The Factory

He walked over the rubble, breathing in dust and breathing out his recollection of what used to be. He was last there 15 years ago. He remembered running down the muddy road, in his white shirt and blue shorts, eager to meet his friends. He was very punctual, seldom late, he would make it even if he was ill. This, for him, was the best part of his day. He longed to come down on the weekends too. But the factory would be closed, and they weren't allowed to be in the area when that was the case.

He seemed to know where he was walking to, he walked towards where the main building used to be, and tried to find the outlines of the rooms. He could see them now. All filled with his friends - chatting excitedly about their last game of cricket. He waved to a few of the faces he recognized, but continued strolling down the hallway, lest he be late. He really didn't like that. He liked the master, but he also knew that once irked, he may not be able to control his temper. He found himself walking faster, almost jogging towards the end of the hallway. He could hear them all over the place, and he could now hear them at the end of the corridor. As he drew nearer, he recognized the voices of his friends, his best friends - Varun and Mini. He could hear them arguing over who was doing better, as always. He found himself running towards the door now. He didn't want to miss them.

The last time he was here, the only time he was late, they had already left before he made it. Them and a few others. As he ran towards the door, within shouting distance now, he heard a sharp blast up ahead. He was stunned, shocked and stood frozen for a second. Somehow he knew what it meant, and he was already starting to well up inside. Suddenly, there were blasts all over and he was surrounded by the screams of his little friends, and swirling fire, engulfing them. He started running away, but suddenly realized that he didn't want to. Not again. With his face full of tears, and shirt full of sweat, he started walking towards his friends. He was determined to find them. He ran towards the door, turned the corner at the end of the corridor and suddenly found himself in the middle of a pile of rubble. He could hear the voices of his friends, crying, screaming for help, but he couldn't see them. He could just see dirt, and his spot - empty, unoccupied. It was too late. He walked quietly to his spot and sat down.

He never saw them again, and being one of the few survivors, was shipped off to a different village for a clean cover-up. His family, happy to accept the generosity of the Seth, moved with him and started a new life.  

The 'School Recess' Phenomenon

I don't necessarily want to live fewer years, I just wish to live a short life

We used to visit school from 8 am to 2 pm every day. There were lots of classrooms, full of lots of students, full of lots of noise, undeterred by the lack of temperature control or the presence of authority. We used to attend four classes in the first half of the day, back to back, with but a minute to breathe in between, and repeat the same for the second half. In between these two rather monotonously defined sessions of work, we  were offered a break. 20 minutes, to eat our meal between breakfast and lunch.

Why did we eat a meal between breakfast and lunch? Why don't we do that any more?

20 minutes to meet all our friends. 20 minutes to attend someone's birthday celebrations. 20 minutes to play basketball, cricket, football, volleyball, 'throw the ball hard at the other person' or tag.

Why did we throw a ball at people as hard as possible? The best throws were those which landed at the softest spot and caused maximum damage.

In 20 minutes, we would do all of this - 20 minutes that were never enough. The bell would always ring before we'd expect it to. And we would always find ourselves rushing back. But they were 20 minutes we wished to live and waited for every single day.

Why can't it all be like that? Life should be unexpectedly short. 

India: We Still Kill Women

The Son comes with glorious promises. He is a hand of earning. He is the one expected to eventually take over the household, and provide for its elders. He perpetuates the family name, thus cementing its glory, and providing untold joy to his parents.A worthy investment. 

The Daughter pales in comparison. You feed her, educate her, save her dignity for nothing short of a couple of decades (maybe lesser than that in a few disturbing cases), and she just walks away with a stranger one day. Only to serve and to care and to provide for his family. She perpetuates another family. She comforts another set of elders. Why should we want her?  

We boast of a shameful 940 females per 1000 males in our country. In almost all prominent North Indian states - Delhi, Haryana, Punjab, UP - the sex ratio fails to touch 900. The numbers are lower if you look at children. Its even more depressing to read that the child sex ratio has been declining. We are on our worst day since Independence. Independence to kill the girl child. 

Along with our friendly neighbors (China), we lead the world in lowest female to male sex ratios at birth. Apparently, they also have a taste for female foeticide. India shining.

In a lot of cultures, despite being less preferred, the girl child is considered a symbol of wealth. In the Middle East and in Africa, male suitors pay a dowry to the girl's family in exchange for her hand. Unfortunately in India, even this is twisted. The girl's parents are expected to pay. 

The truth is that women love and care for their parents as men do, if not more selflessly than men. And they are equally capable of being hands of earning. The issue is dowry, not the girl. We murder, and this adds to our disrespect for women. Maybe it also causes us to be violent with them.

According to some estimates, about 50 girl children were murdered as I wrote this.