Postscript.

Between the worlds we straddle, there is always comic relief and some conflict. But what is this peculiar trait of violence seizing everyone's collective imagination at the same time? People hacking each other to death as the psychotic death dance rages through districts, burning houses and scathing deep in collective memories: words cant do much, except perhaps eloquently narrate these gory details. Mostly writing is an elixir, a cognitive process but sometimes it feels like a mockery, of all that still happens in my land and others that you might know of. Sitting on a rooftop in Pondicherry, trying to muse aloud and rephrasing the phrase: "I am not Hamlet, This is not my play anymore", I dont know what triggers mass hysteria and communal hatred like it does right now in a stretch of land that I used to pass everytime I went to see my folks from the mainland.

Even as I write, friends make frenetic phonecalls to friends in Kyrgystan as news of a 6.8 Richter scale earthquake killing 70 people there filter in. And these same friends grapple with the violence unfolding in BTC in Assam, more specifically Udalguri, Darrang and Baksa. A conflict over resources probally and a suspicion of "the other" led to the Bodos and Muslims from Bangladesh hacking ecah other to death. But I did rather not categorise because though identity is very important, peoples lives are so much more that their identities or their mass understandings. A friend deals with the helplessness of his news producer friend being shot dead in the Indian capital with no leads yet to the thrilling "breaking news" story. And he still goes out to the field and reports from Assam, talks to the mob, takes a picture as he witnesses hatreds from totally new angles and dimensions.

And I sit here. I feel helpless and mad in my head. I recite poetries I know, I listen to the muezzin's call, I write post cards and walk all the way down along the canal to my apartment, talking to dogs, children and my alter ego. I try to find some relief in figures and movements and art. But there is no hiding away. One self wants to be back home, to my pa, who spoke to me today saying bittering that his land has no future, the questionmark in his sentence giving away his absolute helpless uncertainity about how his beautiful land and people came to this. Another self wants to go away, as usual, far far away, from this madness and civilisation.

How many madnesses should I deal in one life- within and without? And I aspire to work on areas in Peace and Conflict and another one says, you peaceniks are a bunch of loose jokers. I get angry and I call him arrogant, ignorant even. But I wish I could prove him wrong. I wish I could show him that evil isnt inherent but goodness is. Why does the world prove me wrong everytime?


In solidarity to all the people I know and am yet to know who still havent given up on humanity (sounds like rhetoric to me).