The Cursed Child, er, Book: SPOILERS

HUGE, HUGE SPOILERS AHEAD. READ AT YOUR OWN RISK.

I knew this was not a novel. This was a script where JK Rowling contributed towards the story idea. That usually means disaster, as we have seen eight times in the past, thanks to eight disasters from Warner Bros.

I was prepared for that, for I knew JKR could never go wrong with the storyline. What the heck, she gave me a world I have sought solace in for over a decade now. I know I am not the only one.

I also knew that since this was a script, the book will be shorter than the behemoths that happened towards the end of the series. There would be no narration (which, as I have mentioned a gazillion times before, is something nobody does better than JKR).

But there would be dialogues, and JKR is a champion when it comes to telling a story through dialogues. If you are not convinced, revisit Spinner’s End.

I had wanted the book to happen for because it has been nine years, despite “at the Solstice will come a new and none will come after,” for I knew what it was to wait for a new book in the series.

There were expectations. A lot. And they came down with a sound so earth-shattering that it is a wonder how the world stayed asleep.

***

The highs:

1. Draco Malfoy 2.0. The more I think of the transformed Malfoy I love him.

2. Scorpius Malfoy, obviously. He was the reason for the high hopes after the first few pages.

3. The concept of multiple to-and-fro time travel. Yes, it got a bit tedious after a while, but the alternate universe was a novelty.

The lows:

Everything else.

The serious lows:

1. Ron, one of my favourite characters from the series, is portrayed as a brainless buffoon. Not only did he have some of the finest lines in the series, he was one of the most likable and human characters. Agreed, he had a few lines in the play, but he was not the Ron from the books. People do change with time, but not to this extent.

2. Hermione. Perhaps it was this extremely drab Hermione that changed Ron. “I’ll hug you” was probably the breaking point.

3. Ginny. Nobody told me that Ginny would be little more than furniture.

4. Harry and McGonagall. Forget everything else, Harry was the one who used Cruciatus on Amycus Carrow when he had spat on McGonagall. Despite his rank, power, designation, whatever, Harry would not have bullied McGonagall, or worse, address her as Minerva. Never. Ever. Never. Ever.

5. Rose. I have no clue why she got screen presence that reeked of uselessness. More importantly, despite the friendly bromance, Albus and Scorpius were very, very clearly attracted to each other, so why involve Rose at all? Why not give her the Hugo treatment?

6. Ludo Bagman and his WTF announcements (a friend mentioned the eerie similarity with Indigo Airlines announcements...)

6. Er, should Teddy Lupin and Victoire Weasley not have made an appearance? What about Neville, despite multiple mentions? But fine, that was acceptable, given the above points.

The WTF lows:

1. The name Panju Weasley. I repeat, PANJU Weasley. Why, JKR, why?

2. Ron gifting a love potion to a teenager as a joke. Ron. RON. RON. Who had once almost died after during a love potion aftermath, also as a teenager. RON.

3. The WTF Trolley Witch.

4. Albus kissing Hermione.

5. VOLDEMORT slept with BELLATRIX?

More specifically, VOLDEMORT slept with ANYONE?

I mean, VOLDEMORT had sex?

The words VOLDEMORT and sex cannot exist in the same sentence. But perhaps he wanted an heir...

But how does sex work when you have Horcruxes? Does the answer change if one or more of them has been destroyed?

Most importantly, can you unsee Voldemort having sex? Can you? Can you?

The unforgivable low:

When does a sequel or prequel become unforgivable? When it clashes with canon.

1. James and Lily were supposed to stay inside. There was a reason the Fidelius Charm was used.

2. Sirius, not Hagrid, was the first to reach the Potters after James and Lily died, and yet...

***

But let me finish this on a high. For the theory lovers and timeline-mappers, that is. Keep this excellent map handy, meanwhile.

Delphini (Riddle?) was born “in Malfoy Manor before the Battle of Hogwarts”, which narrows it down to either Half-Blood Prince or Deathly Hallows. Bellatrix was noticeably absent during the attack on Hogwarts (The Lightning-Struck Tower), so she might have been pregnant at that point of time.

There was no indication that Bellatrix was pregnant with Delphini when the trio was at Malfoy Manor in Deathly Hallows (there was no evidence that she was not pregnant, either).

But let us think about this: did this happen much, much earlier? Let us go back to Spinner’s End...

“She crumpled, falling at his feet, sobbing and moaning on the floor.

