Hari Kunzru - Gods Without Men

I like your earrings .

Thanks .

So is that his picture? He’s a beautiful boy .

In the parking lot, she could hear the muffled sound of the jukebox. The air smelled of something dry and bitter. One by one his friends came out from their hiding places, hands jammed in the pockets of their baggy jeans. They’d seen the whole thing. They’d seen her getting fucked against a truck. For a moment the boy looked at her, then back at them. He grinned and lit a cigarette. She pulled on her panties, picked up her shorts out of the dirt. Step aside, she told him. And he did. His friends made no move to follow. She walked away, zipping her shorts. Her rubber sandals made soft little thwacks against her heels.

Q. And how about your relationship? How’s it holding up under the strain? You’ve been dealing with this in the spotlight and there’s been a lot of speculation, which must be hurtful .

She couldn’t pretend. She’d wanted it to happen. And while it was happening it felt good. She’d enjoyed fucking a total stranger. She’d enjoyed it and afterward she was punished. There were things on the Internet. Things that had reduced her. The thickset man screaming insults into his webcam. Things that had

The 1 pic of Raj holding a dinosaur in his hand, and the one where Raj is wearing his blue shirt being held by his grandma as they show him the cake, I believe are two distinctly different Raj, they can’t both be 3 yrs old!

yes a lot of chromosone abnormalities IS caused by interbreeding, along the generations. Thats why I believe, that we are seeing so much of these complaints unheard of 50 years ago b4 miscengation. But u gotta remember — lot of babies with genetic probs wd have died at birth or shortly after in those days, and no 1 knew what had wrong. Same with most cancers and MS — people simply dint realize it what was wrong, and never went to doctors but

i some how dont buy their bullshit story, which parents in thier right mind would BRING A DANGEROUS SICKLY ill child to a remote desert

@TruFree200!! Thx for this extra background on the Matharus!! Really appreciate it. We need more enlightened citizens such as yourself to help transcend the masses above the filthy propaganda spun by the Jew York Media

Everybody! Please notice the way they are both laughing at 1.25 when they think the cameras are off!! A clear sign the two are remorseless and lying!!!

Each time she woke up, there was a moment before she remembered. Then the helmet was lowered over her head. She tried to stay alive inside it, to remember there’d been a time before , but it took all her strength. She had nothing left for them, the reporters, the TV anchors, the strangers who’d begun to blog and tweet and post comments about her family. One day she found she’d forgotten the face Raj made when he liked something. The more she tried to call it to mind, the worse it got. She listed things that gave him pleasure —raw carrot, trucks, his plastic dinosaurs, empty cardboard boxes —and tried to picture him with them, but something had gotten muddled up, and she couldn’t form a clear image in her mind. Her son was receding, slipping away. She began to panic. What if it was a sign? Was this what happened when someone died? Or worse, a precondition for death: Was he slipping away because she’d stopped imagining him properly? If he died now it would be her fault. It was all her fault anyway, her punishment. Jaz found her on the floor of that hotel bathroom. He thought she’d taken an overdose and started yelling into the phone. She couldn’t find the words to tell him what had really happened, just couldn’t make the shapes with her mouth. I don’t want him to die, she whispered. Jaz couldn’t hear. She was disappointed. She thought he would be able to hear. The paramedics shone a little flashlight in her eye. They asked questions. She told them: I don’t want him to die . It seemed to be the only important thing to say. She didn’t want Raj to die and God shouldn’t think she did.

By then he’d been gone three weeks.

Price tried to tell her things. You’re holding it together real well, he said. Too well, in a way. People are confused. Now I know you’re a classy lady. You got poise. But you’re selling yourself short. You’re not showing them the real you.

How did a person do that? How did you show them the real you? She’d tried so hard, reading out the talking points, looking at the camera lens when they made that sign, the two fingers pointing to their eyes. She’d tried to stare straight through the lens into the world, into the heart of the man who had her son. Bring Raj back. If you have any information, phone this number. Complete anonymity. All we want is our son. But the viewers didn’t seem to like her. They didn’t like her clipped voice, her thin-lipped mouth. They preferred Jaz, who could say the words they expected in the tone they expected, words like these last days have been the most harrowing of our lives and we’d like to thank the police and the public for all the support we’ve received in this difficult time . Jaz seemed to be able to sleep. She started to wonder if he was really feeling it, really missing Raj in the way she was.

Then there was the confusing business about the rock star, Nick Capaldi. She’d never heard of him or his band. On TV he looked like those boys you saw cycling up and down Bedford, scrawny and bearded, their pumping legs sausage-skinned in tight jeans. Jaz swore he’d had no idea Capaldi was so famous. He’d found him asleep on one of the loungers by the pool and thought he was a homeless person. Raj had run inside his room. She couldn’t understand. There was nothing about this man that she could connect with her child. He was feral, faintly repulsive. Jaz said he was pretty sure he was on drugs.

They showed video of a concert, this Capaldi wrapped around a mike stand in a forest of outstretched camera phones. It was a surreal experience, he said to the interviewer. I was out there just trying to think, you know? Commune? Like, with the desert? I was trying to get away from stuff and somehow I just got more involved.

The local police had held him overnight. Then a whole phalanx of lawyers had arrived from L.A. and the cops realized they’d made a big mistake. The Internet went crazy. No one seemed to think it was a coincidence. There had to be a reason . Sent by Jesus, the devil, the banks. He was back in England now, with his own TV special, saying how harrowing he’d found his detention , how the not knowing had been the hardest part . Raj had hugged him, held his hand. She stared into his blank eyes and saw nothing human in them at all.

The public would find that ironic. They liked Capaldi. It was her they had trouble with.

For the first few weeks they’d tried to find a label for her. The suffering mother, holding up with dignity in this difficult time . The change came without warning, a sudden reversal of polarity that took her completely by surprise. She said something sarcastic to a journalist, a woman with pearl earrings and frozen blond hair. This woman seemed to think Lisa should cry for her, to fit in with the images of Raj she wanted to show on her local news program, the scanned family photos, the video from his birthday party cut to a sentimental pop song. She asked questions, digging hungrily, scrabbling away like a dog. Lisa wanted to know why she thought she deserved to watch her break down. I don’t even know you, she said. The woman looked at her with open hostility. Mrs. Matharu, she asked, don’t you think you bear some responsibility for what happened to your son?