The Way I Feel

by. Mrs. Geeta Chabbra

My caste.

My creed.

For what they have been,

Belong to the fact:

Wherever I see a mosque,

A church, a shrine,

Or, a synagogue.

Their images come readily created

As many Houses of God…

Where in the name of pure freedom:

I bow.  I bow.  I bow. 

I hope.

I pray.

Not at a gun-point,

I will strip my faith.

Give me the touch of all gospels!

They plainly state:

Never in the grip of blind beliefs,

One is a devout Hindu, Sikh,

Christian, Muslim or Buddhist.

Realizing this, I would never dare

To break the sacred code of any scripture.

We all know:

From the violence of the ‘main-few’,

Brews the wrath in entire nations.

We also know:

It is of no consideration to ‘them’ –

Why the young die so young –

Killed while picking strawberries,

Or, on their way to school.

How the trays of love and laughter,

Are easily snatched away!

From our sons, daughters, grandchildren.

For us, only scar-like memories remain,

In the preparation of fear,

Or, digging fresh new graves.

I am not sure,

Where the passion of hatred –

Flaring more vengeance,

Will lead us all to…

In the name of hope for peace –

High up, God’s image remains.

In His knowledge alone,

I bow.  I bow.  I bow.

From the book: An Indian Ode To The Emirates by Geeta Chhabra (published in April 2011).



The Way I Feel

by. Mrs. Geeta Chabbra

My caste.

My creed.

For what they have been,

Belong to the fact:

Wherever I see a mosque,

A church, a shrine,

Or, a synagogue.

Their images come readily created

As many Houses of God…

Where in the name of pure freedom:

I bow.  I bow.  I bow.


I hope.

I pray.

Not at a gun-point,

I will strip my faith.

Give me the touch of all gospels!

They plainly state:

Never in the grip of blind-beliefs,

One is a devout Hindu, Sikh, 

Christian, Muslim or Buddhist.

Realizing this, I would never dare 

To break the sacred code of any scripture.


We all know:

From the violence of the ‘main-few’,

Brews the wrath in entire nations.

We also know:

It is of no consideration to ‘them’ –

Why the young die so young –

Killed while picking strawberries,

Or, on their way to school.

How the trays of love and laughter,

Are easily snatched away!

From our sons, daughters, grand-children.


For us, only scarlike memories remain,

In the preparation of fear,

Or, digging fresh new graves.

I am not sure,

Where the passion of hatred –

Flaring more vengeance,

Will lead us all to…

In the name of hope for peace –

High up, God’s image remains.

In His knowledge alone,

I bow.  I bow.  I bow.