Reality of Injustice
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In
the summer vacation of 2013, I reopened The
Confession. I had just finished J. Krishnamurthy’s philosophical treatise Freedom from the Known. The hardcore
philosophy left me to wonder if I shouldn't need a light weight book as a
dessert, after a heavy and tiring feast.
So I decided to get my hands on The Confession.
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I
still remembered the story where I left it off, two years back. Once I
reentered to the story universe, it caught me. I stayed there, bowed my head in
obeisance, mostly because of the lack of many other options, at the start. I
wanted to experiment with including different writers into my reading list. There was little else I
could do during daytime at the moment. I worked on Wall of Colours during nighttime. And my day life was occupied with
killing time. I had other two tomes in perusal during this period; Charles Dickens
was one of them and Salman Rushdie the other. Due to the fact that a young man
sitting at home all through the daytime could create caustic friction in the
family, I chose to go out each day, find a spot in the public library in the
city and read a book. The book I chose for this purpose was The Confession, for it was lighter in
weight compared with David Copperfield
or Joseph Anton.
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After
two days, I still read The Confession,
because I felt if I didn’t I would not be able to include the deluge of this
poignant experience in my life. The story had become so crucial that it started
demanding my heart and emotions. The book was about an innocent man being
convicted wrongfully by a system that boasted of its efficiency. [If I had
said, wrongfully executed that would reveal the story an ounce] Injustice, much
like in any other part of the world, was the reality and justice was a myth
sustained by the sanctimonious media, the religion, and people like you and me.
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