Today, on the 29th day of this cruel December, before the year could slip into another one, she, the one with no name, raped, brutalised and left for dead, on 16th of this month died at two fifteen AM, India Time. She defied death for long, in the deep agony of emotional and physical trauma which can not even be interpreted, she sought to live. A deafeningly deaf nation will have none if it, as day before yesterday she was shifted to foreign lands, some say for political reasons, to die there. The sad news of her demise thundered into the country, bludgeoning the collective conscience of those who have it. Some twenty three years back, she would have stretched out those tiny arms to her father, as my daughter did to me. Just as me, her father would have passed on her hand to her, as she would have held his finger in her curled, tiny pink arms. He would have picked her and held her close in the protective embrace and swore to never let as much as an evil wind touch her in life. She ...
I am a Worshiper of Words. I ponder, I think, I write, therefore, I exist. A Blog on Literature, Philosophy and Parenting