It is clear that society values a life less in India than in the US today. This shows up in myriad ways. Try sorting out the detritus of life after a death. Whether it is getting a death certificate, getting back personal belongings from the police, sorting out bank accounts or anything else that needs attention from an institution to sort out the impact of a death, you find yourself in long lines. Officials, big and small, don't really pay any attention unless there is some kind of "influence" used. Let me relate a few anecdotes.
I decided to try and collect my dad's watch and blood soaked clothes and was directed to an police station in Cuffe Parade. I waited for hours and then was told that the "evidence" could not be handed over to me. 300 people were blown up and they wanted my dad's watch as evidence. I wasn't sure why but it appeared that the people in the police station didn't know either. They just didn't feel like they had the option of sorting it out and failing that, they just sat on the issue. I finally contacted a neighbor who was an Assistant Commissioner of Police. I then went there in a chauffered driven car instead of walking up off the street. They gave me what I needed right away.
The same thing happened when I tried to get a death certificate. I went and stood in line for hours for multiple days. Finally, someone knew someone who knew someone and the death certificate was expedited.
My dad had money in a bank account. We had to wait in line for hours for many days before we could collect the money.
None of this was ever due to a malicious desire to collect a bribe even though I am sure that happens often enough. Its just that the Indian system doesn't operate with a few inviolate rules. It has a LOT of rules, all of which can be bent.
In the midst of all this, we had an interesting experience. All of sudden, in the first few weeks, a guy showed up at our apartment. He was a humble officer in the Maharashtra government. He stood at the door and asked a few questions. Then wrote down stuff and asked a few more questions and then finally said that the "ex-gratia" payement from the government of some amount (1 Lakh? 2 Lakhs? - I don't remember now) would be delivered by him in a few days. Then after a few days, he came by with the draft and dropped it off. He wouldn't even accept a snack and tea. This honest, simple man was on a mission to hand out these large sums of money after properly verifying the validity of the claim of each victim's family. So, the maharashtra government's compensation for my dad being blown up in Mumbai reached us without us lifting a finger but getting the death certificate took a lot of work. Go figure.
In contrast, when I went to the US embassy to get a visa, the guy at the door heard the first two sentences of my story and asked me to give him the passport. I expected to at least have an interview etc but that didn't happen. He told me to return at 2 PM and when I showed up a minute late, I found they were paging me and had set my passport aside because they knew that I had other problems on my hand. Similarly, my school gave me all kinds of exceptions that helped me earn my degree sooner. My professors helped me take my missed exams late as an exception. And so on.
I hate to draw this comparison between the US and India but the fact is that there are more people in India and one needs to try harder to get served. There is no special consideration just because you have had a family member killed by a terrorist. You can see this all over already in the current attacks. Whether it is the CM of Kerala abusing Sandeep Unnikrishnan's father in the national press, NDTV showing a dead body on cable TV or the cable TV reporters harassing medical personnel who are dealing with dead bodies. It doesn't matter. There is little consideration for rules, privacy or propriety. Take care of yourself and do what you need to do.
Monday, December 1, 2008
Sunday, November 30, 2008
The press: admire it, read it but don't trust it
One only has to tune in to NDTV or IBN or read the Mumbai Mirror or Rediff.com to realize that the Indian press is more aggressive, more in your face and less interested in following the rules than the American press. The CNN reporter from the US covering the Taj ducked each time there was a gunshot and was advised by the anchor to clear out even though she was the furthest away from the hotel. The Mumbai Mirror photographers instead ran into VT station and tracked the killers for 25 mins taking photos even as the killers went about their savagery! However, for the victim's family, this aggressiveness means that while you should carefully follow what the press is saying, you shouldn't expect them to be particularly sympathetic to your needs as a person. They are looking for the next scoop or story. They will write false things sometimes. They will invade your privacy. They will say whatever it takes to make you talk to them.
I had the unfortunate experience of trusting some members of the press during the early days after the 1993 bombings and found that they basically went out and completely violated every promise they had made after earning my confidence when I was particularly vulnerable. There was not even a semblance of an apology for having broken their promises. This was a major news outlet in Mumbai at that time and today. So, if you don't have experience dealing with the press and if you don't really need to deal with them, just ignore them until they go away. If you do need to deal with them, don't depend on any expert to help you. Just trust them about as much as you would trust any stranger who is trying to sell you something in Dadar station.
