A Story- The Love of the Common People...

(Warning: contains strong and violent language. Sorry)

There was a sensational double-murder here at Chennai, seems they have found the killer. The dead were a middle-aged woman and her nine-year old son. It happened right in the heart of a populated area, at noon-time, in an apartment.

From the only photo of the dead we could see that the dead woman was a Brahmin, orthodox at that, with some  charm. And the son, eight or nine, looked bright the way that children who don't need to know anything look. It all looked horrible- this mother and son, photo taken at his upanayanam, both killed- the woman stabbed repeated with a scissors on the neck and the son killed in their kitchen. Probably the murdered had cornered him there.

The newspapers today claim that the suspect had surrendered. According to their version, the two were lovers- and the man stabbed the woman when she refused to hand him money that would have rescued from debt. The murder of the child seems to be an episode of collateral damage- he did not want to leave any witness behind.


What troubles me in this affair is the nature of their love. I understand extramarital affairs. The mere fact that you are married does not shut down the heart that capers after a chance smile, a rogue stroke, or a brash double entendre. You know what I mean- you are open to all kinds of temptations, no matter what your age is, and you can't help it, not always.

But, I don't see why the lady would not give him the money he wanted. Or, why the man, having pushed her down, seeing the limp body with blood streaming from the bashed head, would take a scissors and plunge it into her ragged-doll throat- again and again, twenty times, I think. He left his bloodied fingerprint all over the place.


I remember an incident I saw in a bus. The two were obviously lovers- the boy hit his girl with his elbows and then with the back of his fist. Not violently, but an angry slap. They both were in tears, he was mumbling in anger, she was silent, stoic, angry, looking away. It was obvious that he was asking something of her, and she would not give. Because when he did not hit, he tried to turn her to meet his eyes- clutching at her arms, forcing her shoulders, pulling her head, always touching.

The girl did not look like anyone you could love. She was squat, with no neck, dressed in faded overworn Salwar that flowed down over a shapeless lump of chest. Her lower lip was broken and blood seeped out of it in a thin line.

She was silent, even as the the boy got more weepier and violent, hitting her and clasping her, riding reckless on the feverish impulse of helpless love.

None of us in the bus said anything or did anything. They both, ugly and unkempt, looked out of place in the crowded bus. We made some space around them, and watched this drama with disgust and curiosity. And then when the bus reached the terminus, we all got down and went to our separate hells.


You might think this is some kind of outlandish postmodernist nonsense- but it seems to me, rage and violence are themselves a form of love- flailing recoil of a frustrated lunge that had found no welcoming arms.