My life is not worth living.”
As I was returning to my job, I wondered at Karma. Amrit, a wonderful creation of God, was leading a miserable life, begging daily for her death.
Six years later, I visited Nirmala Ashram at Hardwar. While I was sitting in the temple, I felt a tap on my shoulder. I pivoted my neck and saw a haggard old lady. I recognized Amrit from her placid brown eyes. We left together, and she told me, “I’ve joined the Ashram here. I teach the children and help the sick lepers.”
“I’m glad you have made the right choice. Surely, you must be happy now?”
“Happiness is not supposed to come to me. Anyway, it keeps me busy and away from the thoughts of my cruel Karma.”
“My prayers are with you. You have suffered all your life.”
She dabbed her eyes with the end of her dopata (head cover), and the image of the sixteen-year-old Amrit appeared before my eyes. Tears channeled down my cheeks. Choked with emotion, I became wordless. I bowed with folded hands and left the place.
About Raghbir Dhillon
