Surely you’re joking, Mr. Jud I. Ciary

I met her at a party some ten years ago. She had come with her cousin- who was a friend of mine. I distinctly remember liking her a lot more than I liked her cousin, laughing and playing games in the hotel lobby. That was the one and only time I spoke to her.

In 2008, I heard she was dead. She had been murdered, and it was all over the papers. I didn’t make the connection instantly, but when I heard people at school talking about her cousin (who was in my school, though we hadn’t spoken for years), I realized she was the curly haired girl I’d met all those years ago.

At that time, I was friends with another cousin of hers. Seeing her cry and talk about her made me sad. Although I wasn’t really attached to anyone in the picture, the very fact that she was the same age as me and probably had the same issues, problems and life as me, made it all very personal. And I, along with a lot of other people, hoped that we would know soon, who killed her. And that justice would prevail.


Four years later, we’re still waiting.

The media only remembers when the court comes out with a ruling. But her parents remember, as does her family, friends, teachers, neighbours and countless others who pray for her every day. I feel a twinge in my heart every time I see her name splashed all over the front page. I cannot explain it away even though I am nothing but an innocent bystander in this rigmarole. I, who have absolutely nothing to do with it.

Except, I do. The thought that this girl missed her tenth Boards, the chance to deliberate and mull over her stream choices like I did, her school farewell- and that she should’ve been giving her Boards right now like I am, but isn’t- angers me. It makes me furious to think that somewhere, someone is existing without realizing the full implications of what they have done. Without being MADE to realize the extent of their evil deed.

Whose fault is that?

Is it the parents’, who slept away, blissfully, and justifiably unconcerned about what may be happening in another room? Is it the police’s who have not been trained to tread carefully and keep their eyes and ears open for every little anomaly? Or is the helps’, who innocently swept away half the evidence?

This question is redundant, for there are no answers. What the real questions are, are what now, that there is no evidence? Why are the parents being picked on incessantly? Why do they have to sit in front of a camera and answer insensitive, provocative questions like ‘So, how does it feel?’ or ‘What were her favourite subjects?’ even now?

Am I the only one who can see their pain? Am I the only one who saw them cry on national television and felt humiliated for the disrespect being meted out to them? They, who have tolerated humiliation, accusation, speculation and absolute apathy in their relentless quest for justice!


Its strange, but I often find myself wondering who did it, how they must feel. I also, sometimes hope that when I’m old, I will open the papers to read of a secret letter found somewhere which reveals everything. These are fickle, and almost voyeuristic wishes, but the intent behind them is true and sincere. I want justice for my friend.



Today, was one such day. I hate to think that one day, she would be referred to as the girl whose murder was never solved. And for that, I have faith.

I know there will be justice.