The one-man mob
We, the people of India, are having a population explosion problem. This is old hat, you may think. But while we once took the trouble to have babies, we now each come individually armed with our multiple personalities to the show. In these we are victim, jury, judge and executioner. Be it Siddhartha Das, helmet man death-sentence seeker extraordinaire, the father who never once sought to contact the unwed mother of his two children because he was dumped, cape flying hero in red tights to the rescue, and thus somehow, victim of someone else's murder mystery.
Those of us who have met more of the Mukerjeas' skeletons (quite literally) in their closets than the Mukerjeas and had tea with them, and promised to meet them for brunch, and let's see where this goes it could be the start of something real.... Or outragers to the Jasleen Kaur insinuations, because we are every man, and we are also on every curb, and we know a crazy molester intention in a photographic red eye when we see one.
Or in the gaps of the Aarushi murder case, where we just know, because we see so much more clearly without surrounding ourselves with the clutter of evidence. We each are all everywhere. Thanks to Instagram we are the drones of the uncropped street, and we are the by standee dumpees in someone's live-tweeted date-gone-wrong. We Asimov-like our brains broadcast through our transmitter mouths and fingers those thought waves of commentaries once better ruminated quietly inside our heads.
People who think they know everything are the greatest annoyances to those of us who do, as Asimov put it. Guilt is a look, an attitude, a shrug, and an appearance. Clarity is a well-aimed barb to which a victim has no answer that is not redundant before he has proffered one because the many of us within us have had that conversation with ourselves and decided that he was going to be wrong anyway, he just didn't know it yet, which proves our collective point of how stupid he really is.
Ask not whom the bell tolls for, it tolls for thee?