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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