“’My only son... my only son...’

“’You should be proud!’ said Bellatrix ruthlessly. ‘If I had sons, I would be glad to give them up to the service of the Dark Lord!’”

We know that OWL results had arrived in July. We know that Spinner’s End had taken place before that.

Let us assume that the Narcissa-Bellatrix-Snape rendezvous happened in June (the last month of the semester).

We know Dumbledore died the June after.

Do the arithmetic. I will leave you at that.

***

PS: I just realised that this was the first time I reviewed a Harry Potter book, for Deathly Hallows had come out before I had created my blog.

JNU: Thus spake the insomniac

The past few days have affected me more than they had a right to. I do not like staying up nights being worried about serious stuff. These days I typically close my eyes and bowl leg-break to world-class batsmen till I fall asleep. It works.

But JNU, and subsequent events, have shaken me to the core. Do not get me wrong: I am rarely affected by events of such magnitude, and am perfectly comfortable in my comfort zones.

I had a discussion with one of my friends (who prefers to keep his name undisclosed). We had conversations about numerous points. Thankfully, we agreed on almost everything. Most importantly, we agreed on exactly what was scary.

I have rarely supported or opposed Arnab Goswami, for I do not watch Times Now, or, for that matter, any news channel, unless something major breaks. My television set is almost always tuned on to cricket, a movie, or what they call ‘infotainment’ these days.

But I did see the clips. I do know what is morphed. Even if I did not know that it was morphed, the clip bothered me. It bothered me more because I am now a part of journalism.

The clip made me realise something I knew deep down, but had refused to believe: facts and cold logic are almost always drowned by decibels.

I have seen people do the same on social media. They do have responsibilities, but it is not part of their profession. However, it is the not the same for news anchors, who have the power of influencing an entire nation.

But this blog-post is not about Times Now, for they are in a competitive business, and must earn their bread. There is no point criticising Arnab Goswami for ripping a student apart on studio: why were you watching it, in the first place? Don’t you know that the best way to stop a programme is to hit the TRPs? You were equally responsible for the news show that evening, remember.

Where was I? Ah, yes, sleepless nights. I decided to put them to an end, and what better way could be there than to talk with myself? I let an imaginary interviewer talk to me, and come up with an answer.

Do you celebrate the national anthem?

The national anthem does have an impact to me. Unlike several others I know, I do not mind standing up to the anthem when they play it in the theatres.

In fact, I get goose-bumps it is played, and often sing along.

Did you hoist the national flag as a student?

I have seen teachers hoist it at my school, twice a year. It had zero impact on me. In fact, I was annoyed when ordered to salute the flag once it was up.

Celebrating my school’s foundation day had a deeper impact on me. But then, I went to the best school in the world.

You did not like saluting the flag? That is sedition!

Do read carefully. I was annoyed when I was ordered to salute the flag. I may or may not choose to salute the flag (or respect the national anthem). If I do it, I will do it out of choice, not compulsion.

In my opinion, saluting the national flag is neither good nor bad. It is a matter of personal belief. If you get a kick out of doing the same, do. But do not force others. Patriotism cannot be forced.

Are you a patriot?

I can hardly be classified a patriot. I never went to war, and given my age and fitness, I do not think I will go in future.

But I do pay my taxes that fund the Army. I know I am forced to pay taxes, but I do pay my taxes. And my country is supposed to be benefitted from that tax.

Is the lack of patriotism not a serious issue in the country?

I do not think there is a lack of patriotism in the country.

Right now, there are bigger issues in hand. Intolerance, honour killings, crime against women, corruption, bigotry, and farmer suicides are just a few a few examples.

Do you believe India is the greatest country in the world?

No. I do not.

Go to Pakistan, then!

No. Why will I?

You are anti-Indian! You are a Pakistani!

Let me be clear on this. Some Pakistanis hate India, but most do not. Some Pakistanis, like some Indians, are extremists, and try their level best to provoke the rational ones. These provokers are neither Indian nor Pakistani.

I have talked to Pakistanis on social media. They are perfectly rational. Obviously they support Pakistan against India in cricket, just the way we support India against Pakistan. That does not make them anti-Indian.

Don’t change the topic! You are anti-Indian!

I never said that. I simply said I do not believe India is the greatest country in the world. What I do have is hope that India will someday emerge at the top. I believe in India. I know it is madness to, but I do.

