The ghost of Arun Das

Raise no alarm, if on a night dimly lit,
In a village far away, an apparition flies past.
The silhouette brews no evil; it never did. 
It's the ghost of Arun Das: lean, petite, and hardly eight.
Every now and then,
He flees the crematorium and stops by a grave.
Be brave, if on the street dark and grim, 
You find a second soul by his side.
With the ghost of Ali Asad, he illuminates the night. 
Slowly they glide 
To the remnants of a burned house.
Don't shift; they always come back.
Stand still
Till you watch them bolt through the back door
With sweets in each hand, stolen from the altar:
A devotee's indifference, a small price to pay.
Find the imps in the forest next,
As their giggles fill the air 
Just like old times.
Laugh along; God took no offense.
With the days in flesh gone by,
Let the ghosts rule the night.
Soon their wails will shred the sky;
They will mourn the murder of a million smiles,
The lost days of sweet mischief,
Knowing no harm and yet being killed. 
Be afraid now,
Be a little afraid,
As from mosque to temple they run 
To find which god the rioters pleased.

This is one of the top entries for Khero Khata, Star Books and Literature's monthly writing contest.

Afifa Alam Raisa is a book reviewer and an undergraduate student pursuing Bachelor's of  English at East West University. Apart from being a cricket freak, she is a voracious reader and a passionate writer. She knows very little about herself.