Life, death and other stories
It fell.
The metro had been covering the skies for days now; making everything dark. The boy didn’t like it. No one did actually. But they said it was progress and everyone heard while they said so. It would reduce traffic. It would make the world a better place. Would it, the boy wondered? But he was fine. His father got a job building it and he got a home living under it. It wasn’t so bad, was it?
He played on the road, slept under the skies. He saw kids with dreary uniforms and sulky faces go to school every morning. He would be rolling in his bed of sand and mud glad he didn’t have to go. But maybe he would have liked it. He would know someplace with a roof if he ever went there. Maybe he would not have to live under the metro. But its fine, he thought. Living under the metro wasn’t that bad after all. When it rained they had to sit under one plastic sheet, all 12 of them and try and sleep. That was the only bad part.
But on the other days, it was good.
Then, it fell. His father was working on it when that happened and he fell into the abyss called death. No one cared, the boy learnt. It was just another fall, just another man. The boy was just another boy.
He had a name though; a name his father gave him.
-----
The part of the metro that fell is very close to where I stand for my bus every day. My mother passed by it sometime before it fell. All this makes it very real for me. More real than any other tragedy has been. It makes me realize how we are not concerned with anything that doesn’t concern us. Our lack of worry at unnecessary deaths scares me. It makes me wonder how cheap life is in India. I feel sorry. We are not trying to start a debate on why nothing is done by authorities. We are trying to make you realize that someone died. And that someone could have been us.
- Rtr. Trupthi Shetty, Editorials.
The metro had been covering the skies for days now; making everything dark. The boy didn’t like it. No one did actually. But they said it was progress and everyone heard while they said so. It would reduce traffic. It would make the world a better place. Would it, the boy wondered? But he was fine. His father got a job building it and he got a home living under it. It wasn’t so bad, was it?
He played on the road, slept under the skies. He saw kids with dreary uniforms and sulky faces go to school every morning. He would be rolling in his bed of sand and mud glad he didn’t have to go. But maybe he would have liked it. He would know someplace with a roof if he ever went there. Maybe he would not have to live under the metro. But its fine, he thought. Living under the metro wasn’t that bad after all. When it rained they had to sit under one plastic sheet, all 12 of them and try and sleep. That was the only bad part.
But on the other days, it was good.
Then, it fell. His father was working on it when that happened and he fell into the abyss called death. No one cared, the boy learnt. It was just another fall, just another man. The boy was just another boy.
He had a name though; a name his father gave him.
-----
The part of the metro that fell is very close to where I stand for my bus every day. My mother passed by it sometime before it fell. All this makes it very real for me. More real than any other tragedy has been. It makes me realize how we are not concerned with anything that doesn’t concern us. Our lack of worry at unnecessary deaths scares me. It makes me wonder how cheap life is in India. I feel sorry. We are not trying to start a debate on why nothing is done by authorities. We are trying to make you realize that someone died. And that someone could have been us.
- Rtr. Trupthi Shetty, Editorials.
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