How to Murder Hope?

Justice was not served.
But they wish for death. At least one of them does.
To wake up in cold sweat in the middle of the night every single day as they remember that horrible day.
Her sobs, the blood and the screeching tires.
I’m sorry but the memories don’t leave.
I’m sorry I stood and witnessed the injustice.
I’m sorry that I drove you to your death.
I’m sorry for burning all your dreams and aspirations.

Oh Happy Day! Gracy nearly yelled at the top of her lungs. She couldn’t believe it. This was the best day of her life. She had finally made it into an engineering college. Purely on merit and nothing else.

She had come a long way, studying under the neon lights during her exam days. Her father and mother were poor labourers who had worked hard to bring their daughter up. It hadn’t been easy. Mohan had to work two to three jobs as a labourer to see his daughter through school. His dear wife Rita worked morning to night as a maid in five different homes. Come sickness or pain, Hail or storm she worked ceaselessly. She was a strong headed woman and had decided that her daughter would become a doctor.

Only now for some reason father and daughter stubbornly decided that Gracy would become an engineer. Rita smiled secretly She knew Gracy’s father couldn’t resist the urge to brag to his friends at the construction site that his daughter was to become an engineer, just like their engineer Saab, who paid them their Roj Gar (daily wages).

Gracy ducked her head and blushed when her father’s friends teased her and called her ‘Memsab’. Her Kohl drawn eyes widened in wonder and awe as she listened from the other side of the mud wall of their tiny house; as the men gathered together over chaai in the evening and discussed with her father on the income earned by the educated people of today.

The women folk sang Rita’s praise, ‘Oh what a blessed daughter!’, ‘The girl will be a blessing in your old age’, ‘long gone are the days when only sons could bring u pride.’, ‘She will definitely with the blessings of the good gods find a worthy husband.’

Gracy thought she would die in embarrassment when the women plucked her cheek and constantly applied kohl on her cheeks to keep the evil eye at bay. But she admired these men and women who had not given up on life in spite of poverty striking its venom into them. Many a time she had seen loved ones and friends succumb to illness and diseases because of the lack of money to treat it.
But trials and losses did not break these people. It only build them into stronger willed and hard working people.

The days flew by and soon it was time for Gracy to attend her first day at college. She could barely conceal her excitement. Her fidgeting fingers gathering her new books. She was dressed in a crisp cotton white Salwar and a lovely Dhuppata that was ruby red. Before she left to catch her bus she sent up a word of prayer asking the Gods for their blessings. Her parents beamed with pride as their daughter waved them goodbye. All the neighbors came out of their thatched homes to see the first child from their slum to attend college. All of them offered up a silent prayer for this young girl who was a symbol of hope to their future.

This was over a year ago. Today Gracy’s ashes are scattered, caught and tossed in the wind, over streams or perhaps even in the soil. Her mother’s ashes blows somewhere over unknown terrains too; having died from a broken heart. Her father locked away at an asylum. A man with shattered dreams and hopes ranting about his daughter’s achievement and is looking out for a suitable groom for his daughter.

Gracy was a victim of a non accepting community. When her poverty was discovered she was mocked and taunted constantly. Unable to bear the shame any longer she tried to run across the road from fellow students who plagued her even at the bus stop. In her attempt to flee the humiliation and fun poked at her she did not see the oncoming bus that ran over her.

Her taunters watched in horror as they watched Gracy’s body crushed underneath. Life ceased. The white cotton Salwar that she wore so often soaked up her blood; matching the ruby red color of her Dhuppata.

They ought to be hung. Justice should be served.
But influential parents. Political connections.
Expensive lawyers and exchange of gifts and promises of well earned benefits.

Ensured that Justice was denied.

Gracy’s ashes still flit around somewhere along with her mother’s over unknown terrain, and untold stories.
I end this story hoping never to dream no more.