The title says it all: read them but be wary.
I had the unfortunate experience of trusting some members of the press during the early days after the 1993 bombings and found that they basically went out and completely violated every promise they had made after earning my confidence when I was particularly vulnerable. There was not even a semblance of an apology for having broken their promises. This was a major news outlet in Mumbai at that time and today. So, if you don't have experience dealing with the press and if you don't really need to deal with them, just ignore them until they go away. If you do need to deal with them, don't depend on any expert to help you. Just trust them about as much as you would trust any stranger who is trying to sell you something in Dadar station.
The title says it all: read them but be wary.
Saturday, November 29, 2008
Providence: March 1993 and November 2008
As I listen to the various stories coming out of Mumbai after the siege, it is clear that luck always plays a big role in life but this comes out so acutely when there is a hair-trigger difference between the couple who were gunned down for coming out to the window to see what was going on and the patient in Cama Hospital who was taken in as a tour guide by the terrorists and told a policeman in Marathi that the kooks were behind him and found himself in the midst of a gun battle -- and survived!
It brings back painful memories for me from March 12th 1993. There are a dozen what ifs that go through my mind as I think about my father. What if I had actually had him visit me in January as we had talked instead of suggesting that December would be better? What if he had not pre-poned his meeting from 4 PM to 2 PM? What if he had hesitated after hearing about the stock market explosion? What if he had walked to his meeting as he had for the past few weeks instead of taking a cab? What if he had gone to the restroom instead of waiting for the meeting to begin as one of his colleagues who survived had? What if...
These questions race through your mind as you hear of the stories of miraculous or providential survivals in the press. Why did my father have to die when all of these people survived? The answer, my friend is known to someone other than me. I still wonder to this day. Especially when my little son tells me that it is "sad that he will never see on of his grandparents".
It brings back painful memories for me from March 12th 1993. There are a dozen what ifs that go through my mind as I think about my father. What if I had actually had him visit me in January as we had talked instead of suggesting that December would be better? What if he had not pre-poned his meeting from 4 PM to 2 PM? What if he had hesitated after hearing about the stock market explosion? What if he had walked to his meeting as he had for the past few weeks instead of taking a cab? What if he had gone to the restroom instead of waiting for the meeting to begin as one of his colleagues who survived had? What if...
These questions race through your mind as you hear of the stories of miraculous or providential survivals in the press. Why did my father have to die when all of these people survived? The answer, my friend is known to someone other than me. I still wonder to this day. Especially when my little son tells me that it is "sad that he will never see on of his grandparents".
The ashes -- where do they go? The problem of mourning.
We came home late in the afternoon. Energy had been sapped out of most of the people who came back with us. The sun was hot and the air was as sticky as it always is in Mumbai. We had a box of ashes and a garland of flowers. Relatives wanted me to do something with the flowers. Something suitably ceremonial. Appropos of nothing, someone suggested that it should be immersed in the holy waters of the Arabian sea. I thought about it.
Did my cremated father have any opinion here? Would he countenance the further pollution of the already polluted sea? Did the custom offer anything for me in terms of resolution or finality or peace? It certainly did offer something to my relatives and mom but I couldn't care less about a meaningless custom that didn't really fit modern Mumbai.
So, I did something that I wonder if I should regret but I don't. I took the garlands and quietly put them in the trash bin down the street from the crematorium when no one was looking.
My mom later asked whether I had immersed them in the sea. I said "Un huh" and left it with that white lie.
I did take the ashes eventually and put them in the Arabian Sea. A friend of my dad (the same person who had no problems using my dead father's clothes because he had rushed to Mumbai in a hurry) took the remaining ashes with him to some Hindu holy spot and immersed them in the Ganges. Perhaps my dad would have liked that given his Hindu beliefs. I picked off some of my dad's clothes too. I still have a few lying around.
Well wishers streamed in all day and into the night.
Some people go to great lengths to tell you how they found out. It doesn't really matter.
Some people who you hardly know cry in front of you and I wonder if I should be consoling them. Are they crying with relief that they were not impacted in such a way?
A lot of kids from the school where my mom taught for decades came to express their condolences.
A school kid had been blown up as well. A promising cricketer.