Don’t you think India is your mother?

No. I think of India as a very large collection of people who own passports issued by the same authority. I consider only one of them as my mother. Though she watches Bengali soaps, she is generally a nice person and an excellent mother.

What is your take on the JNU issue and subsequent reactions on social media?

Let me start with the JNU issue. I do not think anything wrong was said by any student. By now we (hopefully) know what was morphed and what was not. If the students have not said anything wrong, there is no reason I will not support them.

Let me come to what is bothering me the most. The extent of extremism on social media by both sides bothers me to no extent.

Subtle satire is fine. Direct attack is not (but once again, that is my opinion). It is foolish to expect to change someone’s opinion by having an argument over social media.

What also bothers me is the vitriolic use of phrases like chaddi and sickular (these are the politest ones). I do not have anything against the phrases in particular. The venom that is spewed (from both sides) troubles me.

It has affected me more than I had thought. I have mentioned above that I strongly oppose the arrest of the student(s), or some of the BJP/RSS comments on media.

However, what has also bothered me is the lash-back from people who are against BJP. I have always believed that temper stops even the rational from thinking logically, which is probably what is happening right now.

Why so much anger, people? Why the direct attacks if someone confronts you with reason? Is that not what the uncivilised do? Are you not armed with education? Why the hatred?

You know how to combat this, do you not? Do you not know that the only way to bring this to an end is to elect a new leader (a well-chosen one)? Do you think calling someone chaddi and verbally abusing them on social media will solve the problem?

Anguish and irrational behaviour from educated people does not affect a lot of people, but it disturbs me. I believe in being polite, and I always will. If anything brings out the animal in you, you should probably do a stocktaking of your personality.

Do you feel all BJP supporters are extremists?

No. Some of them are, but most are not. Recall BJP’s landslide win in 2014. That many people could not have been extremists. Had all of them been extremists, this nation would have ceased to exist long back.

But there are extremists, many of them. Unfortunately, some of them are in power. Some others expose their fangs and talons on social media. They are essentially the same.

So, do you feel everyone in other parties is good?

No. There are good and bad, intelligent and stupid people who vote, or have voted for, Congress, CPM, TMC, or any other party. Some RSS people are good. There are probably some good Talibans as well who feel a twinge of guilt deep down.

Unfortunately, the vocal extremists dominate proceedings to such an extent that the decent ones find it difficult to express their opinions.

Similarly, there is evil everywhere, in all political parties and their supporters. There are some in JNU as well.

Don’t you think those at JNU did the wrong thing by shouting anti-India slogans?

First of all, there is serious doubt over the authenticity of the video.

But even if it was true, I do not mind. As a voter and tax-payer of the country one has the right to oppose the goings-on in the country. We adjust, for we are too scared and busy. They were vocal, because they are brave, and are students. They pointed out. They dared.

Don’t you think the JNU students mutilated the memory of Hanumanthappa Koppad?

Did you spell that name, or merely copy-pasted it?

What if I did? He fought for the nation. He went through so much pain to protect our country. These students do not have any respect or honour for his valour.

Seriously? Did they mention him?

But such slogans are an insult to the memories of Hanumanthappa Koppad!

Dude, can you send me links of what the Government did to honour the man? Why does he suddenly crop up in everything? Who would you have named, had he not died tragically a few days back?

Now you are insulting the memories of Hanumanthappa Koppad! Do you not think he died to protect us? Does not that make you feel anything?

Yes. Civilians and The Army form an excellent symbiotic relationship. They protect the frontier so that we have a major worry less in our lives. In return, our taxes make sure they get paid sufficiently.

Does that mean I was not hurt when he died? No. I cannot imagine walking without a sweater in a Kolkata night. I cannot imagine the horror of getting stuck and dying in the cold of Siachen. The very thought is horrific.

PS: Please abstain from copy-pasting the name.

But you did not express your grief on social media!

No.

Do you not feel indebted towards our soldiers?

I feel guilty of being the part of a species where an army, or even warfare, is a basic need for a nation.

Based on the same reasoning, I feel guilty of being part of a species where welfare states are needed.

Are you fine with your taxes funding the colleges?

Absolutely.

Why?

It is my money, and hence, my business.

These students thrive on your money, and still are anti-Indian!

First of all, there is no proof that they are anti-Indian. More importantly, it is my money: why exactly are you concerned?

