Unfulfilled

Three years and four days had passed by. Most people had forgotten her by now. That is how weak the memory of the most intelligent creature on this planet is. Our memories are as good as what the media can sell and for how long. But she remembered every bit. Each moment of that appalling incident. And she had been waiting eagerly for this day.

It was a cold and foggy morning, the usual kind during winters in the city. Much like that morning three years back. But it felt fresh then, now it was just gloomy. Little did she know that morning, what the night had in store for her? Within just one rotation of the earth on its axis, her life had turned upside down.

Today, she had been waiting at the gates since dawn. She didn’t feel cold. She couldn’t feel cold. A single emotion had kept her going. It was rage. A single objective had kept her about. It was revenge.

She had attended all the trial sessions hoping to find some solace in her perpetrators being served justice. She had looked straight into their eyes. They had looked straight through her’s. Some pair of eyes reflected regret, others didn’t. Neither mattered to her. The damage was done.

Some freakish laws of the land had handed out a very lame sentence to the most beastly offender. The nation wanted to hang him, lynch him, and pelt stones at him till he turned into a lifeless pulp. But that is what a nation wants to do when it goes crazy. That’s why they make laws and appoint law-keepers at saner times. And those laws and law-keepers decided that he was “just a child”.

But she was someone’s child too, who had big dreams for her. And what about her own dreams and aspirations, which were torn and trashed in a heinous act fueled by misguided testosterone? She didn’t ask anyone such questions. She hadn’t been given a chance to ask.

However, she stuck around. With fire in her eyes and vengeance in her soul. She waited. It was a long, lonely and hollow wait. Finally today was her day of retribution. The monster was to be set free today. Her vision was blurred out by the fog and her own rage, but she managed to catch a glimpse of the monster being brought out. She couldn’t see his face as it was covered in a towel for the protection of his identity. “Protection” she scorned to herself.

She channeled all her rage into her fist which was gripped tightly around a rusted, blood-soaked, blunt iron object. She would summon all her strength and skewer him to death. That was her plan. She inched closer with a precariously calm swagger.

The monster was surrounded by puppets dressed in khakis and blacks and whites. All sworn to protect his entity and identity. She wriggled past them, and there he was, right in front of her. In one swift movement of her arm she pushed the rod at his abdomen. She had closed her eyes during the act.

Nothing happened. No screams, no blood, no horror. She opened her eyes and watched the monster walk straight through her. She fell to her knees helplessly. She didn’t turn back. She tried to cry, but no tears rolled down her cheeks. Because the dead can’t have tears, just like they can’t fight their own battle for justice or can’t take their own revenge. No matter how much cheap horror flicks and stories would try to convince you to believe so, the dead can’t fight back.

It is their family, their neighbors, their society, their country, their world, their own kind, the mankind, the “man” and the “kind” who have to fight their battle and ensure them justice. We certainly didn’t do so in her case. Shame on us.