It’s not very often that I write about matters political. And this time around I am not really sure whether the issue is political, or far,far larger than that.

Benazir Bhutto was shot dead and much more than her just died.

I have not been one to keep a tab on her life but, as a relatively interested onlooker into out neighbouring country’s goings-on, have known roughly about her.

This is not about hailing as her as anything – although I have often wondered what brought back her back to a Pakistan which is falling apart (was it simply the eternal hunger for power; was she being her father’s daughter or was she trying to fix something in her homeland?).

This is about the fact that her death is symbolic of the losing battle that democracy is fighting in Pakistan; of the end to the flickering hopes that countless countrymen had pinned on her; of the triumph of religious fundamentalists (although we don’t know yet whether they were behind this, it is anybody’s guess); of the dangerous consequences of having a neighbouring country where religious hardliners might just win the day.

When I called home to give the news, the first reaction was: “Why the hell did she come back to Pakistan?” A question that I have been wondering for the last two months and one that shall remain unanswered for the time being.

I am not sure why this has hit me so hard. Maybe because this is the first assassination during my adult life that is so close to home; maybe because I could not help admire a woman who returned to her country – no matter how dangerous, how fanatic, how torn-apart, how chaotic, how ruthless – to make things a shade better. Sounds like I am hero-worshipping here. I know. But I can’t really help it at the moment.

Why did she leave a life of comfort and luxury (and security) in exile and return, knowing fully well that she might land up dead? There has to be more to it than just the hunger for power.

Think about it. It matters to us as well.

I was going through the pictures on D’s blog. Pictures are all that there are really. And an occasional line or two – poetic enough to feel like the first waft of warm, moist southern wind after a cold and damp Calcutta winter.

How many who know him know about this poetic facet of his?

In this strange moment between frames of black and white, and some colour sprinkled along, I realized that these lesser known (often unknown) facets that you know about someone (almost like a secret) make you love that person so much more. So when the world says something about him, all you do is smile – since you know something the world does not.

Last night, quite a bit into it, there was a call from across – now let’s see – about three, four seas. There were laughter and giggles on the other side; someone shrieking about what a lau is called in English; a barrage of questions about my whereabouts; rushed updates on health, happiness and would-be husbands. All this, from a kitchen which I cooked in not long ago, black leather sofas where I sat with my legs dangling over the arm rests and a life from which I have stepped out. That’s just what it felt like – like I was part of an alternate life for a while and now I have stepped out of it while others, with whom I shared that alternate life, are still living it.

In my present life, however, there are some interesting occupants: a couple of crows who come to drink from the kitchen window where I have put out a bowl of water; a handful of children who run amuck in the corridor outside my room and peer through the window grills into my room now and then (they have an expression that they might have while peering into the monkey cage at the zoo and those who know me know exactly how fond I am of children – human that is); there is a very friendly black spaniel called Snoopy in the neighbouring building; there is friendly and helpful ‘aunty’ next door who can remember most things about me except my name and… well, that is already quite a bit.

I almost wish that I could do some “value addition” to this post by saying something wise and weighty, discuss the ifs and buts or make some profound observation. But sitting in office on a Sunday afternoon, I don’t see any of it happening! But then again, was I ever the kind to opt for a 9 to 5?!