Dorje Tsering succumbed to his injuries on the third day of his stay in the hospital’s critical care unit.
He was 16 years old. He looked younger, much younger, than his age. In one of the more widely shared photos of his, on people’s Facebook posts and profile pictures, he is in a classroom. He is smiling, in a kindly way.
For most people, this is the only image with which they will identify with this young Tibetan boy in India: a sunny, cherubic face, nattily attired in his school uniform, caught as if in the midst of writing notes on his notebook. There is no sign or trace of the violent deed to come.
Faith which traps; love that barricades. Curiosity ebbs with time. We hide and we abide, we pray and look away.
A line is not a line. A simple prayer not so simple anymore.
“Oho, when the blacks move in, that’s when you know you have to move out.”
“Yes, indeed. You can tell when a neighbourhood’s going to crash just by driving by and seeing the number of black youth hanging out, just hanging around.”
They barely looked at their plates. They were two friends, the older one from Zürich, Switzerland, and the other from Minnesota, USA. Samten opened his mouth as if to speak, reconsidered and attended to his greasy meal. He didn’t think much of it—the masala was too heavy and applied absent-mindedly. He took a swig from the glass of cola, and thought back to the day’s events.