The sun dissolved in the western sky, as the moon rose. The clouds seemed to hold no more interest as well as they streaked behind the sun washing up any yellowish-orange remnants in the palette. The creations of God headed home hauling in their forage. Man alone defied and defiled nature.
Memory is a weird thing. It seems to make you forget the most important things of life and ensure that you remember the least significant of things that happened around you. I either completely forget the birthdays of friends I have known for a long time or embarrass myself by wishing them a month in advance. The craziest part is I clearly remember the birthdays of some long-lost acquaintances whose faces I can barely recollect. My mother had the habit of keeping things safely, only she forgets where she had kept them. She usually brings the entire house down every time she starts looking for something that she had kept safely.Did I mention that memories are weird? Well, they always take you on a detour and you almost forget what you wanted to say in the first place. I wasn’t planning to talk about my mother. In fact, I wanted to talk about one of my English teachers from school.
சமீபத்தில் வெளியாகி பரவலாகப் பேசப்பட்ட பாலிவூட் திரைப்படம் Pink. வன்புணர்வில் தொடங்கி வடகிழக்கு மாநிலத்தவர் சந்திக்கும் இடையூறுகள் வரை பேசியது இந்த படம். ‘நோ மீன்ஸ் நோ’ என்ற ஒற்றை வாசகத்தில் ஒரு பெண்ணிற்கான தனிமனித உரிமயையை அழுத்தமாய் சொல்லியது. படத்தில் எனக்கு மிகவும் ஆறுதலான விஷயம் என்னவென்றால் இந்த கதையின் நாயகிகள் மூவரும் சாதாரணமானவர்கள். பெரும்நகரத்தில் வாழும் படித்த முற்போக்கு சிந்தனை நிரம்பிய பெண்களாக இருந்தாலும் இவர்களில் எவரும் சூப்பர் உமன் இல்லை.
Long ago in a country called India, there lived a girl called Nirbhaya. She was gang-raped and left to die. Enraged by the brutality of the incident, her country-men rose up in multitude against her offenders. They held rallies and spoke fiercely to render her justice. And then there was silence. Few years later there was a girl called Jisha in the other corner of the country who met an equally merciless fate. They woke up again to demand justice for Nirbhaya and Jisha. Then again silence took over them. Caught up amidst these alternating periods of voices, noises and radio silences, the Nirbhayas and Jishas never found an ending to their stories, forget about a happy ending.
“That red one – is the Muslim, and that black one – is the Hindu!” – Thus announced the uncrowned leader of the group.
Daniel retorted – “How do you say that?”
The young man giving finishing touches to the Ganesh idol wasn’t infuriated, he didn’t mean to offend me but that was his reply – simple and straight. He anticipated a reaction and waited for a couple of seconds before getting back to his work again. I kept quiet. I looked at his father who was friendlier. He was the one I had struck the conversation with before approaching the son.