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A few Sundays ago, my immediate family decided to celebrate my brothers’ birthdays (yes, for both of them) by going on a picnic to Nehru Park, a wonderful wooded area where I have seen saplings turn into trees over the years.
It’s a popular park in the heart of New Delhi for diplomats and babus who live in the vicinity, a short distance from Prime Minister Narendra Modi’s residence.
My 80+ mum was game about the picnic. She didn’t give much thought to whether the sun would come out or not, unlike all members below 80, but ensured that she was warmly clad.
The thing my brothers and I were most looking forward to on this picnic was flying kites, something we had not done for decades. After some effort and memory-jogging on how to tie the kanni (knot), we got the kites up.
My mind raced back to our government house in Pandara Road, also in New Delhi, and the hours we spent flying kites from our terrace as children.
At first, we couldn't catch the wind. Then slowly, the kites flew higher. Finally, I think our kites were soaring well beyond the stately Ashoka Hotel, a holdover from the Nehruvian era.
Family, sun and kite-flying, a pretty decent combination — all in all, a better winter Sunday than most in Delhi.
There were two dogs with us. Soon a third joined our two. They were having a ball, running around. Shortly, one of my brothers began chatting with the “master” of the third dog, who very clearly was a foreigner. Several offers of food were made but, leash in hand, he declined them.
If memory serves me right, he finally accepted something sweet, since the rest of us showed no signs of retreating with our offers.
The “master” was in no hurry, especially since the dogs continued to remain in frolic mode. Soon, it was my turn to begin talking to him. I think my brother had told him that I was a journalist.
He looked supremely fit and spoke English a little haltingly — it turned out all his English had been learned in India. Soon, it came out that he “worked” for the Italian Embassy.
Then he asked me what I thought about the Italian Marines’ case. Given that my mind was elsewhere and the conversation something of a distraction, I trotted out the view that the law should take its course and the trial happen expeditiously.
But four years had passed and the trial had not yet begun, he pointed out. Yes, said I, the trial should be concluded expeditiously, my head not fully in the conversation. The dogs, in particular, were quite an eye- and ear-ful.
And then, he left me stunned.
I am Salvatore, he said in a matter-of-fact manner.
I still didn’t get it.
I am Salvatore, he repeated, one of the two Italian marines.
Finally, I grasped what he was saying. Pulling myself together again, I was now way more interested in the conversation.
Salvatore Girone, one of the two Italian marines, who allegedly shot two fishermen dead in 2012, came across as a personable young man, who was obviously missing his family and friends. The other marine in the case, Massimiliano Latorre, is currently in Italy, reportedly for health reasons.
We chatted some more as he greeted other walkers in the park. Soon, we went our different ways. And there was little doubt in my mind that all he wanted was to get on with life.
One could not but wonder why there had been a delay in bringing the case to trial four years on; it has left a man yearning to just get out of detention, even if only into jail, something which was sad to see.
Of course, one must remember that India and Italy are embroiled in an international dispute over the marines’ shooting incident, which is also a political hot potato in Kerala.
I recalled writing a >piece for Outlook magazine in 2013 , soon after the Italian decision not to conform to the orders of the Indian Supreme Court. The umbrage in the article is evident.
Treating the Indian Supreme Court with disrespect is wrong. So is delaying the process of justice.