A neighbor who had been told by an astrologer that he would die by the sea (and spent his hours in fear of this prediction - so I was reliably told) carefully avoided expressing anything as I passed him by downstairs on my way to the local store. There's the evil eye from the cursed that he was trying to avoid perhaps? Or was it my imagination. Mumbai is such a melting pot of cultures that it hurts the head to track all the possible quirky superstitions that people bring with them from their "native place".
Sometimes a couple of dozen people showed up at the same time. I kept up visits to the local store to buy juice cartons all the time. I think I bought ice creams some times as well. And bananas. I also picked up a cigarette or two. It almost felt like a party. In time, mom seemed to have reached some kind of temporary equilibrium. We got an hour or two at home by ourselves and could stand on the balcony looking out at the sea. I began to reconnect with some of my old girlfriends. Sometimes I opened the closet where my dad's clothes were stored and smelled him. How long would his faint smells last I wondered? I picked off the clothes that I thought he had worn most recently and stuffed them into a suitcase.
The days rolled by and it was almost a week since I had returned. It was time to get my visa so I could go back. I decided to go to US embassy at 4 AM the next day. I had to deal with my Visa problem.
Did my cremated father have any opinion here? Would he countenance the further pollution of the already polluted sea? Did the custom offer anything for me in terms of resolution or finality or peace? It certainly did offer something to my relatives and mom but I couldn't care less about a meaningless custom that didn't really fit modern Mumbai.
So, I did something that I wonder if I should regret but I don't. I took the garlands and quietly put them in the trash bin down the street from the crematorium when no one was looking.
My mom later asked whether I had immersed them in the sea. I said "Un huh" and left it with that white lie.
I did take the ashes eventually and put them in the Arabian Sea. A friend of my dad (the same person who had no problems using my dead father's clothes because he had rushed to Mumbai in a hurry) took the remaining ashes with him to some Hindu holy spot and immersed them in the Ganges. Perhaps my dad would have liked that given his Hindu beliefs. I picked off some of my dad's clothes too. I still have a few lying around.
Well wishers streamed in all day and into the night.
Some people go to great lengths to tell you how they found out. It doesn't really matter.
Some people who you hardly know cry in front of you and I wonder if I should be consoling them. Are they crying with relief that they were not impacted in such a way?
A lot of kids from the school where my mom taught for decades came to express their condolences.
A school kid had been blown up as well. A promising cricketer.
A neighbor who had been told by an astrologer that he would die by the sea (and spent his hours in fear of this prediction - so I was reliably told) carefully avoided expressing anything as I passed him by downstairs on my way to the local store. There's the evil eye from the cursed that he was trying to avoid perhaps? Or was it my imagination. Mumbai is such a melting pot of cultures that it hurts the head to track all the possible quirky superstitions that people bring with them from their "native place".
Sometimes a couple of dozen people showed up at the same time. I kept up visits to the local store to buy juice cartons all the time. I think I bought ice creams some times as well. And bananas. I also picked up a cigarette or two. It almost felt like a party. In time, mom seemed to have reached some kind of temporary equilibrium. We got an hour or two at home by ourselves and could stand on the balcony looking out at the sea. I began to reconnect with some of my old girlfriends. Sometimes I opened the closet where my dad's clothes were stored and smelled him. How long would his faint smells last I wondered? I picked off the clothes that I thought he had worn most recently and stuffed them into a suitcase.
The days rolled by and it was almost a week since I had returned. It was time to get my visa so I could go back. I decided to go to US embassy at 4 AM the next day. I had to deal with my Visa problem.
The first worry -- decomposition. March 16th 1993
A few hours after I arrived and after catching up with family to the best of my ability, I was told that I had to go to the morgue to claim the body. My brother said he would do so instead. To this day, I am incredibly grateful to him for doing this. I slipped away into a sleep for a few minutes and I was woken up at 5 AM and someone (an uncle? a cousin? my brother?) saying that the body was downstairs. Why wasn't it brought up, I asked. Come downstairs, someone urgently whispered. There were uncles and aunts and cousins milling around at 5 AM. My mom was wailing in her bedroom. I walked downstairs. It was still dark and I peered around looking for the car or van that had brought the body home.My brother and uncle and cousin asked everyone else to clear out a bit. My uncle (my dad's elder brother) cleared his throat and asked, "Shall we bring it up?". I stood there stupefied. Nothing had prepared me for this moment. My brother came up to me and said, "You should see the body". He is five years younger than I am but his voice had an urgency that I could not ignore.
