A Prologue

There were five other people on the grid. The monitor was a bit grainy, it made us look like busts of freedom fighters, birdshit streaming down our faces. Each of us had convenient labels, for those who missed the earlier segments or didn’t have the attention span to be bothered with names. Mine said ‘friend.’ The feminist had ‘Academic and Social Activist.’ There was a journalist and lawyer as well, but they were just the backup dancers. It was between her and me. They cut to a close of her face. The stammering anchor asks his question off camera. “Mandankini V-vaisan, you have gone on record to say that Sunita Bisht does not deserve the death penalty. In fact, you have been said, and I quote, “her action cannot be c-classified as murder.” Her lips parted exposing her yellowing teeth in a smile so supercilious she may as well have spit in our faces. That smile was one of her in studio techniques. So was addressing anchors and co-panelists with a formality that dripped with condescension. ‘Mr. Barua, I would appreciate not having my words distorted in front of my face. Can I have two minutes to speak? Without interruptions? Thank you. I have made no claims to Saraswati’s guilt or innocence. Only that the charge of murder is inapplicable. I think it amounts to a case of manslaughter if not culpable homicide, both of which differ from murder in one crucial respect – intent. And that’s the point here. Shantanu Ray took advantage of her. And while making false promises for sexual favours is a time honoured tradition, it is her action against the action against her that is her crime.’ She sighed, satisfied at her own cleverness. I began my perplexed frown. And her final punch, ‘In a country that practically patted Nanavati on the back, the least we can do is offer Saraswati our sympathy. Our legal system will certainly give her jail time.’ I get ready for my turn. Adding what I hope is righteous outrage to my frown. ‘An i-interesting point Mandakani. Some would say you’re blaming the victim. Aakash Joshi, Shantanu Ray was a close friend. Perhaps you would like to respond?’ No fucking shit I would. ‘Thank you, sir.’ See, I could be respectful too. ‘I think you put it perfectly. That someone as erudite as Dr. Vaisan searches for the cause of the crime in the rumoured character of the victim, rumours I know to be false, while glorifying the murderer (I say it with emphasis) as some kind of kali-bhairavi archetype is deeply disturbing…’ She interrupts, still smirking. Probably at my awesome archetype line. ‘I did not say that at all. The inability to…’ ‘Ma’am, please let me finish, I recall offering you the same courtesy. The fact is that Shantanu Ray had consensual sex, without lying about himself or what he did. They spent one night together, and on the second he was dead. To blame the victim, or the murderer for that matter, based on their class is the sort of bigotry I wouldn’t expect from so distinguished an academic as Dr. Vaisan.’ I wish my role allowed a self satisfied smirk. I settled morally offended. The lawyer and the journalist were talking, but really, I stopped listening after I stopped speaking. I fiddled with my earpiece, just so people know how uncomfortable I am with this sort of thing.