Something about the Aarushi Talwar case tugs at my heart. I
feel transfixed every time the TV splashes Aarushi’s childhood pictures and
videos. The normalness of the images is chilling in that they bear no hint, not
a shimmer of the terrible fate that awaits this family round the corner.
The clips reveal a regular, attractive young girl
celebrating, dressing up, posing; laughing and generally being her own self. She is quite obviously a child, well cared and
well provided for. The vignettes are of regular domestic bliss; a birthday
party in one, a ceremonial function in another, a shopping session with her
mother in the third. There is a lovely, vulnerable, slightly self-conscious
smile on Aarushi’s face in most of the shots. She bears an air of being at ease
in secure surroundings. There is also a certain sense of style and
self-awareness in her bearing.
I remember the one frame though, that struck a jarring note in
this otherwise idyllic visual stream. It was a clip of Hemraj braiding
Aarushi’s hair. I could never make up my mind whether it was a slightly off key
degree of familiarity there or just the usual comfort level between a family
loyal and the teen whose childhood he has been a part of. It is not unusual in
Indian families to have a steady and consistent domestic over several years,
someone almost at home. Even so, there was a dissonance in that space, perhaps
it had to do with their respective years. I am unsure but there was that care in
the gentle manner he was folding her hair with that belied what should have
been to me, a strictly no-nonsense and business like chore. But it might just have been the affection of an old retainer.
There were other punctuation marks in this story that winked
at me. Aarushi’s school; my kids attended its namesake at R K Puram. The Talwar
family lived in a Jal Vayu Vihar flat, that could have been us, and we did own
a home in a similar society once. I thought of the couple, coming from this
milieu, working to give their daughter the best possible life in their power. They
would have laboured over her inoculations, her nutritious diet, the milk and
non-veg protein routine, her school paraphernalia, research on personal gadgets
such as phone and camera and the iPod. They would have had plans for her, on
what she would be when she grew up. I would certainly have identified with their agony
over her fevers, allergies, the invariable indispositions. They would have harboured
fears over her security, worries about her being eve teased or threatened in
any other unsavoury way.
This frequent and on-going empathetic reverie of mine is what is intermittently and
rudely interrupted by the media
accusations of public voyeurism even as they bang out the “in your face”
coverage and go to town with their distasteful allegations and theories.
Am I being intrusive, morbid, and salacious in associating
with the Talwar story in thoughts?
Oh no, my conscience is clear. There is no guilt because I
know the tragedy’s hold on me arises out of its incongruity, the bizarre and
tangential turn of events as they happened, so out of character with a
seemingly ordered configuration. I admit too that there is a deeper sense of
identification owing to the demographic commonality. There is almost a need for
personal validation; to have it proved beyond doubt that there is more to it
than a mere twisted and sensational spectacle created by the TV channels and newspapers,
lending itself to an impatient dismissal at the most.
It cannot be! There are flesh and blood humans involved.
Surely it is more than a fluke tragedy in one of its kind accidental mode? Is there,
in all of this mess the germ of a lesson for us, a mirror and a wakeup call;
the reflection in fact, of our lifestyle choices?
If a healthy, educated child of a professional couple living
the comfortable regular, ideal life meets this end, do we not owe it to
ourselves to examine the incident in broader, universally applicable terms?
The middle classes’ antenna is forever quivering in
anticipation of any threat to their heavy investments; the children in short. What
must the couple be going through since her passing away, I shudder at that
thought?
There are other related reflections that come to mind. It is clear that one really
doesn’t know what is going on behind closed doors in civilized neighbourhoods.
The family had to have been in extreme and extraordinary pain to have
manifested this dreadful event. One wonders too at the strange connections and
dynamics that can arise between people in a group, occupying that space called
modern living, and irrespective of their status or position in the group hierarchy.
Can one turn a blind eye as well to the natural tendency of teens to dive into
whirlpools of attachments that no one can see them in, let alone extricate them
from. And most tragic of all, that as a society we do not have the emotional
wherewithal to survive any errors of judgement by our children.
Where was the
extended family while some dreadful mishap was taking shape in this small band of members? What happened to
the buffers when the fear got out of hand? How did the Talwars get so alone and
lonely in their hour of need?
The tragedy that is the Aarushi Double Murder case is a
mirror to us, the Indian society. It is the very same conservative anonymity that
we take pride in, that proved fatal for this family like ours.
moment then shuffle away in bewilderment. Oh good lord, what if he is writhing in fever! Hope he has not passed out, horizontal in an alcoholic haze. You bolt back at the door. There's a gap between the panels. You grab the handles and apply pressure, sinking to an arthritic haunch. While you are craning to align the eye, the domestic happens upon his crouching Madam. "Dukhi, I dropped the tiny screw on my ear stud, use your broom later alright!" You heave up exhaling an exasperated sigh while he looks on, squinting at you limp off in a cloud of injured dignity. But the needles of suspicion are stabbing at you. Betoo's toe had just begun to come into view when you were interrupted. What if he suffered a stroke having smoked up until dawn with his scruffy bros. Could he have been poring over porn? Beads of sweat threaten your forehead now. You reach for your loyal bottle of Sualin and pop a tablet, wincing at the sickly sweetness. Lowering gingerly on to the edge of your bed you address yourself, "Try looking in from the windows across his room, get up!" Just as you are picking yourself, a disprited young voice comes cutting through the corridor, "Ma, I sent you a Whatsapp message last night to wake me up at 6 am, I just missed an important session. Don't you guys check your feeds?"
