I’m sure justice is a concubine. The poor are like nutmeg. They are always crushed. One such boy, as he was being wheeled to the hospital, had this soupcon red in his eyes, like wanting to hold onto dear life. Moments later he shut them forever.
In a matter of few minutes he became the latest statistic in Kashmir's murky tale. Thankfully there was no electricity last night for the parents to see each other's eyes.
Why do the poor always die? While the rich get away.
Rich boys ski. They drink coffee in plush cafés. They wear au-de-perfume. They blog. They debate on intellectual constructs. They eat caviar. And Harisa. The less privileged, almost always, get killed. That is a given.
By habit politicians burn a lot of gas in trying to out-do each other to reach the families of those who get killed. The dead are often hailed as martyrs in presence of their un-dead folk, in a certain reassuring way so that their loss looks acceptable.
It is so awfully ironic that while alive no one wants to die and yet when you get shot in the head, you become an instant martyr like Saint Sebastian. Redemption is attained in death at least, if not in life -- in the valley.
I often think of Kashmir as this distant Arcadia – snow falling on antlered hanguls. Intrigued that I am with its pastoral simplicity, I cut the blood part out.
Filed under: Mini-blogs