It’s a cold night and there is a hole in my pyjamas.
It is shameless of me to be cribbing in a city that has never seen the mercury slipping below ten while the good old Delhi is raring to embrace the zero. But then Delhi can rape and pillage its daughters with six wolves and crowbars and scrape and rummage the streets clean of protestors with batons and water cannons. Delhi can both suffer and get away with lethal extremes.
Blast me if I were to boast it can’t happen in Mumbai. But I am a diehard optimist, the kind that is happy with the glass one tenth full. After all, worse things happen in Rwanda all the time. We are the shining India, aren’t we? And when the shining peters out we’d give the sickly Africans a run for their money. Believe me, those days are not many moons away, not many goons away.
Forgive me if those sentiments sound like a broken record. Indeed, it is one of the reasons I am speaking of the hole in the pyjamas. But there is this real, physical hole that was burnt by a snapped matchstick head as I prayed the Gods to send me inspiration to write something for the lost girl. That was surely a sign. A big, bad ominous sign. Even the deities seem to have washed their hands off the mobs. And remember, it is just one of the millions of ravished females I wish to talk about.
There is the boy who accompanied the doomed girl that fateful day on the television today, telling how people watched and walked away when they were hurled half-dead off the moving bus. I think of Keenan and Reuben who tried to stop some zombies from molesting their girlfriends and were chopped to mincemeat in full public view in Mumbai. A policeman was slaughtered by political crooks in a bustling bazaar for protecting the honour of his own daughter. Thank you, Amritsar. The hole in my pyjamas is getting bigger.
Yet, there is this real, physical hole that was burnt by a snapped matchstick head as I prayed the Gods to send me inspiration, you know. If the turbaned Lazarus needed a week to awaken and whine, it was sweetly wiped out by the lecherous son of the Premier of this nation in no time. To each his own, but my own wisdom is failing me.
India is a land of riches and life and life term is a joke under these skies. The raped and the maimed and the acid-burned are groveling for life, if not long buried or cremated. And the rapists and the butchers have slithered out of jails and living contented, lusty lives, barely after eight years or so of devastating their victims.
A mosquito slips in through the hole in my pyjamas and plants a sting on my modesty. The charge is vicious and igneous and I feel castrated. Rightly too, only seventeen years old have the right to be a man and get away with rape and first degree murder.
I have no pyjamas, only a hole.