If I ever die in communal riots.
“This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.”
Rowing against the current in this hopeless sea of misfortune, I usually find myself alone, embracing dust of criticism. This sea has early been very supportive of me, until I saw its darker side. Being come from a traditional Brahmin household, we are told, or rather injected with, the thoughts of classes and community. Here a child, by twelve, could easily identity a household where he doesn’t have to eat or drink anything. By eighteen that child, knows pretty well about the greatness of his ancestral legacy, and consider everyone around him inferior. By twenty-five that child who was on his way to turn into a man might get some soft corner for a girl, wearing hijab, teaching Arithmetic at nearby Madrasa. But the so thought of communal hatred, that was the result of twenty-five years of injection barred him to approach her and talk to her. The repercussion of hatred was so much that few days later he, along with a group of 10 people having same injection injected in their blood stream, knocked the door of the girl, checked their refrigerator, found a suspicious bowl of dark solid and oily curry, lynched the breadwinner of the house and shouted ”Gaye humari mata hai” “Cow is our mother.”, and return to their respective houses with their chest filled with pride and solace. No further action was taken against them, by the system that ensure equal social justice to all its citizen. But the trees were cut and paper were made and on such papers, the report of incidents stacked and piled up the dusty rooms of local police station. When the time comes to take any action against the accused, some loop holes in the system is pointed out by the well paid lawyers who claimed to be the support of the truth, what they forgot is truth needs no support, it support itself. And that truth is revealed in dark captions of an English daily, “Women lynched by a mob over suspicion of storing beef in the refrigerator” in the subtext of that same article it was revealed by a the reporter that it was not beef, it was jackfruit curry. Later that day the reporter found strangled in his apartment, post mortem report suggested death by suffocation. So if I ever die for thinking something that is not in the favor of establishment and that may be regarded by them as work of “anti-national” element, then I request you to put this epitaph on my grave stone “Born Communal, Died secular.”