I'm supposed to play tennis with some friends at the exact instant that a convicted rapist-murderer is scheduled to be hanged halfway across the world in my home city. And try as I might to put it out of my mind, I can't. The damn thing is giving me goosebumps as I write. It's a feeling I recognise all too well from the time I watched Sean Penn in the movie whose title I have stolen.
I'm conflicted. On one hand, I fully subscribe to the view of an eye for an eye. All these tears that are shed for the "victim" killer are a lot of baloney. How about shedding those tears for the real victim? The kid who'll never celebrate another birthday, who'll never drive a car, who'll never again feel the warm monsoon rain on her face or see the sun rise.
On the other hand, there's something about state-sponsored and state-blessed murder that is equally spine-chilling. The government and judiciary are set up to protect the citizens of a country. Even as we speak people are working round-the-clock to secure the release of Indian hostages in Iraq. How can we put so much effort into saving one individual's life and actually be responsible for ending another's in cold blood?
But I think the most gruesome factor of a death sentence is its inevitability. The dispassionate, almost clinical, nature of the preparation that would be commendable if it wasn't so terrifying. The clock ticking inexorably to the final moment... What must go through the mind of a human being who knows - absolutely knows - that he is going to be killed at a given point in time in the future. I'm not on his side, not by a very long shot, but at the very least his victim didn't have that to deal with. I wonder if he is sleeping. I wonder what he's feeling right now. Hell, I wonder if he's still sane. I know I probably wouldn't be.
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