How Much Can You Take...

• He stands in line for his visa interview. He's wearing a new Peter England shirt, a gift from his father, and he holds a small satchel with the documents that describe his life, neatly set in the order his father thought best. The wait is long and his thoughts are many, but a voice rises foremost, saying "Son, you've made me proud with each step you've taken. I want you to fly away to that land of dreams and riches, and be what I could never be, but what you have a chance at. And when you come back next, it should be with a one-way ticket for your old man and his wife. Make us proud". He knows he will not be able to fulfill all his father's dreams, but he's going to make it his life's ambition to do what he can. His father died of a heart attack two days ago.
• She just sits there, a light on in the background to make sure there are no dark corners. She's been staring at the monitor for hours now, unable to sleep, to eat, to move. There is the constant tapping of her feet through the dead of the night, to keep away the sound of silence. Its what they term a "panic attack". She has lost that youthful childish laugh that made the room light up, and the twinkle from her eyes is gone, the sign of a happy life. She talks but does not think, she jokes but does not laugh, she survives but does not live. She'd come out stronger with each curve ball that life had thrown at her, but this time she's beaten and broken. She's lost more than just hope and happiness, she's lost herself. Two days ago, 20 odd men beat and raped her in a dark alley.
• She was the epitome of resilience and strength for others, but not tonight, as she sat crying softly in her room. No one was allowed in, and even the tears crept carefully away from the cheek for fear of showing any signs of weakness. She held a swiss knife in her hand, but nothing there to slice except... She had been fighting with herself for some hours now, trying to push away thoughts of him while the knife edged slowly towards her. But it was not to end tonight, or any other night. A smile came back to her face for the briefest of moments as she saw him for the last time, if only in haze. Her fiance had been diagnosed with a tumor some weeks ago and the message on her screen read that he was dead, a last visit unvisited, a last kiss unkissed.
• He had always been average. In school, in college, in life. He didnt have much in terms of money, or family, or love, but he had always been satisfied with what he had. It didnt take much to make him smile, maybe a peg or two and a joint to widen the smile. He had never been smart, or versatile, or suave, but he had always been happy. And now that was gone, replaced by terror at what was happening to him. This was unknown and beyond his grasp, and although his doctor told him there was help, he did not know what to believe, if the doctor was even real or another figment of his imagination. Schizophrenia was driving him wild, and he dangled at the edge of sanity, his simple mind confused in a haze of realistic memories of people he knew.
• He just received the phone call five minutes ago, at a dhaba where he was enjoying his daily cup of tea and his favourite cigarette. He's sitting there numb with shock, the butt casually burning his fingers while his friends realize that he hasnt moved or breathed in over a minute and begin to swarm around him in joking concern. But his mind is not with them, it has fled to the deepest recesses of his memory to pull out an old incident. He had lost his mother some years ago, and would have lost his mind too if not for his loving father, brother and grandparents, who took over the role and made him what he was today, a balanced and able young man. The phone call had been to inform him that all of them had died last night in an accident with an oncoming vehicle.
• He was sitting at the edge of the bed, his back to all his friends, who were pre-occupied with some computer game . He could not hear their hoarse shouts or their coarse language. He could not hear the people shouting outside the window in the cricket ground, or the music playing in the next room. He could not hear anything except for the ticking of his watch, and her words in his head telling him to stay away. The love of his life had left. The only happiness he had known in his life had told him that it was "over". He hadnt known what to do, and the last few hours had been a haze of emotions and feelings, but realization crept back as his friends began to crowd around him, with mugs of water and hankerchiefs, guiding him carefully to the medic to avoid the blood dripping from his wrists.

I am none of these people. Some of them are just flutters in the wind, incidents taken place far away, while others I have been very close to...watched them go through hell so to speak. I do not know how many have truly made it back from there...some of them still cower in the shadows and pray to God, others put on a brave smile while they cry inside every second of every day, cursing Him for what he has done. I cannot console them, and I cannot say I understand, because I dont. I cannot advise them or shed any drops of wisdom. I cannot help them, I cannot fix them. I can only stand by their side and hold their hand while they stare blankly into space, going through something that we're not supposed to go through, that we're not built to go through. This "is not supposed to happen to good people", it shakes the faith and eats you inside out. It crushes the soul and leaves you a hollow shell.

Do not pretend to empathize, because you cant...do not begin to comprehend, because you dont...do not dare to judge, because you have no right to. It doesnt matter, and it wont make a difference. Just realize that no matter what we do or why we do it, who we are or how we live, why we choose or what we go through...we have just this much in common...

We are all innocent. We are all bystanders. We are all fragile.
And we are all just Human.