Mother Teresa

I am no Christian, dear departed

Mother of millions whose persuasions

Mattered as little to you as seasons

Of the year, or the political weather

Of the day, and who worried little

That you had a religion which was

Not their own, finding healing and calm

Past religions and denominations

Beneath touch of your loving palm,

And in the fathomless suffering

In your eyes; I am no Christian, but

Now that a well-fed man in khaki

Shorts who marches to Mussolini-military

Drum, pretending priest of Mother

India whose little people he does

Not love, seeks to besmirch the

Selfless infinitude of your giving,—

That which even god may not besmirch,—

I ask myself what you might have said

To him were you with us still in the

Flesh; as far as I can tell, you might,

Without a blush, have offered to

Straighten his collar, feed his cow,

And read him a prayer from Nanak

Or Kabir, Meera or Narsi Mehta,

And, in your oceanic heart, thanked

Your lord for the opportunity to

Bring home to the hate-filled

Quarter-master the beauties

Of the faith he pretends to profess,

Teaching him how all religions

Denominations, iterations,

Are always infernally wicked things

Lacking the imperioius command

Of unquestioning love.

Do I, O soul of souls, see you weep

A tear of pity from above?

Badri Raina