First, the cacophony of sirens. Go downstairs. Turn on the TV.
A battered bus. Misshapen metal. Shards of glass which crunch under the boots of khaki clad policemen. Distant voices of army personnel, shooing the swarm of people peeping over the yellow tape. Necks craning, eager for a glimpse. My mum flinches at the slow trickle of blood, forming red rivulets on the roadside. Fist stuffed in her mouth, she doesn’t notice that her cup of oats is dripping, forming white pools of their own.
The scene changes swiftly.
A mass of attendants dressed in crisp white. One surreptitiously pats his hair, preening at the cameraman, enjoying his 2 seconds of fame. Another blusters around, ordering people here and there, the corner of his eye fixed firmly on the revolving camera. An ambulance drives in. Dozens of hands reach out for the door. Blood spattered and dazed, a lady is lifted and laid on a stretcher. More tumble out. The interior of the hospital is shown. Vesak decorations and colourful streamers still adorn the ceiling: a stark contrast to the dismal scene.
Visuals of the explosion are shown again.
The blood still drips from the foot board. Deliberately slow.
Will this ever end?