The Murder

Something’s been on my mind for a while. I’ve got to say it – for catharsis.  I’ve committed a crime: a serious one. I’ve killed a child. But I did it only because I loved him and couldn’t see him suffer in this brutal world. Now that he is gone, I miss him. The guilt of killing him is keeping me up all night now and I can’t get over the guilt. He was a child, and he had a lot of qualities that made him special in this world. He was daring, but one day, he dared climb a cliff. He fell down and broke his arm. He had to wear a plaster for over two months. His courage (almost stupid courage) caused him a lot of pain. I wanted him to stop taking life casually, but he was reluctant. He was fresh, but the moment he shared his thoughts about caste and religion with society, it disowned him. Many nights, he cried himself to sleep. I wanted him to stop tormenting himself and to accept not just the differences people had but also the differences people had in the way they thought about those differences. He was innocent, but once when he got caught for helping his friend cheat in an examination, he was failed and detained in the same class. His classmates mocked at him and called him a ‘failure’, and his parents were ashamed of him. I wanted him to stop helping others, but he was reluctant to give up on the trust he had in people and in humanity.  He was loving, but when he fell in love with the new girl in his class, she broke his heart and said she wanted to be ‘just friends’. He gave up all he had to keep his new friend happy, and did all he could to win her heart. A year later the girl threw him out of her life because her boyfriend didn’t like him. He was torn. I wanted him to be selfish, but he was reluctant to change. He was selfless, but when he used to call his old friends, they were always busy and never called back. He was depressed. I wanted him to have some self-respect, but he was reluctant to give up on his old friends. He was caring, but when he shared his lunch-box with a sweeper’s son, he was beaten up badly by his dad. He was disheartened. I wanted him to stop caring, but he wouldn’t – couldn’t – stop. The world had made that child miserable and yet he wouldn’t give up. I was unable to take any more pain. I didn’t want to be bullied anymore. I didn’t want to be hurt anymore. I so wanted that child to give up, to grow up. Yes I killed him because he was hurting me. And I only did it so that nobody in the world would have the right or the privilege to make me cry, to make me weak. And I finally am a strong, grown up man.

The child is long gone now, and unlike his, my life has a lot of principles and rules. Now nobody has the privilege to break my heart because I’ve stopped falling in love. Nobody can cause me pain because I’ve stopped caring, nobody can bully me because I’ve stopped helping, and nobody can break me because I’ve stopped waiting. I murdered him to seek peace. May be he didn’t need to die. May be I could have trusted him. May be I chose the wrong side, because now that I finally am a grown-up, I realize that may be even though I am the one living now, he was the one really alive.

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