This I Say To You

The reason they shout, even when speaking into a mic, the reason they flash big bold letters in red blocks every 3 seconds and the reason their eyes always look ready to pop out in consternation and in shock 'n' awe is that news channels have created a world of their own (like Westlife did once very long ago) - everything is going by at the speed of light and only the flashy ones survive.

So news flashes in every 2 minutes. It glitters and it glows. Then before it can fade out, something more glittery comes in and takes away the spotlight. Maybe a kid fell into a well. Maybe a couple got beaten up. Maybe someone's dog looks cute.

All this is old news, of course. We know how jaded it is.

But I want to know what happened to the one terrorist we caught at Mumbai. Where is he now? What do they do to him? Does he say anything else? Does he dream of virgins in heaven? Does he try and break out of his cage? Is he in a cage?

These things fall out of the news channel radar. Once they're done pointing out (in shock 'n' awe) how he looks like every other teenager in every other respect except his shooting people down with guns, and after they find out he's from Pakistan, it's all done. Let the big boys handle it now.

But where is he put when they ask him to step aside (so that the big boys may handle it now)?

I hope they're putting him on a plane. With good food, comfortable leg room and one of those advanced auto-pilot features which would take him straight back to his country. And when the plane lands in the tarmac and his people come to graciously receive him with garlands and things, I hope they time a bomb to blow up the plane.

The last thing you would deserve is a shot in the head or a sentence for hanging. Big people would have to sit together, and set up a date and time. They would tell you they were doing this to you. You would wake up that morning and know you were doing. You would have the privilege of making your peace with your life and your death before it came for you. They may ask you for your last words. And when you breathed your last breath, you would know it was your last breath.

You should die without a residue. Without a deep last breath. Hopefully in the middle of a kind thought or a pleasant daydream in your head. Your death should be abrupt like that. And brutal enough to not take more than a millisecond. No chances for a last thought or a last look up to the sky.

You are somewhere close to my age. You dress the way I do. I cannot begin to imagine just how extremely different you are from me though.

Wherever you are (I do not know because you aren't a news item anymore) and whatever you're doing (which I also won't hear of unless you come up with another confession), I hope you hear me somehow, saying this to you.

Die.