Woke up to green tea. And green grass. On which three bodies had fallen. The newspaper’s image was without them. Bodiless grass. Malad, Mumbai. A 31-year-old threw her son down from the 19th floor. Then her daughter. They were seven and nine years old. She flung herself after that. Dead on arrival at the hospital. A school satchel, a tiffin box with freshly-made sandwiches. A milk bottle half full. Half empty. A water bottle. A suicide note. Why? Is it? Other motives. What? How?
She was a chartered accountant and teacher. A wife. Made her last call to her mother. Had breakfast. Packed the school bag, the tiffin. Took the lift upstairs. Witnessed by the liftman. How long did it take? It was all over within minutes. People are discussing depression. Some are saying she was full of life.
So many thoughts. When you see objects that were used by people minutes ago lying in repose without their owners who are now dead you begin to wonder about the longevity of things. Green tea. Green grass. Death in green.
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Everyday something happens. Our lives don’t change, but what about our thoughts? This is not about sympathy or even empathy. Why did the editor in my early days in journalism tell me that I need to be detached? Why did another repeat it years later when I should have become seasoned and hardened? But, how could I walk away after seeing the smouldering fires, the bulldozed slums, the scars? How could I type out however many words that would fit into the page when words were not enough?
If I can get attached to a piece of bauble or the tree outside my window, then I cannot distance myself from the human dilemma. I take back and retain others’ emotions. Because it could have been me.
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There have been rather disparate views on feminism in my earlier post.