"Every day, every hour I wish that I...was bulletproof."

I wake up to Chidambram’s voice droning on about words that sleep won’t let me register yet. This must be a dream. It’s—It’s because of that blast in Cyprus. I need to wake up.

Haziness.

My head feels heavy, my throat hurts and my eyes seem glazed by tears. I’m awake. My mother’s telling me about some bomb blasts in Mumbai in a panicky voice.
“Ma, of all the methods you’ve employed in the past…this has got to be the sickest”, I give her a dirty look as I get out of bed.
People are moving around, my brother’s asleep, it’s slightly chilly and the room smells funny.

Oh right, I’m in Himachal.

 I look out the window, and there’s a man walking with his cow—burdened by some bulky wooden apparatus resting on its neck. Two girls follow him, skipping down the sloping road. Two plaits, red ribbons, knee high off-white socks and blue skirts: it’s like they’ve popped right out of some Indian village caricature. But around here, it’s just another—what day is it? Helloww Disorientation—Thursday morning.
I get up without much difficulty. The word ‘bomb’ has taken away every last drop of drowsiness that sleep left me with.
I hurry to the tiny room where everyone is—their eyes glued to a singular noisy object. The boxy TV’s nested on stained creaky furniture. The reception’s bad, so the people get twisted and stretched as they run around. The audio’s crystal clear, and I hear the dreaded words enunciated perfectly by the newsreader whose voice sounds familiar.
We just got the TV working, and the first thing that greeted us today had to be all too…dramatic to be true. A sequel to the Mumbai attacks? Seriously? This is a sick, sick joke…isn’t it?
But it isn’t.
I’m reminded of the conversation I had the previous night with my brother about cosmopolitanism. I remember telling him that every country sucks equally or something of that sort. That sounds childish out of context.

But now all that is forgotten and I can’t help but feel strong dislike for our neighboring government though they don’t know who’s responsible for certain. I know, I know—shame on me. But still.
As I watch grainy clips on TV from some eyewitness’ cellphone camera, I wonder how people can get themselves to pull out cameras and film things in such situations.

And then a thought crosses my mind that drives everything else out. I think of you.

I get paranoid and try to remember if you had ever mentioned where you lived in Mumbai.  But that doesn’t matter… you could have been out. Obviously, you were out. You could have died. You’ll never…I’ll never hear you again. You wouldn’t—you wouldn’t exist. I—you, your dreams and—dear God, I’m being paranoid.

You’re probably in China. Safe and—oh no. You’re alone with your Dad. How are you? This is just bad. Bad, bad, bad thoughts. Need to get you out of my head. This isn’t helping anybody. I don’t even have access to the internet from here. Not that that would help, given how you’re not active on any social platform.
But you’re fine. You must be. Everything’s fine. Well, not really….but. You’re okay. Your father…

So many people lost their loved ones today. So many must’ve turned their TV sets on and had the same reaction. They would’ve collected themselves, thought that 19 people died…what are the odds s/he was one of them? They would’ve called them, to no avail. They weren’t picking up, their phone was switched off or it was out of service. They would have panicked, not knowing what to do.
And then—I imagine—a call would’ve come telling them the dreaded news. Just one phone call to mark the abrupt transition between life before and life now.
Walking down a dimly lit corridor lined by a row of empty shells: soulless containers that never actualized their aspirations. Their thoughts, their dreams, their words all sublimated into nothingness. And there you are, walking down this endless corridor. Barely looking at their faces, dismissing it off as a stranger as quick as possible for fear if you looked to long it would be someone you know—once knew…nonono. This isn’t happening. And you leave. You don’t want to know. If you didn’t know, and you still loved them like before—they’d still be alive in a way, wouldn’t they? 

Photo Credits: "Mumbai Terror Attack Underscores India's Vulnerability (Comment) – Sulekha News." India News|Daily News|Local News|Live News|Online News. Web. 24 Jan. 2012. .