I’ve sprained my foot and I’m sitting at home, unable to move. Retrospection time, memory time. I’d forgotten the joy of being at home to greet my daughter when she comes back from school, irritated by her incessant bell ringing. “Wait, wait, I’m coming! I can hear you! Shut up!”

“You’re at home! Make me a snack.” Sudden cake (made by mixing maida, sugar, vanilla essence, egg and baking soda and deep frying it). So much for a sprained leg...

“Don’t go to office Mummy. Do you know how much I miss you?”

“I do... I do...” and I remember my own schooldays, the same bell ringing, the same question, “What’s to eat?” But the second day was another story. I was watching TV and every news channel showed this young boy, Salim, a chain snatcher being beaten up first by the mob and then by the police.

There was such incredibility in his face and then such pain and then such acceptance of pain... And before I knew it, I was sobbing my heart out. Happy to cry.

Proud to cry. Because there was another day when I didn’t know if it was right to cry for a young criminal.
I was just seven-years-old and we were in Secundrabad at that time, in Begumpet, near the Airport. Our house was close to the police quarters.

One day, I was sitting on a huge rock (They were called jharibhandars over there) and holding a small kitten. Some young boys, a little older than me, came over and started to tease me, pull my hair and say nasty things. And then they grabbed the kitten that I was holding and crushed it with a huge rock. Right there, in front of my eyes.

I had fever for days after that and my parents had no idea what was wrong with me; they couldn’t connect the fever to the incident and I didn’t know either at the time.

Lynch mob...
Another day, coming back from school, I stopped to join a crowd gathered around a stage. A young boy was being beaten up by the police for robbing. They had on those terrible police boots and they were kicking him around like a football and he was screaming with pain.

The people around seemed to think he deserved it. There were women and children there too and they were all happily watching. “Chori kiya hai sala!” And I felt confused that day. Was I supposed to laugh too? Was I supposed to be ashamed of the tears that were running down my face? Was I the only fool in the world who cried for a criminal?

I had no answers and there was no one to answer my questions then. My parents dismissed it as, ‘one of those things these people did.’

I’ve seen violence in all shades and forms since then. The bombing in Coimbatore which should have had me dead by now. The day when my daughter and I were pulled urgently into a beauty parlour because a man was being stoned on the busy Ritchie Street in Kolkata, bullets killing people in front of my eyes, children molested in broad daylight... and I know now enough to hang my head in shame and allow those tears to pour from my eyes.
Know now enough to reach out and help if I can without fear of repercussions. Know enough to teach my children that it is okay to be soft-hearted. Know enough to weep for the lost dignity of a human being that all the gold in this world cannot buy.