Me
I am accused of too little and too late. The blog has not been updated; thoughts have not ceased, will has rested. Imagination still wreaks havoc in mind city and when my legs wander to places with a past and present, emotion writes.
I am not the activist who held those placards at the Gateway, I am clearly not the sympathetic who lit candles at Taj. I did not lose sleep to watch the show on live television. I did not discuss the tales of bravado of people who made it or didn’t at office. I fear.
With a pang of shame that society thrusts into my heart, I make a confession. Society judges me, jungle law, numbers win, Is right popular or popular right? I did not feel so much for the people who died on 26th 27th or later. I knew I was at home with my wife, family and friends were safe and most of all, it was an office holiday. Some UNO at home and wife’s cooking with occasional sound bytes of the terrorists or Barkha Dutt crying on the TV.
Indifference, my primal flaw, my greatest virtue. To a life that is governed by the closed room of money, career, family and happiness. The guy living two blocks away will get shot, I, however, will miraculously miss the magic bullet. She will get raped, my wife is home safe, I do not care. And when I have coffee with friends or dinner at office, I masturbate my thoughts on what should be right or wrong and if the government was right or other blah!
Do I understand the gravity of the terror? No. Do I pay homage to the dead police? Not so much. Do I feel for the dead? Not until they are shown helpless on television. Why?
Am I not the Mumbaikar? Am I not Indian? What the heck? Am I even human?
I am human. I know fear, I know selfishness, greed, jealousy and lust. I love for myself, I live for my needs and I fear death. Like a dog with no master, I roam waiting to trust the next hand that will pet me and waiting to lick the next blade that cuts. Shameless, indifferent and scared. I have no will to change except when my roof is on fire or my food doesn’t come. I have no want to be better except when he is bettering me and I need to beat him. I know I am wrong, I know I will be. Under my cloak of good I lurk. Indifferent, callous and spiteful. And when you look through the hole, you see eyes, filled with the fear of death. You call them terrorist
I am not the activist who held those placards at the Gateway, I am clearly not the sympathetic who lit candles at Taj. I did not lose sleep to watch the show on live television. I did not discuss the tales of bravado of people who made it or didn’t at office. I fear.
With a pang of shame that society thrusts into my heart, I make a confession. Society judges me, jungle law, numbers win, Is right popular or popular right? I did not feel so much for the people who died on 26th 27th or later. I knew I was at home with my wife, family and friends were safe and most of all, it was an office holiday. Some UNO at home and wife’s cooking with occasional sound bytes of the terrorists or Barkha Dutt crying on the TV.
Indifference, my primal flaw, my greatest virtue. To a life that is governed by the closed room of money, career, family and happiness. The guy living two blocks away will get shot, I, however, will miraculously miss the magic bullet. She will get raped, my wife is home safe, I do not care. And when I have coffee with friends or dinner at office, I masturbate my thoughts on what should be right or wrong and if the government was right or other blah!
Do I understand the gravity of the terror? No. Do I pay homage to the dead police? Not so much. Do I feel for the dead? Not until they are shown helpless on television. Why?
Am I not the Mumbaikar? Am I not Indian? What the heck? Am I even human?
I am human. I know fear, I know selfishness, greed, jealousy and lust. I love for myself, I live for my needs and I fear death. Like a dog with no master, I roam waiting to trust the next hand that will pet me and waiting to lick the next blade that cuts. Shameless, indifferent and scared. I have no will to change except when my roof is on fire or my food doesn’t come. I have no want to be better except when he is bettering me and I need to beat him. I know I am wrong, I know I will be. Under my cloak of good I lurk. Indifferent, callous and spiteful. And when you look through the hole, you see eyes, filled with the fear of death. You call them terrorist
Funeral service by Ganty> at 9:28 PM