If you really care about my taxes, will you be kind enough to provide me a breakdown of exactly where every paisa I pay is spent?

I see. So you do not love India.

A lot of that depends on what India is. If India is a bunch of extremists trying to bully me into shouting “I love India,” then I do not.

My India is not about yelling Vande Mataram or Bharat-maata ki jai. Neither is it about the flag or the anthem. They represent the nation. They are not the nation.

***

My India is about the boy who carries his cricket kit to the ground at the crack of dawn.

My India is about the girl who endures long walks across grounds with the dream of becoming a doctor in her own village.

My India is about that taxi driver who sings perfect Rabindrasangeet.

My India is about the crowd that assembles in club-rooms whenever India plays.

My India is about parents looking affectionately at their children in albums.

My India is about children looking at their parents in photographs, their visions blurred by tears.

My India is about people standing up for a cause.

My India is about the Big Bazaar customer care boy whose eyes light up when he exchanges furtive glances with the girl who works as security-guard for INOX (he often passes by her).

***

I believe in the power of love and logic. I know this is a counterintuitive statement, but it is a fact. I also believe in the power of art and sport and humour. Embrace one of these, and I do not think there will be any need for jingoism.

Hope. I still have hope. I know all is not lost.

On AIB, puns, satire, and kaala-khatta

Source: IFOWS

I did not like the AIB Knockout show. No, I really did not, and I was somewhat vocal about my opinions on social media. If you have seen my tweet or Facebook post that day, you would know what I am talking about.

I had found the jokes clichéd and repetitive. They got so predictable after a point of time that I could almost predict the punch-lines (though I will never be able to erase memories of the kaala-khatta joke on Ashish Shakya for the rest of my life).

Let us make this clear: I have nothing against politically incorrect jokes. In most known circles my incorrect jokes make people wince in annoyance at the horrible quality or the poor taste, but nobody can blame me for being politically correct. In fact, I discriminate based on so many parameters that I sometimes lose track.

But let us get back to the roast. I was surprised when almost every anchor lauded Arjun Kapoor and Ranveer Singh for being sporting enough to be the part of a roast. They missed the point of a roast, which is supposed to be insult comedy; and you do not appreciate a person for not reacting to a roast; they was doing only what they were supposed to do, which was to accept faeces.

But why were they apologising? Did they, too, not get the concept of a roast? Why, then?

The more I thought, the more obvious it became. Though the people present were cool with the concept of a roast, the YouTube viewers may not be. They were probably circumspect of whether the viewers would feel offended. Unfortunately, though they reduced the bar by being politically correct once in a while, they could not escape the inevitable.

I realised (they had probably realised this even before the Dhoom-3 fiasco) that people who mattered thought differently. I will not go into clichés like “this country is open to bribes but not to jokes”, “corruption is fine but humour is not,” and more. Everyone knows these one-liners by heart by now.

The allegations made were obnoxious, almost laughable. I completely agree that the language was crass. I do not swear (yes, really), and do not hold respect people who swear frequently in high esteem. 

But.

The poster had a 16+ alert. The YouTube clip started with a disclaimer that you are entering the politically incorrect zone. It was not as if I was not warned of what was to follow: if foul language bothered me, I had the option of clicking on another fornicating (see, I do not use foul language) video. If I did not and decided to watch the one-hour thing, I cannot blame others for having to hear swear-words.

Also.

The attacks made at everyone, including Arjun Kapoor, Ranveer Singh, and the man who stole the show, Karan Johar, were apparently direct, crude, and no-holds-barred. The trio hit back with gusto, and everyone was happy.

Not everyone, apparently. Pune Police, for example, lodged an FIR against at least 16 people for "behaving in an obscene behaviour in a public place". When I read this I contemplated for a while whether eve-teasing falls under the same category, then gave up.

Not a single person who attended the show (Hiroo Yash Johar — the lady who “presents” Dharma Productions movies, Deepika Padukone, Alia Bhatt, Sonakshi Sinha, and more) looked offended. If the roasters, the roasted, and the paid audience were all happy, what right did it give others to demand for apologies from AIB?

Right.

It had to come to that word. AIB can offend someone with their creation, however ill-made. If that person feels insulted, he can 

(a) outdo them at their trick by preparing a better clip, or 

(b) take it in his stride and laugh at himself, or 

(c) question, in a civilised way, AIB’s right to create the video.