I don't know what I said next but I walked up to the back of the van and climbed in.
As I did that, I touched the leg of my father's body. It was hard. Hard as a rock. Rigor mortis? I didn't know. I shifted up to the head.
What I saw took my breath away.
This was a decomposed body of someone who had faced an incredible blast.
I couldn't have my father moved upstairs for his body to be viewed in this terrible state. Especially by my mother.
The funeral ceremonies were scheduled for Noon.
Hundreds of people were due to come to the ceremonies.
I couldn't move the body up.
I couldn't leave it down here to decompose more in the heat as the temperatures rose.
What was I to do?
I thought about it for a minute and then decided.
We were going to go ahead with the ceremony right now at 5:30 AM without waiting for the official timetable.
An aunt of mine, who had earlier been reprimanded by me for espousing BJP like beliefs loudly, was not downstairs and started talking loudly about how this was unacceptable and the body must come in to the house for a Puja.
She went upstairs and told my mom who came downstairs and started wailing about how she wanted to look at my dad one more time. Several relatives who were much older than I am started talking about overturning my decision.
I lost it.
I looked at my aunt in her eyes and told her that she was welcome to challenge me after she looked my father's face close up.
She stopped.
Then she balked.
My father's body, still in the van, was covered up.
I let everyone around know that I was making these decisions and they had no say in it.
The next thing I remember - we were in the crematorium. The word had gotten around and there were a couple of hundred people in attendance. I do not remember much from that hour except burying my face in my mom's lap when the grief became too much for me. The body was lowered into the electric crematorium after some of the pujas were done. Someone pressed what I think was a red button.
Then we waited.
I heaved a sigh of relief that very few peope had seen my father's face.
We waited for the body to burn up and collect some of his ashes.
My journey - post his murder - was just begining. I had no idea that it would take me forever to recover. But I no longer had my first worry to worry about.
I don't know what I said next but I walked up to the back of the van and climbed in.
As I did that, I touched the leg of my father's body. It was hard. Hard as a rock. Rigor mortis? I didn't know. I shifted up to the head.
What I saw took my breath away.
This was a decomposed body of someone who had faced an incredible blast.
I couldn't have my father moved upstairs for his body to be viewed in this terrible state. Especially by my mother.
The funeral ceremonies were scheduled for Noon.
Hundreds of people were due to come to the ceremonies.
I couldn't move the body up.
I couldn't leave it down here to decompose more in the heat as the temperatures rose.
What was I to do?
I thought about it for a minute and then decided.
We were going to go ahead with the ceremony right now at 5:30 AM without waiting for the official timetable.
An aunt of mine, who had earlier been reprimanded by me for espousing BJP like beliefs loudly, was not downstairs and started talking loudly about how this was unacceptable and the body must come in to the house for a Puja.
She went upstairs and told my mom who came downstairs and started wailing about how she wanted to look at my dad one more time. Several relatives who were much older than I am started talking about overturning my decision.
I lost it.
I looked at my aunt in her eyes and told her that she was welcome to challenge me after she looked my father's face close up.
She stopped.
Then she balked.
My father's body, still in the van, was covered up.
I let everyone around know that I was making these decisions and they had no say in it.
The next thing I remember - we were in the crematorium. The word had gotten around and there were a couple of hundred people in attendance. I do not remember much from that hour except burying my face in my mom's lap when the grief became too much for me. The body was lowered into the electric crematorium after some of the pujas were done. Someone pressed what I think was a red button.
Then we waited.
I heaved a sigh of relief that very few peope had seen my father's face.
We waited for the body to burn up and collect some of his ashes.
My journey - post his murder - was just begining. I had no idea that it would take me forever to recover. But I no longer had my first worry to worry about.
Friday, November 28, 2008
Mumbai: Resilient or perhaps it doesn't care?
By the time I landed in Mumbai, more than 48 hours after the blasts in 1993, the city was back to normal. We drove past Vile Parle, Santa Cruz, Khar, Bandra and Mahim on my way back home. The city looked normal. It felt surreal. My uncle sat in the car next to me and we basically chatted casually as if nothing had happened. I almost forgot why I was in Mumbai until we passed a bombed out petrol pump. Perhaps we should admire Bombay for its resilience. At least that is what the media tells us. But then again, perhaps the reality is that Mumbai's energy derives from its residents quest for success and survival. They just don't have time to care?
