It was a warm and humid day. A friend and I had set out to inquire about a college 150 kilometers from home, in a different state. I swore to my mom that I won’t dare riding the motorbike. If I didn’t promised I probably would have. The friend was courageous enough to accompany me under no adult supervision. We made the destination quite alright. I submitted my application by mid-day and we didn’t even stop to have any food or water. We returned to the bus station to get onto the first available bus and return home.
As ‘fate’ would have it, I started getting bubbles in my belly. The kind of bubbles whose existence none of us in this world can refute. Neither can we escape its involuntary impetus. And those that’ve never experienced this phenomenon is not human at all or is a pathological liar. I whispered to my friend and she was horrified at the thought of finding the space in an overcrowded bus station to assuage myself of the tuhubahu I was in.
Without saying much to her, I tried to suck up all the might I had, and hold it in to the best I can. Because India then, was not progressive to support a yellow revolution. I had no intention of appearing in the newspapers as a memento of humiliation. It was the toughest time. I followed the signs and landed at the right place. But a 10 year old beggar was guarding the door and demanded money to let me in. I did not have any.
In the few longest seconds of tribulation, I didn’t care about missing the bus back home, that we’d probably reach home past midnight and there would be a never-ending curfew for eons to come, or that a famous actor was shooting in the same bus station, or if an unfortunate accident were to happen it would stain my white dress, drenching it in stench or that my friend would ditch me for the rest of my life while she probably would tootoo my mishap all over the world.
Nothing mattered to me at that time. No matters of honor or shame; or situational awareness – there was nothing that could move my mind away from finding my way through the door. It was by far the only thing that mattered the most although by most human standards was the most trivial aspect I’d be indulging all my energy in. I picked up my stauch rebellion and push the boy aside and made my way in on what read – Public.
Lately, I’ve been seeing so much hatred and ridicule towards some of us are invested in supporting a cause that has strung our heart in many ways and is paralyzing our daily life. While it feels like relief that powerhouses of content are spearheading and taking charge of finding the truth; it still comes down to the dictates of our physiology and psychology. Each one their own. I am reminded that justice is similar to what I saw as ‘Public’ meaning that is it for everyone.
I see those speaking against or obstructing justice similar to the 10 year old beggar that didn’t let me go into what said ‘Public’. And it may be whatever it is but no ignominy in fighting for what we believe in. In the interim if plethora of sentiments, emotions and manifestations scatter similar to the faces I was making while I revolutionized in my head whether to make it an open affair or mow the boy off. This write-up probably is grotty euphemism but, “The dead cannot cry out for justice. It is the duty of the living to do so for them.” Come hell or high water.
#sushantsinghrajput #justiceforSushant #SSR