Wednesday, September 20, 2006

Angry at Anger

What is the chemical composition of anger? Where is its black bleak fountainhead? Is loneliness its younger cousin? Is sadness its secret partner? Is pain its alter ego?

Delhi has come to a grinding halt today. There are protests. And burning. And stoning. There is anger. Palpable in the giant traffic crawl like an endless centipede oozing itself out onto this city's streets. Those of us cocooned in our eyries, those of us who managed to avoid the jam - literally or symbolically, don't quite know whether to feel thankful, or guilty.

Like a cremation, we watch human goodness burn. Human faith smolder. Human contact give way to the trajectory of a stone. And there is no knowing where the stone will land.

Children are stuck in school buses on clogged roads today. Parents can't get to them. Stripped homes waiting for whitewash to kiss their walls stand barren and exposed. There is no whitewash to be bought and the painters have gone home - or atleast tried to go home.

Our walls are bare and the 'marammat' shows through. Our children are stuck and we are waiting to be reborn to them. Our roads are choked and our destination is getting lonely.

Our people are angry. And they are not our anymore.

Somebody tried to seal somebody's shop. Somebody broke the law and as a result, somebody else is keen to take his livlihood away from him.

You know what amazes me, between the hand and the stone, the head and the throw?

The fact that if Mr. Gupta has thrown the stone because his shop is being sealed, and it is Mr. Aggarwal from MCD who signed on that sealing document - then it is but a matter of a series of coincidences and accidents that led to this moment.

If Mr. Gupta's father had encouraged him to take up a government job, if Mr. Aggarwal had had more enterprise and opportunities, it could've been Mr. Aggarwal's shop and Mr. Gupta's signature.

Both in Delhi. Both probably living in similar localities. One slightly better off than the other.

Maybe they went to the same school.

At a time when they did not get caught in snarling centipedes of tar with empty tiffin boxes.

Who's gonna bring the children home?

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