For I cannot sleep tonight...

It’s tough to gather thoughts with the tv blaring in front of you of the increasing death count…10 it was then 40..60 and now 80…perhaps this number will still rise against the hopes, the prayers of all Indians tonight.

Behind all the chaos, I take about 15 minutes to realize that my brother now lives in that city, and another 15 minutes after speaking to him about another close friend in that very area. They’re both alright, but the sense of relief still eludes me. 'This too shall pass' said Helen Steiner, but am only afraid that it will. It shall pass as yet another tragedy for the country, marked as always, with heroics, with sympathy stories, and finally with the triumph of human spirit to have coped with the night of terror. News reports shall flood the papers for coming weeks, television media already is and shall continue to get its share, and chances are – a film or two would be made for this night. But why should I write and rant in a commotion of a million voices, who might already be screaming their lungs out on this? Simply because I can’t find any other outlet for the anger, the grief that I feel now. It’s a feeling of being violated and then muted, where I can’t do anything but sit locked in my house and watch what the news channels feed in. Images of a cop pointing a gun at a taxi carrying a family – asking them to disembark for checking, People crawling on the roads, blood on the streets near leopold café, terrorists passing in a jeep firing shots at civilians, reporters, death of Hemant Karkare…all makes your blood boil…but there’s nothing to direct this angst against…. For the accused, they fire from behind the curtains. The government, though answerable for the security lapse, cannot be help responsible as for these situations one can only prepare a counter-action. What must the proletariat do here? They must burn from within, till normality is restored, which is by when they learn to live with the scar.
And so here I write…seeing my people die, buildings burnt, and my country’s honour challenged…here I write, for there’s little I can do but mourn my impotence.