Do you know something? When the morning light stretches languorously over the shimmering green, it holds the promise of beauty. It hums a tune that soothes like a morning raga. We have our plans chalked out, with little wishes fitted perfectly into slots that lie tucked in between schedules. We believe that the day will flow seamlessly into the night, studded with moments that will serve as the building blocks of all our distant dreams.
And so we set out, bags in tow, packed with our daily dreams and hopes. There are people to meet and targets and deadlines to cover. The roads are largely empty – it is still early. The city will take an hour or two more to stir out. There is a gentle breeze sweeping across the vacant streets and a soul stirring Kishore Kumar number wafts along. Soon, the world around us catches up. The snail-like speed of the morning hours catapults into meteoric heights and everyone is suddenly very busy. Busy making money or ploughing their way through daily hurdles, in a bid to survive. Nothing seems out of place.
The busy day progresses into a seemingly calm night. Nothing seems to be out of place : nothing at all – till a daughter is shoved into the darkest corner of the world, her cries muffled and silenced. And suddenly everything feels like treachery. How can a day that starts off beautifully hide a deep, dark secret slithering about in the dark recesses of the night? How can a young girl, brimming with life, standing on the threshold of new dreams be trampled and crushed and silenced forever?
Horror strikes the heart. Anger follows. What was the world doing when the fiend was unleashing terror in a dark corner of an old building that was too decrepit to protect the victim trapped inside it? How can the devil don the garb of a man? Is there no fear of God or of an afterlife where a person’s sins will pursue him relentlessly till he drops to the ground and grovels for mercy? Reasons, of course, are cited. Justifications that cloak the monstrosity of the act. She was out at night. Does she not know the world is not a safe place for women, especially the ones who wear stilettos and skirts? Did her mother not teach her that? Wasn’t she ever told never to express her opinions in places where they haven’t been asked for? Parents, I must say, have forgotten how to raise children.
I see you nod your head. I see many nod their heads. It is nice to see so many agree with me. But alas! I do not talk of the women who are being castigated. I am talking about the sons – the ones who have grown up with a sense of entitlement – the ones who strut about, staking claim over anything that catches their fancy.
The world rises in agony and throngs the streets in protest. Their cries rent the air, and hope, drenched in the tears of loved ones, sits tremulously on the brittle branches of a mammoth system that is constantly oiled by those who have the means.
Alas! As the night flows into days and months, the cries fade away, though memories linger. They talk about it at times, but then other things take over. More such dark episodes dot the landscape of humanity. Sometimes it becomes overwhelming – and so we recede into silence and talk about the weather and cost of fuel. But somewhere deep within, every family that has nurtured a girl harbours a deep rooted fear. What if their daughter is the next victim?
By Jaya Pillai
Jaya Pillai is a teacher, learner, an award winning writer and poet, cooking enthusiast, traveller, meditator and author of Afternoons and More. She loves to engage in things that stimulate her creativity. Her works have been published in over 11 anthologies and she has her own website – https://weavingmomentsjaya.artoonsinn.com
