In a profession that I am in, strangely, one writes, rewrites hears about deaths almost every day. In fact, based on their numbers one decides what prominence is to be given to a story. Sadly, one has grown so used to the routine, that it hardly matters. But, seeing a death (I am referring to the neighbour's daughter I had written here about. Yes, she passed away a few days ago. May her soul RIP) at close quarters made me uneasy. As the father took the child wrapped in the pall, I broke down. I couldn't control my tears, though; I must confess that I wasn't very attached to the child.
This occurrence, strangely, made me feel good. The fact, that the human being inside me hasn't succumbed to the insensitivities of the profession made me feel great. Moroever, it made me realise that writing and presenting an 'event' which we are in no way linked to is easy, but facing a trauma, no matter how small it may be, on a personal level is difficult. And in a way, made me 'feel' for the sufferers of my stories more.
Manjiri
This occurrence, strangely, made me feel good. The fact, that the human being inside me hasn't succumbed to the insensitivities of the profession made me feel great. Moroever, it made me realise that writing and presenting an 'event' which we are in no way linked to is easy, but facing a trauma, no matter how small it may be, on a personal level is difficult. And in a way, made me 'feel' for the sufferers of my stories more.
Manjiri
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