Nemesis

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I watch horror struck, along with the rest of the world, as flames lick the rooftops of one of Mumbai’s most famous landmarks. And a part of me dies … the part which still believed in the essential goodness of humanity … killed by the same ruthless predators who are now prowling in the corridors of the Taj. Little parts like these have been dying for a long time now, accumulating within me. They have starting taking over me like a gangrenous growth.

I feel afraid. Maybe I am already dead. Suddenly the world around me seems to dissolve, giving way to a vicious cruelty that can surely be found only in hell. Or maybe we are all characters in an absurdist drama, our fragile existence at the mercy of the whims and whimsies of the playwright, a single stroke of the pen having the power to determine our lives and deaths. 

Or maybe I am mad, that can be the only explanation for the madness that I see on the television. Maybe hatred is the order of the day, and I am insane in thinking otherwise, in desiring nothing more than peace, and the safety of my family and friends. Yes, that is it. I am mad. I frantically look around me for evidence to the contrary, for reassurance that the life I have been leading so far is not a mirage, not the wistful dreams of a deluded person.

And then my little baby wakes up and starts crying. The fear that has been steadily building up threatens to explode, engulfing everything that is precious to me within its destructive reach. How will this little being, conceived by love, survive in this frenzied, hatred-filled world? I think of the many battles that she will have to fight, battles that I had to fight. Forgive me, I whisper. What kind of a world have I brought you into?

As if in consolation, I kiss her little hands, her fingers, marvel at their perfection, at the perfection of the miniature heart that beats within her tiny body, at the miniature lungs that breathe life through her entire self. She is creation, made out of my flesh and blood. She is beautiful. I look at her and I realize that her beauty and goodness will stand out in opposition to the ugliness in this world. She will be just fine. 

The television images flash at me as I get ready to feed her. I pray for the safety of the poor people trapped inside, and for the families of the victims. And for the first time the atheist in me wishes desperately for the existence of God, and hell and heaven. And  hopes that the perpetuators of these atrocities will meet with their nemesis one day.

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