I wasn’t born in Bangalore. I don’t live there now. But ever since I was a child, it’s been the seat of my family.
I’ve smelled the jasmine and diesel in the air. I’ve seen the elections of civic-minded criminals, and heard the hurly-burly cry of Commercial Street for years. In short, I claim Bangalore as my own.
Eight explosions erupted across my city like weeping lesions yesterday.
According to all the news sources I can tap, the prime suspects in this matter are either the members of a banned student organization, the Students Islamic Movement of India, or the militant organization, Lashkar-e-Toiba. I don’t know enough about the nature or history of either group to even offer an opinion. And honestly, I can’t say that I care who eventually will claim the credit for all of this. Whoever it was, they’re no different than any other breed of savage.
Every time I go to Bangalore, I visit the Church of the Infant Jesus. It’s near the center of the city, a shy palace of stone and stained marble. Shall I tell you why it’s wonderful? Because, despite the name, it’s a shrine for every person of any faith. Read More
