Years later, they meet in the shadow of the great oak. They stare at each other with the blankness of the years that divide them. Recognition succumbs to uneasiness. The stares grow softer. The uneasiness abates stutteringly. He removes his glasses and wipes them gingerly. August rain is raging against the tree, enveloping the silence that shrouds them. He can't bring himself to be the first to speak. He wipes his glasses more animatedly, dismayed that he can't get the rain off them. He realises the rain managed to sneak into his pockets as well. He pauses and lets the raindrops that cling to him descend to the ground. The meeting isn't planned. It could not have been. He had left the city soon after she left him. His last memory of the city is a bus-stop not far from the great oak. It was raining that day too. They had planned to take a bus to the cafe that had nursed their love for many months. He remembers that day by the colour of the sky. He likes to remember it
Why we, as a society, must take some blame for such crimes and their effects You. Yes, you. You blabbering all over Facebook and Twitter and elsewhere on the internet. I want you to stop with your sermons and tirades and humbug tears. I want you to stop thinking of yourselves as experts on crime. I want you to stop thinking that violent retribution - hanging, physical castrations - will stop these crimes. Instead, listen. Shed your hypocrisy please. Look within. Shed this deep-seated, generations-strong, mixed-with-your-blood hypocrisy. Stop baying for blood when your own might not be so clean. Stop screaming for heads when you yourselves award impunity to many rapists. How are you responsible, you ask? Allow me to hammer some sense into your over-charged social-network-fried brains.Violent sexual assault - indeed, sexual assault of any nature - is gut-shattering. But do you know what is worse than being a victim of such a crime? That feeling of helplessness when you don't k