Weaving Worthlessness

When I woke up this morning, I had a distinct sensation of an uncomfortable feeling inside my throat. My conscience had been pricked. I gulped down almost half a litre of water at one go.

My friend had just called me up and I came to know about the terrorist attacks in Mumbai. Deprived of the luxuries of a TV at home, I started imagining live footages in my head. I stretched my imagination but couldn’t quite get a clear close up of anything. I consciously blocked it all out. I called to enquire about my friends in Mumbai. They were okay but obviously shaken. One friend told me that it was crazy and that she felt as if it were all a part of her nightmare and not happening really. I felt at a loss to come up with any consolatory words. I hung up…. probably more to avoid my constantly pricking conscience.

Thoughts began hovering over my journalist-mind. Will these attacks lead to regional riots now? Will the “terrorists” be captured ever? Will our intelligence wing find an unexpected way out? Will our so-called emergency cabinet meetings come up with a sudden solution (result of a fading faith in the guardians of our nation, perhaps)? But my faith extinguishes in a millisecond as I read more and more latest news, sitting here at office, crippled in action.

I am reminded of my memories in Assam… the frequent curfews, blasts in every corner of the city and my child-like eyes awed and frightened at the sight of tolling jeeps occupied by men in full black uniforms. In fact, even after all these years, the first image that flashes through my mind when I hear of a blast or a terrorist attack is one of those many nights when the entire city would remain cowered under sheets, praying hard for a calm dawn to arrive.

And today, again and again and again, as I sit and ponder over my pessimistic thoughts, heaviness sets in and I duck in…. in pain. While I recall the comments from all those helpless Mumbai dwellers, I feel the sharp sting of shame. I know that opinions will now lead on to many opinions, speculations will be formulated, meetings will be conducted all over, and security will be stringent for a few days. But do not look for a concrete outcome. Peep into the homes of the affected commoners and you will get your answer. For you, me and all of us, out there on the streets, it’s a sad tale of ‘one day as a common man in India.’

Tomorrow, we’ll get up and get ready for work, sit before the computer to slave, talk about idealism and discuss our novel ideas about ‘how to save our nation,’ badmouth our country politicians and the inefficient intelligence system…. and then? Then, we’ll eat our communion supper and tuck into the comfort of our quilts.

I am a part of this very ‘comfort-coveting-idealistic-inactive’ youth and I’m seeking to punish myself as every word I’m writing here reminds me of my worthlessness as a ‘responsible’ citizen. I draw sadistic pleasure from the stabs of pain as I write each word. I am nervous, palpitating, dissatisfied. I seek mad ecstacy in pain and I seek to wipe away the blood, that’s not mine, away from my hands right now!

--Jayeeta Mazumder