The speculations start even before the news is complete. Haven’t you made lists yet? Haven’t you identified the killer yet? Was it a remote controlled bomb? It seems to have been a remote controlled bomb ladies and gentlemen. Haven’t you caught anyone? What’s that, a head? It was a kamikaze, ladies and gentlemen.
Increasingly there are more Haven’t You’s than Have You’s?
It doesn’t end there. Grandparents cling to the screen. It went off near the first blockade. Yes didn’t make it to the procession. That’s good isn’t it? Less loss this way. Yes the first blockade. Blew right up. Kamikaze. Seven dead. The other channel said eight. Switch to the other channel, they said eight. In the background the news room and reporter have an intelligent debate about the tumultuous proceedings. Breath by breath by breath. It’s even more lively when there are guests. The gentle hiss of the auntie with the tea cup in her hand, the tisk, tisk of the husband who obviously has political opinions. And he launches right into them. The Americans, the Pakistanis, the Indians, The Taliban. Foreign Propaganda and National Mismanagement. World War. Afghanistan. Remember the Russians? That’s where it all began. Yes, I know. But God, do we all have to know it? Do we all have to say it? Every time?
But we do the tango, we do. Every time. From the news room to the auntie with the cup. With an ease that becomes increasingly more practiced. All sharp curves and lovely legs. It’s such a sad thing, no? So many people dying every day. Can’t send my kids out without having a heart attack. What, this? Yes got it from the market down two blocks. Splendid sale there, nice warm stuff, lasting. What’s one to do you know? How do you stop a man not afraid to die?
I feel like mourning death. Someone killed a man. Someone stole my country’s money. Power has made someone selfish. Among all the intelligence I want to mourn the loss of mourning simple things. Death, selfishness, lies, hypocrisy. I don’t want to remember the Russians. Someone died, and you won’t be following their lives, their misery, their poverty. Not for more than the slot allocated to them among the news items and advertisements. No I don’t know how your dress looks, mother. Can’t you see I’m in mourning?
