A Worshipper & A Cynical

She just bent down and touched the plastic speed breaker with her forehead. Her sacred posture and level of dedication as evident from her closed eyes and glued forehead to the dirty speed breaker for considerably awkward time, proved that she was quite used to it. Her black hair spread throughout her head like hasty rangoli and brown handbag was painted in dust.

“What are you doing madam?” A CISF personnel asked. An oversized automatic gun was the only thing visible in his whole uniformed figure.

The girl stood up with dust smeared on her forehead and with folded hands, she touched it with utmost reverence. Then she turned to the clearly flabbergasted armed sentry and told in a content tone, “I'm paying respect to the symbol of justice system of my country”.

A massive lit-up reddish Victorian building named North Block, which housed two powerful ministries of this country stood in front of her profound reverence, maybe being ashamed, or puzzled.

I had a busy day as usual, with papers piling up on my desk and like a plumber, fixing ‘things’. Till date satisfaction ditched me, however, residue of daily unimagination and monotone filled me up to the point that I could throw up on demand. I was late as usual - it was already eight and Raisina Hill was empty except some tourists and police cars. This girl in her twenties, must be a tourist too, as was evident from her small handbag and presence atop at this odd hour. Metro station was only ten minutes walk, and I already headed towards it. But I had to stop. The girl was totally contrary of what I believe. I don't see God eye to eye. I don't trust our Justice System. And I definitely hate the mountainous arrogance of this historical building, before which she touched her head and where I worked. But something was special, perhaps her serene voice or solid faith on 'Justice’, which made me stop and witness 'her’ on this another late evening, when nothing new was supposed to happen.

The girl continued speaking to that security guard. She was detailing her deep faith on systems of this glorious country and the mid-aged CISF man, maybe out of interest of having a generous companion in otherwise his lonely duty or still be in shock of watching a ‘drama’ unfolded better than a hindi tv serial, listened her aptly. I literally couldn't stand more. Either this girl was too naive - totally oblivious of the hard reality of this slow developing society, where corruption is the religion, religion is the norm, norm is the rape, and rape is the right, or my legs were hurting.

On my way back to subway, I smiled at the paradox, and then shivered at a possibility. The paradox lied in the fact that I became so cynical that I couldn't even appreciate a heartfelt praise for my country's system, while getting benefited every second from that ‘system’, and sometimes misutilising it. And a shiver went through my spine when I realized that being a woman of this god forsaken country, there was a great possibility that this girl - this worshiper of justice system, would be violated, tortured, mimed or raped one day and then she would run door to door, pillar to pillar, police station to court room only to be violated more, now raped with words and mimed with games of laws, and then one night on this Raisina Hill instead of touching her forehead before the Symbol of Justice, maybe she'd spit on it. And then perhaps after another boring day, I'd stop awhile watching a mad woman being thrashed and evicted by police or sentries of hill, before walking away, indifferently.