and then i can't help thinking, without uttering a word, i have in my own way insulted my country's martyrs. by being dazed and awed and secretly thankful to my guardian angel for making sure that the one bomb that was in a scooter near my house, the one bomb that would have taken me with it because it was on a street i had actually walked past that fatal day that fatal time, that one bomb was faulty and later de-fused. that he made sure i had a fracture and was forced to take the taxi home instead of the train that other fatal day. that he made sure i refused to go to an awards ceremony on this fatal day in that part of town. i have defiled their sacrifices by not standing up and demanding an answer to their deaths and an end to this 16 year gangrape of my city. by gaping at the pictures in the newspapers and eagerly discussing with classmates how the blasts took place and what evil mastermind what cruel genius it took to do this, how narrowly who escaped, how so and so escaped fom this blast but died in that, discussing all this in between bites from my lunch box. by ignoring the voice in my head that was saying that i should say something. by getting on with my life as if nothing had happened. as if nothing would happen. as if everything was as it was. by laughing. by joking. by shopping. by partying. by not following up the cases. by shaking my head. by pointing fingers at the politicians and saying look how they point fingers. by turning away everytime i pass mahim station. by not crying. by not feeling enough to cry. by going on even when i'm shaking with impotent anger and sadness. by keeping silent when the basti behind me blares 'touch me touch me touch me' and my only answer is to turn up the volume on the tv in which my taj is proudly smouldering at the other end of our fragile little island, silently asking me when i will accept moral responsibility for its fate and step down from my high chair of indifference.