And all I do is write ...

There are many things about Nithari that send a shiver down the spine. That little children were the victims of indescribable torture stings and disgusts like nothing else. That the crime was perpetrated by proverbial trustworthy neighbourhood uncles further compounds this. That the perverted criminals proceeded to do unthinkable, grisly acts with the dead bodies leaves you in absolute disbelief. That the chief minister will not show support with his presence because of the supposed ‘jinx’ makes you sick with hatred. That he can dismiss it as “small, and (even more blasphemous) routine” breaks something inside you.

Is this the kind of world we live in? Does he not have a child of his own, and has he even stopped for a moment to absorb that it could’ve been his child? What will it take for some compassion or at least sympathy, or at the very least some pity from his side? This sort of incident leaves me feeling wretched and sick in the pit of my stomach.

So, there is a press release saying he might after all decide to go to Nithari. Like I care! F*** you, I want to say. Like those worried parents who currently probably feel like they’ve lost it all, care. I hope they stone the man, if any such effort is made at all, in the future.

Oddly, I think of Desperate Housewives – How much do we really know our neighbors? Every house has a story to tell. Hopefully, not every one of them is as gruesome.

What constitutes a safe environment to bring up a child? Not even something on the outskirts of the nation’s capital? Not even a place where the kids still meet and play together on the streets? Certainly not even ensuring your kid only talks to people he knows as family friends. No, definitely not.

So, what constitutes a vigilant justice system? One that suddenly throws up 800 prospetcive kids missing in the vicinity of this horrible crime? One that wakes up years after crime and fires 2-3 insignificant policemen? One whose head dismisses countless tales of abuse and murder as small and routine?

I want to be a pessimist. You can show me how several Supreme court lawyers have visited the families and offered their support in fighting litigations, for perhaps, the first time. You can show me how the resident’s association has come together and is raising it’s voice without apparent bias, with clear objectives, and well-placed anger. You can tell me this is perhaps the next time the nation is going to rise in collective anger, in the post Jessica Lal era.
I simply don’t care. A muted ye! is all I can manage.

For nothing will restore my faith. The enemy was in my own backyard – the police taking no stock is small and routine, perhaps; but what was I doing? Was I wrong in placing fundamental trust in those who inhabited my neighbourhood? Was I naïve to not expect someone who lived 2 houses away to kidnap my son and abuse him, and then bury him in a sack 2 feet further away? Was I plain stupid to not raise a hue and cry when even an FIR wouldn’t be registered, however much I begged? Was I oblivious to my neighbour’s misfortune till my own went missing? What is it in me that refuses to wake up, unless the loss is my own?

What is it in me that restricts my bravest, strongest reaction to writing a piece of literature in anger? Indeed, I do feel sick in the pit of my stomach.