Stained In Red With The Blood Of An Eight Year Old

Posted by Yogesh Parmar in Society
April 17, 2018

You. Yes, that’s you, ma’am. And you, sir. It doesn’t matter whether we know each other or not. And I am not sure if you noticed. But you, and I, are stained in red, with the blood of an eight-year-old.

Maybe you don’t know about this. Maybe you do, but don’t care. Maybe you do care, but don’t have the time, or emotional bandwidth to process or make sense of what is happening. Maybe you know, care and are going to town with it. Maybe you have always fought for causes larger than yourself, with all your might. Even so, you and I, are stained in red, with the blood of an eight-year-old.

Maybe you regret not raising your voice so far. Maybe you are inured to tragedies of a kind or any kind because they are dime a dozen. Maybe you won’t know that even you, and I, are stained in red, with the blood of an eight-year-old.

Maybe you are a fashion entrepreneur, a data scientist, an Uber driver, a mother of two, or a student. Maybe you are peace-loving. Maybe you hate politics and consider yourself apolitical. Maybe you repeat those things to anyone who would care to listen. Regardless, you and I are stained in red, with a blood of an eight-year-old.

Maybe the government is to be held responsible for this. Maybe you haven’t seen any talk of this on your timeline. Maybe you are appalled at the insular echo chamber that our Facebook, Twitter and Whatsapp timelines have become. Maybe you don’t use social media and think of those who do as suffering from reality distortion syndrome. Maybe if you look around, you will see that you and I – online and offline – are stained in red, with the blood of an eight-year-old.

Maybe you noticed that you and I prepared this crime. Maybe you know that the four men who raped and killed the girl carried it out in our name. Maybe you need to show up and raise a stink to tell yourself and everyone else that this is not in your name. Until then, you and I are stained in red, with the blood of an eight-year-old.

Maybe you and I are the only ones who can do something about this. Maybe it will matter or it will not. Maybe her life would have amounted to something if it wasn’t cut short the way it was. Maybe, we can make her death tantamount to something. Maybe we will never find out until we try. Until we do, you and I are stained in red, with the blood of an eight-year-old.