I suppose the title of this blog, is in itself a little pompous; to assume that I could present a collection of thoughts or interpretations of a day that nearly tore apart an entire metropolis...let me be clear: I cannot. I was not present in this city the day the events unfolded, nor was I for that matter, within the country.
But, one year later...I have been thrust in the midst of a series of recollections, a medley of memories that have seeped into my conciousness...some by default and others...as a result of having been so closed, for so very long.
In part, that is perhaps the reason I chose to become a reporter. Aside from the idealistic preconception of being able to spread awareness and affect change, I thought journalism was the best conduit to discovery and exploration. I still do. But I am older now, (by one year and one month) and there are things that I have seen and touched and felt, that provide no discourse for understanding or explanation.
And that is why I am here, writing. In the hopes, that what I see and experience, day after day...that someday I might be able to make sense of it all, by noting my particular emotions, by paraphrasing events as they occur.
This week was perhaps the most difficult yet. I was asked to focus on stories of the survivors of the 7/11 bomb blasts. Initially, when handed the project, I was delighted. What a tremendous career opportunity, to be able to sink your teeth into something altogether so tragic...to learn, by reliving the events through those who were fortunate enough to have survived.
What a fool.
You forget that your job often enough, as a journalist, is to represent. That does not give you the right to delve inside another individual's grief and pull it apart, for your own bread and butter. Never in my life, have i felt more exploitative.
Amit Singh, is 21 years old. A final year, Bcom student at Elphinstone college, half of Amit's brain was blown off on the day of the blasts. He now languishes in Jaslok Hospital, on the 12th floor in the High Dependency Unit, semi concious, forever frozen in time, unable to speak, unable to move of his own accord. It is a personal purgatory, a hell of non existence.
Parag Sawant is 28 years old. Recently married with an unborn child, Parag was blown right out of his first class compartment, that same fateful day. He lies comatose, attended to by mindful nurses and doctors at Hinduja. 8th floor, General Ward, bed no. 5. He has been asleep for one year now. Whether he dreams or not, we cannot tell.
But their parents think otherwise. As they half sobbed, half narrated the day's events, the year that has followed...I could tell that within them, within their souls, there existed the strongest foundation of determination and belief that I have ever witnessed. That is what sees them through every day. Because living in a hospital, day in and out for a year, observing a still and silent son, a shell of his former self, is enough to kill you. It is reason for any human being, to drive themself mad, to climb walls, to scratch violently against the surface of life, because there is no meaning or purpose, or peace or solace of any kind that can possibly exist.
There can be no peace.
And as I allowed myself to enter inside these tormented souls, as I heard their grief and pain, as I raked up their memories and the images for my personal benefit, I felt a deep sense of sadness. At myself, at the profession I have chosen, and at the entire nature of humanity as we posit it. For I could not help them, I could not change or alter their son's fate. All I could do, was listen.
And now, their pain is a part of me. I cannot let go of Amit's face. It haunts me. His father's pleading voice, begging me to assist them in any way I could...his mother's shrieky insistence that her son will wake up one day. These are human tragedies that are alive and real and will continue to resonate wherever I go.
Am I blessed, or am i cursed. I do not know.
But, one year later...I have been thrust in the midst of a series of recollections, a medley of memories that have seeped into my conciousness...some by default and others...as a result of having been so closed, for so very long.
In part, that is perhaps the reason I chose to become a reporter. Aside from the idealistic preconception of being able to spread awareness and affect change, I thought journalism was the best conduit to discovery and exploration. I still do. But I am older now, (by one year and one month) and there are things that I have seen and touched and felt, that provide no discourse for understanding or explanation.
And that is why I am here, writing. In the hopes, that what I see and experience, day after day...that someday I might be able to make sense of it all, by noting my particular emotions, by paraphrasing events as they occur.
This week was perhaps the most difficult yet. I was asked to focus on stories of the survivors of the 7/11 bomb blasts. Initially, when handed the project, I was delighted. What a tremendous career opportunity, to be able to sink your teeth into something altogether so tragic...to learn, by reliving the events through those who were fortunate enough to have survived.
What a fool.
You forget that your job often enough, as a journalist, is to represent. That does not give you the right to delve inside another individual's grief and pull it apart, for your own bread and butter. Never in my life, have i felt more exploitative.
Amit Singh, is 21 years old. A final year, Bcom student at Elphinstone college, half of Amit's brain was blown off on the day of the blasts. He now languishes in Jaslok Hospital, on the 12th floor in the High Dependency Unit, semi concious, forever frozen in time, unable to speak, unable to move of his own accord. It is a personal purgatory, a hell of non existence.
Parag Sawant is 28 years old. Recently married with an unborn child, Parag was blown right out of his first class compartment, that same fateful day. He lies comatose, attended to by mindful nurses and doctors at Hinduja. 8th floor, General Ward, bed no. 5. He has been asleep for one year now. Whether he dreams or not, we cannot tell.
But their parents think otherwise. As they half sobbed, half narrated the day's events, the year that has followed...I could tell that within them, within their souls, there existed the strongest foundation of determination and belief that I have ever witnessed. That is what sees them through every day. Because living in a hospital, day in and out for a year, observing a still and silent son, a shell of his former self, is enough to kill you. It is reason for any human being, to drive themself mad, to climb walls, to scratch violently against the surface of life, because there is no meaning or purpose, or peace or solace of any kind that can possibly exist.
There can be no peace.
And as I allowed myself to enter inside these tormented souls, as I heard their grief and pain, as I raked up their memories and the images for my personal benefit, I felt a deep sense of sadness. At myself, at the profession I have chosen, and at the entire nature of humanity as we posit it. For I could not help them, I could not change or alter their son's fate. All I could do, was listen.
And now, their pain is a part of me. I cannot let go of Amit's face. It haunts me. His father's pleading voice, begging me to assist them in any way I could...his mother's shrieky insistence that her son will wake up one day. These are human tragedies that are alive and real and will continue to resonate wherever I go.
Am I blessed, or am i cursed. I do not know.
