The best thing being a reporter is you get to meet a hell lot of people every day, but the worst part is meeting them at the wrong time. Today, I was to report about the 19 year old boy, who was shot by the military police, suspecting hime to be terrorist. And was made them to conclude on this... He was talking over the phone in Urdu.
Anyway, after the incident we all(I mean all the journalist lot) went to the boy's residence. A bunch of youngsters had gathered after the news of the boy being killed was spreading like a wild fire. I happened to remain calm observing and trying to listen to the conversations made by the visitors.
I heard a small boy aged about 6 years, saying to his friend about the same age"Urdu me bat kiya to terrorist ho jathe hai kya. Police wale aise hi sare muslamano ko mar denge. Agar woh Hindu hota to shayad woh zinda hota."
I was shocked to hear that from such a small boy. But more or less that was trhe thinking of most of them out there
Sad is the state of us... We somehow end up atttributing a stigma attached to one community and retain it for ever. Forcing even those who do not think ill and ignite hatredness among all..
About Me
- Rakshita
- A 26 year old average Indian girl: the girl next door types. I have nothing extraordinary to differentiate me in the crowd but my job profile does grab some attention. Been an average student till my 12th and wished to be a Vet Doctor because I love the four legged more than the two legged, but the rat race took my toll. Did BSc in Biotechnology and managed to wear those Doctor’s coat, but tasted failure for the first time when flunked in Chemistry. Failure made me realize the mystery of my destiny and sowed a dream of journalism. A pointless journey saw its first point in journey and the dream sprouted as a crime reporter. After topping College kept jumping companies till I became a crime reporter (the blossomed dream). Destiny was kind and in Indian Express Bangalore, my dream bloomed and became a crime reporter within eight months of work. Three years later my name is counted among the few good crime reporters of Bangalore, which was a dream sown five years back. But ugly side of success has placed me where failure had placed me once. In a dream job but in search of a new dream, I write to be heard and to be told. I sow a dream eagerly wait to know what I would reap.