Let me put myself in the shoe of the person. Obviously (a) is beyond my scope, but I usually resort to (b), which is my favourite option. I love making (good-natured) fun of people, but do not mind if others make fun of me, atheism, JK Rowling, India, the Bengali, VVS Laxman; okay, maybe not the last one, but you get the idea.

On the other hand, if someone is completely devoid of people laughing at their expense, (c) is a decent way to hit back. A challenge is cool, which is probably why you cannot translate the word into Bengali. Coolness is not for us Bengalis; we have proved exactly that by getting cartoonists arrested.

Let us get back to the point. The men who matter did none of these. Instead, they alleged AIB of being “seditious pornographers while plotting the downfall of Indian values of civilisation”. That is probably a serious allegation (given that five of the eleven words in it have more than eight letters in them).

I do not understand what seditious pornography is, but what I do understand is that what AIB was trying to create is a form of art, and here is the important part: nobody has a right to ban art, irrespective of its quality.

Art does not have a specific language or form. We create art because we want to express our feelings; that is what gets us to write, paint, dance, or become a Chetan Bhagat. We do not aspire to become Jane Austens on day one; all we want to do is to write and write and write and write till we bleed. Trust me, the thought of insulting someone else does not even cross our minds.

That is what art is about. It is not about being good or bad, but it is about the right to express myself. You cannot stop someone from expressing his feelings just like that. It is a crime to ask them to apologise for being creative.

I agree AIB were making money out of it, but that was because they are good at it. If they had eight million clicks when they took it down (and a 10: 1 like: dislike ratio) they must have been doing something right. Obviously, if I roasted someone nobody in their right sense would pay to watch the show, but that is not the point. Had I been good at it, I would have made money out of it too.

Humour, with its strange healing power, is probably the strongest form of art (the Knockout was not); and whenever a joke is written, it is always at the expense of someone — unless it is an innocent pun.

But a pun is not the only form of humour. Puns rule (I often get the feeling I suffer from witzelsucht), but there is more to humour than them; the satire, however subtle, involves offending someone, even if it is to a limited extent and the person concerned does not feel offended.

AIB has only increased the extent and intensity. They have done what all humorists do, though the quality could have been better. Yes, it was an experiment. Yes, it failed in terms of excellence, but it succeeded when it came to mass appeal.

It is very important that AIB did not actually accuse someone of anything. They joked. I repeat, they joked. When the inimitable RK Laxman took up his pen, he was not being a journalist backed by proof. He wanted to make money of making others laugh, and few careers can be as noble.

Since the advent of YouTube, since the arrival of the young brigade with fresh humour, it seemed for a while India has grown up sufficiently to accept jokes aimed at it. I guess I was being a moron, as always. We may keep on reproducing and bringing grumpy children into a world devoid of laughter, devoid of even the right to laugh or create jokes.

That has always the biggest unaddressed problem in contemporary Indian art: it has managed to offend people who matter, and offend strongly enough for them to react. While you may get a kick out of the fact that you are finally being recognised, you will soon realise that the noose is going to get tighter and tighter with every passing day.

There is good news, though. It is not easy to strangle humour, just like that. 

***

PS: The images below are taken from AIB's Twitter handle. I could not help share this, especially for the last line.

Peshawar aftermath: the horror of the what-ifs

Courtesy: Coalition to Stop Gun Violence Facebook group

A day went by after the Peshawar horror. A second day went by. The second night seemed too long. Maybe I was too affected. Or maybe I was human. Or maybe I was too human. Or maybe insane.

But then, I am not known for losing my composure. They generally say I am devoid of emotion. They are true. Or maybe I am the emotional one and they are devoid of emotions. Or maybe both are true. Maybe it was because I am a parent. Or maybe despite the fact that I am a parent.

It did not matter. I tried to sleep. Then something hit me.

What if… what if… this became the norm? What if massacres became so commonplace some day that we would not care anymore?

Parents in Peshawar will probably be too scared to send their children to school. But what if… what if… they stopped being scared? What if it reaches a stage when everyone accepts violence as a part of our lives?

When I was in my tweens all my parents were scared of were kidnappers. We were told that random kidnappers prowled across the nooks and corners of the city, and would swoop down upon us at the first opportunity and carry us away in large gunny-bags.

Parents of five-year olds are scared of worse things these days. Growing up I had no idea about the existence of words like paedophile. Or child abuse. And now, this. Those kidnappers seem almost toothless when put into perspective.

