Our life is a long trial and this world, a court. Each one of us is fighting a case against our fate. We are all condemned to death. There is no one who can bail us out. There is no bail available. We are both the victims and the accused, of the crime we are unaware of. ( An Interpretation of kafka’s The Trial)

God is dead! God remains dead! And we have killed him. – Nietzsche. The Gay Science (1882). Sec. 125

There is someone who wants to kill Him. Someone. He is sure to die. One day. Today.


“He is dead. He is dead. They buried him, submerged the remains, he has drowned, he is on fire, our lord is dead”. Kanakan came running to his mother shouting aloud with a voice that was drenched with tears and sweat. A voice as heavy as the Shivaliks where his father had gone, as heavy as the burden of his promise, that it failed to move out from his gullet.

Ma! did you hear? What have they done to our lord? Our Ganesha, our Shiva, our Narayana, the Gods of our temples, they have brought the idols to pieces, taken everything away, now they are heading near, they’ll rob us all for what we have, all that we are left with, all that we never dared to achieve, all that with which we nourish our dreams, all that mother, all that, all that things you have kept from them. Mother! is there anything we are left with? Our god is dead and dead are all the ways to reach him, only till they open their eyes are we alive, just till then, after that? What after that?

“But who’s dead? Whose God? What life? Who’ll wake up and shatter our dreams? Who will? my child! Was it a bad dream? Come here. We are safe. We are away from all that death brings, the harsher realities” came a soothing reply. Kanakan was relieved but only for a moment.

‘No! we aren’t safe! they are coming. Let’s hide ourselves somewhere. Is there any place we could go, never to return or return never to go back again? If only there is any place, lets go and hide. Lets go, call father, Asha, Harsha, Lata, Gungun, Call them all, lets move. “Kanakan tried to pull his mother with soft little hands, pushing himself deeper into the folds of her stomach, brushing his head against it as if to go deeper into it, to make a place for everyone in that peaceful womb.

Asha came and huddled at the corner closely watching her youngest brother with her squint eyes as if looking at the ceiling fan. kanakan’s sobs started getting wilder and he was now hurting her mother with his head dug deep into the crevices of her manifold stomach. “Stop it kanakan! Stop it!  Get away from her, right now! You are hurting her. What is it that you want? so desperately.” Asha shouted from the corner but did not move.

“They have come. Finally they have come. After so many days, years, centuries. The No-mans have come. We should open our doors to them. We are no cowards mother. Remember what father said when he left us went to the mountains. Do you remember? They will come someday. If not in our lives then in our children or grandchildren. There is nothing that would have kept them so mercilessly tied on others whims and cruelties. This had to end. Had you known it before mother, was there anything that you could have done to keep them waiting for your children to live happily and die an unquestioning death?” Harsha persuaded her mother.

Who are they beta. What do they want?

They call themselves No-mans. They have come here in the name of Itheism. They have not come to our village, they were always here. They say there is no God. People don’t believe them though, yet they insist. But this is not happening any longer. They will now crush your idols to pieces and no one will come to your rescue. None of the Gods who you pray to. None.

So, do they want us to pray them? Erect mosques, temples, gurudwars in their names. Take fasts unto death for them?

‘They want no temples mother. None of your sacrifices, offerings and ceremonies. They want nothing. They say they are Gods and so,”  Harsha’s voice dropped from a deep resonant to a murmur “are we”.

“They have come mother. We will have to live our life on own terms. We will have to unburden Him of our petty desires. We will have to shed ourselves and become a part of Him. We have to become Him. We have to become our own life givers and takers. Our very own destinies. We were marionettes in His hands and he has dropped the strings. Musn’t the show go on?”


No I haven’t killed him.

please…don’t take my son away. I haven’t killed him. I am not the murderer. I don’t know who did.

Oh! yes he killed himself. It was a suicide.
Then why are your hands red in blood?
This is my own blood. Look I am bleeding. Look! How red!

Please don’t take my son away…

You were given a death sentence, fifteen years ago…go ask your father!
I am just as old…just as old…

My son is innocent.

you are all undergoing a trial. Did nobody tell you that…hah! not even your father?
Yes he did…he did.
But then there were no notices, no judges provided for…
Give me the hand cuffs…
Madam, your son is under arrest.

please..arrested for what? will you not tell me…for what?


Where are you taking me? No! please please…don’t open your eyes. He is dead. I Know. But I haven’t killed him. He is not dead. He is alive. He is immortal. I know this. This is the only thing I know because there was a time when I dare kill him. Don’t hang me to death. What you say? Life after death? Don’t open your eyes, please. Let me live, a little more. What? Life after death?

But death for what? Attempt to murder?

But he is not dead.Hhe is alive…My Lord, He is alive. Are you listening…he is alive…are you there?

You Cowards! would you not investigate? You sycophants, you believers, would you for once believe me and not Him, and go see for yourself that man ruling the world, alive, living, sentencing, so many, so many, to death. For what? I tell you, listen ma for what is son dying? attempt to murder, while he lives, he continues to live…


You will not listen to me. I am not God and here, you open your eyes, Killing me with the vacuum in your look. Now life after death, reality after illusion, another death sentence. For what? Someone go tell my mother not to interrogate. Who are we to ask questions and disturb the Universe?

© Copyright, Tina Rathore.