We finally pulled into the compound of our flat. Walking into the apartment made it clear that things were not normal. It was crowded with people. My mom was wailing. I saw my brother and it felt like the whole extended family was there. Grief isn't private in India - at least not at first.
We finally pulled into the compound of our flat. Walking into the apartment made it clear that things were not normal. It was crowded with people. My mom was wailing. I saw my brother and it felt like the whole extended family was there. Grief isn't private in India - at least not at first.
Flying into Mumbai: March 1993
I finally got on a plane from Singapore to Mumbai. It was a sunny March day and I looked out and teared up as India showed up under the plane. The man sitting next to me started talking to me. He wanted to talk about the bomb blasts and I quietly listened. He railed against the terrorists and the said that someone from a neighboring building had been killed. I asked him where he lived and he told me. I knew he was talking about my dad.
"Going back to visit your parents?", he asked.
I didn't know what to say. I smiled.
"Where do you live? When is the last time you came back to India?"
I told him that I was the son of the neighbor who had been killed.
"WHAT?", he almost shouted out. He apologized and offered condolences. The conversation soon died after that and I looked out the airplane window.
When I landed, a police officer was waiting to see me at the gate. He escorted me back past immigration and customs and before I knew it, I was on the streets.
Mumbai may have lost several hundred people to bomb blasts a few days ago but it was up and humming. Sticky and dirty and crowded and humming. No one could have guess that 7 huge bombs had gone off from south to north not too long ago.
The cab took me home - after 3 years of not seeing my dad, I was coming home to see him dead.
"Going back to visit your parents?", he asked.
I didn't know what to say. I smiled.
"Where do you live? When is the last time you came back to India?"
I told him that I was the son of the neighbor who had been killed.
"WHAT?", he almost shouted out. He apologized and offered condolences. The conversation soon died after that and I looked out the airplane window.
When I landed, a police officer was waiting to see me at the gate. He escorted me back past immigration and customs and before I knew it, I was on the streets.
Mumbai may have lost several hundred people to bomb blasts a few days ago but it was up and humming. Sticky and dirty and crowded and humming. No one could have guess that 7 huge bombs had gone off from south to north not too long ago.
The cab took me home - after 3 years of not seeing my dad, I was coming home to see him dead.
Flying over Canada
I was flying over Canada when the attacks began at the Leopold Cafe. I landed and walked right out of immigration and customs in 10 mins or less because I had no checked in baggage. I was sitting in the cab when I saw the text message telling me about attacks that had begun in Mumbai. My heart sank and my eyes glazed over and went back to a Mumbai day 15 years ago.
Getting back to Mumbai in March 1993
I reached Hong Kong on Saturday morning. I then realized that I really didn't have a way to reach Mumbai that day. This was before the economic boom in India and I looked at every single way of reaching Mumbai. The world wide web had not really taken hold either. This meant that one looked up flights in book that every plane had. I tried hard to find a connecting flight from Hong Kong via Bangkok, Kuala Lumpur and even Dhaka. In the end, I decided to fly to Singapore and was stuck in Singapore till Sunday evening. My cousin really provided me a night of calm in the midst of my emotional chaos.
November 26th, 2008. Leaving Mumbai in peace
The cab driver hadn't called at 11 PM as promised. I called him at 11:03 PM. He picked it up on the second ring and assured me that he had already come to the building.
"Hello? Christopher saab?"
"Haanh saab. Mai idhar hee hoon"
"OK saab. Shukriya. My barah baje ko chodoonga airport ke liye"
"Haanh saab"
After a dozen trips to Mumbai, I was finally finding myself to be at peace with Mumbai. I could stand at a paanwalla, buy a cigarette and smoke it while marveling at the world speeding by. At some level, I could connect back with the Mumbai that I loved a long time ago. It was dirtier, more crowded and flashier than ever. Still, it was hard to not accept the energy that pulsed all around.
I got into the cab sharp at midnight and arrived at the airport in 15 minutes. We drove past crowded cafes and in packed streets. Traffic was still busy past midnight. It wasn't helped by the digging all around for the metro that was going to connect the eastern and western suburbs. We turned into the International Airport drive and as usual the airport drive was packed. The cab driver let me off and I tipped him hundred rupees.