What if such massacres become commonplace some day? What if parents of the future have to go through experiences so gruesome that mass execution of children seem tame in comparison?

The very thought left me in cold sweat. More than the thought of children desperately crying out for their parents when asked to stand in a queue in front of a firing squad without a chance to protest or hit back; more than the thought of a wounded child gagging himself and silencing himself with a tie; more than when I got to know that Class 9 had only one survivor — a boy whose alarm did not work that morning.

Those parents at Peshawar, checking the hospital lists frantically, have been shattered. We had come down crashing with them, as did humanity. We cried with them, and, as is the norm, we shared Facebook posts, changed our wall pictures, and made hashtags trend on Twitter.

All that will subside. All that has started to subside.

There will be an encore. We will rise again.

This will become commonplace. There will be revenge, mostly without proof or vindication, mostly on the innocent. We will simply like or favourite or retweet.

That will happen because something more horrific will be in news.

That will happen because something will churn our insides to such an extent that the Peshawar incident will seem as innocuous as kidnappers with gunny-bags seem to our generation.

That is what I am scared of.

That is what left me sleepless last night and is making me type my fingers to numbness at two in the morning. The what-if bit of it.

Maybe things have just begun.

Beyond capital punishment

Cricket was not held up. Humanity was. In fact, humanity was pushed back by a few centuries, perhaps millennia, at Peshawar — a city that was synonymous to Arbab Niaz Stadium to me. Till yesterday.

I was determined. I would not read news. I would not check the trending hash-tags on Twitter. I would not see the pictures. I knew what had happened.

I read funny things. I cracked jokes. I read funny one-liners. I watched cricket. I checked obscure cricket statistics. Sitting in the newsroom, I would prepare myself for The Gabba.

I was scared. Not because of what may happen to me, but because we were now devoid of hope. They would not spare children. Remember those cute commercials that say all children are created equal, and it is only when we grow up that the chasms are created?

These children were denied a chance to grow up. Those bastards denied them the chance in the name of religion, or whatever it is that teaches them that murdering children is a way to make this planet a better place to live.

I still decided to stay away from this. Not like an ostrich, but perhaps because the 37-year old father in me did not have it to take this anymore. Then two things happened today.

***

The Test at The Gabba had got over. The one at Centurion had started. All eyes, however, were on the one at Abu Dhabi, where Pakistan was supposed to take on New Zealand. The two-minute silence was expected, as were the black bands.

Shehzad, Pakistan’s wonder-kid, broke down when the stadium rose to a silence. Waqar, Moin, Mushtaq, Younis Khan were visibly traumatised. Irfan, all of 7’1”, looked as small as any of us as he prayed under his breath.

Even that did not break me. I pretended everything was normal.

What broke me was a solemn, sombre, gloomy Afridi.

It was then that it hit me. Afridi was the man who was not supposed to grow up. Afridi was the man who was not supposed to change. The short speech was so unbearable that I almost wanted to mute the television, but could not.

Be professional, I told myself. I could not. I had to make excuses to leave for the restroom. I am a parent. My daughter goes to school. I felt claustrophobic.

Afridi broke me today.

***

I kept myself hooked to the other match, at Centurion. Enough was happening there. I calmed down as the day progressed. Then I checked social media, and saw this headline.

What if I was the only one, left in an entire class, across sections? What if I turned up at school to see I was the only one? What if walked inside an empty school to know that I was the only survivor because the alarm did not go off in the morning and my friends were all lined up and massacred to death by (probably, I hope not) the smiling guy who sold sweets outside the school?

My Class IX memories involved trying to woo a girl, watching cricket and Chitrahaar, listening to Vividh Bharti, and a routine that shuffled between tuitions-school-home and home-school-tuitions (sometimes tuitions-school-tuitions home as well). I am happy with my childhood.

This boy’s Class XI memories would involve his alarm clock not working on the most dreadful morning of all.

***

Go ahead, Pakistan. Do not rest till you dish out the worst to these creatures. Capital punishments will not suffice. It is too soft a punishment for people who can take up arms against children. Do something beyond my limited imagination.

Remember the images. A group of children, being asked to queue up, with full knowledge of what was about to follow. Imagine their horror. Imagine the horror of the parents crying in panic as they looked up the list of the dead.

Dish out something to them — the kind of which the world is yet to see. Take something away irretrievable from them. Something. Something. Something.

Please.

PLEASE.