Tethys Sangeeta G. June 14, 08
(Light reflected on bed side lamp shade)
The colours of violence burnt into their eyes, baying for the blood of innocents, the stink of their own unconsciouness in their nostrils, when the mobs came down on my parents’ car on 12th June in North Bengal, whom were they doing the greatest injustice? Not to the life they were threatening to trample. Not to the warm blood of innocent travellers they were thristing to see in the mud. They were doing the greatest injustice to death. They always do. War, murder, bloodshed, violence. Anything that gives life’s greatest adventure, its dark and quiet consort, a dreadfully scarred face, has to partake in injustice.
After everyone of the group returned to safety, my father recounted, “I do not know who was more scared. Us, of death, or them, of life”. They had slimy, beastly fear written all over the sickly white of their eyes. Even before they raised the first iron rod and dagger against the group on that terrible day, they had lost. To life, to death. And to every shred of thing they never understood, in between.