Blocking my way to the entrance were a thousand religious looking muslim men and their burkha clad spouses. I and a few other travelers battled our way to the front of this crowd and the policeman at the door appeared relieved that I was headed to Germany and knew how to get to my counter. Right insided was a big crowded line of bearned muslim men with caps. All of them apparently patiently lined up so they could take their first flight to Saudi Arabia for their once in a lifetime haj visit.
Half an hour later, I was sitting with a bunch of other business folk in the executive lounge, on a WiFi connection and on my cell phone talking to a colleague in California. All of these scenes, the Hajis, the softspoken business people and the loud, profane, slightly drunk guys were all part of Amchi Mumbai.
"Hello? Christopher saab?"
"Haanh saab. Mai idhar hee hoon"
"OK saab. Shukriya. My barah baje ko chodoonga airport ke liye"
"Haanh saab"
After a dozen trips to Mumbai, I was finally finding myself to be at peace with Mumbai. I could stand at a paanwalla, buy a cigarette and smoke it while marveling at the world speeding by. At some level, I could connect back with the Mumbai that I loved a long time ago. It was dirtier, more crowded and flashier than ever. Still, it was hard to not accept the energy that pulsed all around.
I got into the cab sharp at midnight and arrived at the airport in 15 minutes. We drove past crowded cafes and in packed streets. Traffic was still busy past midnight. It wasn't helped by the digging all around for the metro that was going to connect the eastern and western suburbs. We turned into the International Airport drive and as usual the airport drive was packed. The cab driver let me off and I tipped him hundred rupees.
Blocking my way to the entrance were a thousand religious looking muslim men and their burkha clad spouses. I and a few other travelers battled our way to the front of this crowd and the policeman at the door appeared relieved that I was headed to Germany and knew how to get to my counter. Right insided was a big crowded line of bearned muslim men with caps. All of them apparently patiently lined up so they could take their first flight to Saudi Arabia for their once in a lifetime haj visit.
Half an hour later, I was sitting with a bunch of other business folk in the executive lounge, on a WiFi connection and on my cell phone talking to a colleague in California. All of these scenes, the Hajis, the softspoken business people and the loud, profane, slightly drunk guys were all part of Amchi Mumbai.
March 12th 1993, California. Finding out about it
I woke up like every other day and had my breakfast and started getting ready for a final exam for a class that I had taken that term. At about 10 AM, just before I headed out to take the exam, the phone rang. I picked it up. To this day, I can remember the conversation like it just happened.
"Hello, Is it ___"
"yes"
"This is ___ speaking"
"I am calling to let you know that there was a bomb blast in Bombay"
At this stage, I was thinking that someone was hurt. Who could it be....
"I am sorry to say ...."
Pause
Now I was worried that someone was badly hurt
"Your father..."
Pause
The thought that rushed to my head was that my dad must have lost a limb or was in a coma.
"is no more".
What?
Hadn't I just talked to him on the phone? Was he really saying what he was saying?
I didn't know what to say. I am not sure I remember what I said.
"Please come back immediately ..."
I must have said something because I next remember calling a few friends to help me get ready to leave. I needed:
"Hello, Is it ___"
"yes"
"This is ___ speaking"
"I am calling to let you know that there was a bomb blast in Bombay"
At this stage, I was thinking that someone was hurt. Who could it be....
"I am sorry to say ...."
Pause
Now I was worried that someone was badly hurt
"Your father..."
Pause
The thought that rushed to my head was that my dad must have lost a limb or was in a coma.
"is no more".
What?
Hadn't I just talked to him on the phone? Was he really saying what he was saying?
I didn't know what to say. I am not sure I remember what I said.
"Please come back immediately ..."
I must have said something because I next remember calling a few friends to help me get ready to leave. I needed:
- Papers from the university's international student office so I could come back to study here
- A ride to the airport
- Some money
- My passport
- A reservation on a flight back to India
Three different friends were called in rapid succession. In 2 hours, I was sitting on a plane to Hong Kong.
Why I am writing this...
There is comparitively very little available for people who lose a loved one to a terrorist murder. I want to share my experiences that began on March 12th 1993. Think of this as a 15 year old diary written from memory. It is enough if it provides solace to one or two persons who are trying to cope with such a murder in their family
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