One more lamb to the sacrifice. One more life lost to appease what is now famously know as the “Great Indian Male Ego”.
When I wrote “Why Men hate Women” yesterday, a lot of people couldn’t relate to it.
Perhaps the conclusions drawn were far fetched, but today’s news proves me right. All over again.
The Man cannot take no for an answer. He cannot digest rejection.
So, there goes the spurned lover and utters rather dramatically, “If you are not mine, then you wouldn’t be anyone else’s either”.
He gets some acid and with some accurate throwing he hits his muse’ face.
Her life is disfigured and her face is symbolic of that. She battles for her dear life in an hospital.
Today, she gave up.
The rhetoric is so nauseatingly similiar. It is like the mother of all deja vu. Yes! Man, you’ve done it again. You’ve proved that you are not to be messed with.
Your might has been proven. What do want now, Sir? Perhaps, another muse to disfigure, to satisfy your abysmally low self esteem?
One more time the voices in the media shall rise to a crescendo, and then fade out in a hurry. Perhaps, a compensation package is the offing for the poor parents.
What more do you want? It was your girl that provoked the beast in that otherwise saintly man. Take your money and go home, and yes before you leave the building, don’t forget to give the clerk his 10%
And, next time, don’t even think of giving birth to a girl child! Get lost, now!
If there’s a Father up in heaven, to him I shall ask the day I meet him – WHY?
What fury has India triggered in you that you choose to punish this great Indian nation?
What is wrong with your judgement?
Is poetic justice dead?
Then tell us clearly. Tell us that good and bad are the same. Let this nation be plundered by the very men that inhabit this land.
Watch from your far abode, as the word spreads that morality is a myth and no punishment awaits the immoral. But end this slow poisoning of desire and lust. I can’t take it any more.
“Deity of the ruined temple!
The broken strings of Vina
sing no more your praise.
The bells in the evening
proclaim not your time of worship.
The air is still and silent about you.
In your desolate dwelling, comes the vagrant spring breeze.
It brings the tidings of flowers – the flowers that for your worship are offered no more.
Your worshipper of old wanders ever longing
for favour still refused.
In the eventide, when fire and shadows mingle with the gloom of dust,
he wearily comes back to the ruined temple
with hunger in his heart.
Many a festival day comes to you in silence,
deity of the ruined temple.
Many a night of worship goes away with lamp unlit.
Many new images are built by masters
of cunning art and carried to the holy stream
of oblivion when their time is come.
Only the deity of the ruined temple remains
unworshipped in deathless neglect.”