Archive for June 17th, 2010

“We Don’t Feel Any Remorse”

A young woman and her lover have been tortured and murdered by members of her family because they would not leave off seeing each other.

Asha Saini, 19, and Yogesh Humar Jatav, 21, late Sunday night and early Monday morning were bound, beaten, and electrocuted by members of Saini’s family, including her father and uncle.

New Delhi police first arrested these two men; the uncle, Om Prakash, allegedly confessed to the crime before the court, and later told reporters: “We killed them using an electric shock. Yogesh had come to our house. We don’t feel any remorse.”

“On being asked why they took the drastic step, Saini and Om Prakash said Asha had left them no alternative,” said a senior police officer requesting anonymity. “They said Asha’s deed frustrated them and the family didn’t regret killing them.”

The Press Trust of India now reports that Saini’s mother, cousin, and aunt have also been arrested.

furthur=>

Lines And Scars And Letters

Mr Bloom stooped and turned over a piece of paper on the strand. He brought it near his eyes and peered. Letter? No. Can’t read. Better go. Better. I’m tired to move. Page of an old copybook. All those holes and pebbles. Who could count them? Never know what you find. Bottle with story of a treasure in it thrown from a wreck. Parcels post. Children always want to throw things in the sea. Trust? Bread cast on the waters. What’s this? Bit of stick.

O! Exhausted that female has me. Not so young now. Will she come here tomorrow? Wait for her somewhere for ever. Must come back. Murderers do. Will I?

Mr Bloom with his stick gently vexed the thick sand at his foot. Write a message for her. Might remain. What?

I.

Some flatfoot tramp on it in the morning. Useless. Washed away. Tide comes here a pool near her foot. Bend, see my face there, dark mirror, breathe on it, stirs. All these rocks with lines and scars and letters. O, those transparent! Besides they don’t know. What is the meaning of that other world. I called you naughty boy because I do not like.

AM. A.

No room. Let it go.

Mr Bloom effaced the letters with his slow boot. Hopeless thing sand. Nothing grows in it. All fades. No fear of big vessels coming up here. Except Guinness’s barges. Round the Kish in eighty days. Done half by design.

He flung his wooden pen away. The stick fell in silted sand, stuck. Now if you were trying to do that for a week on end you couldn’t. Chance.

A bat flew. Here. There. Here. Far in the grey a bell chimed. Mr Bloom with open mouth, his left boot sanded sideways, leaned, breathed. Just for a few.

Cuckoo
Cuckoo
Cuckoo

—James Joyce, Ulysses


When I Worked

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