Those of us who grew up in eighties India have an affinity for certain ways of life. We still like dinner table conversations, bonding over ludo and carrom, watching TV together, planning vacations to nearby spots, and visiting the nearby kirana store or grocery market to buy essentials. The local market in the neighbournhood - with the vegetable vendors - each screaming for attention, the fish mongers calling customers with the prize catch in their hand, the sundry plastic, steel and utensil shops, the stationery stores, ice cream stalls, and stalls rustling up telebhajas, rolls and greasy chowmein plates still have a special place in our heart. However much the convenience of online shopping lures us, a visit to the local market is a mood-lifter like nothing else. You browse through the shops, chatting with the dadas and didis, enquiring about their kids. They in turn, ask how yours is doing. How small she was when they first saw her, how fast children grow up, how time passes, etc. ...
It's been a day since pictures of bloodied faces of children, of peaceful people being thrashed mercilessly have flooded social media. They weren't there for any anti-social or anti-national activity. They came demanding a better future, better education, fair opportunities. They wanted to be heard. What they got instead was lathi charge, tear gas and the brute force of state machinery. This is my India right now. The country for which, Netaji, Khudiram, Bhagat Singh, Master da, Bismil, Azad and countless people gave their lives almost eighty years back. They dreamt of a nation where every voice was heard. Eight decades later, it seems Is Raat ki Subah Nahi But no, dawn is near, the light has cracked in through the fog. And the light is in the eyes of the hopeful kids who still fight for a better tomorrow, knowing fully well they will face aggression. They want education, employment, a fair chance. Image- News Today It's in the determination of the bereaved parents who came...