Another bomb hits New Delhi — I’m more concerned than usual because I’m selfishly thinking about how I’m meant to head there in November — and this time, the faraway we get to know a bit about one of the innocents blasted to infinity:
A police officer said that witnesses had said that the explosion took place after a package fell from a motorcycle riden [sic] by two youths.
The device reportedly blew up after being picked up by a young boy.
“Two young men in black denims, black T-shirts and wearing helmets drove a motorcycle to the market and the pillion rider dropped a polythene bag containing the bomb,” H.S. Dhaliwal, deputy police commissioner, told reporters.
“A 10-year-old boy tried to help and return the bag to the riders but they sped away at high speed and the bag exploded, killing the child instantly.”
Why did it have to play out like a lousy film?
I don’t have the words to explain to myself how human beings, people who are sons and fathers and brothers and uncles and nephews, can fathom this monstrosity as something right and necessary. Or perhaps there is no moral right-ness left in them.
What are they really killing for?
If explosives and poisons didn’t exist, and they had to murder each and every person who ever died in a terrorist attack with a bayonet or a knife, face to face, guts to guts, eye to eye, would they have done it anyway?
Oh, but I forget the part that machetes played in Rwanda. Once you have decided to pick up that tool, the first time would be as “normal” as the tenth or the hundredth or the thousandth.
May God have mercy on us all.