Ram Singh, the prime accused in the Delhi sexual assault case was found hanging in his prison enclosure inside the country’s most secure prison Tihar jail. The case in question is the same one that took the country by storm and made international headlines. Singh, apparently, prepared his own noose with threads pulled out from his sleeping mat. Does this paint a picture of despair? Yes. Do I feel sorry for him? No.
I’m not a barbarian. Nor do I to have my picture hanging on the inhumans’ wall of fame. Death is death, and it is never pleasing. I do not derive pleasure out of Ram Singh’s death. Yes, a stray thought of poetic justice does fly by for a moment but flits past soon enough. I am not overjoyed by his death, but I would have hoped for it even if he hadn’t killed himself (which again, is debatable). Capital punishment for a crime as heinous as the one committed by Singh, after all, is only fitting.
Human rights and human compassion, you say? Alright. An unsuspecting young woman is fooled into taking a bus run by frauds, is brutally gang raped by six men who took turns on her and shoved an iron rod into her causing her intestines to spill out. The woman later succumbs to her injuries and dies. Human rights and human compassion here, yes?
It infuriates me that we even know who Ram Singh is, and why we do is what makes me cringe. Why does what he did hours before his death even have to make a news headline? Of course I will hate him, abhor him to the extent of wishing he got a death sentence, if he had lived. In my anger, maybe I won’t be wrong in calling this a coward’s death. The law is increasingly becoming a joke, but it does deserve a right to run its own course.
Ram Singh, I will not pray that you rest in peace. As a citizen of this country, I feel horrified. As a human being, I feel ashamed. As a woman, I feel cheated.