Human society is gradually but surely criminalised.Everyday the newspapers report ghastly murders, sensational robberies , rapes , thefts and kidnappings. Naturally , the graph of crime in today’s society is sharply on the rise . Living has become quite risky , unplesant and unsafe . Women and old people are the worst suffers. Our cities have become the dens of smugglers and criminals . The capitals of India , new delhi , has earned a rare notoriety in this respect .
It is not only political capital but also the crime-capital of India . Growing unemployment and lacks of motivation among the educatedyoungmen have drawn many of them to the world of crimes . Thefts and way-layings are no more the monoply of illiterate ruffians . Gradustes in jeans are now the active members of the crime-world . The new wave of consumerism has added only fuel to the fire. craze for the foreign goods , cars , bikes , dresses , and cosmetics has fuelled their ambition .
They need fats money to fulfil their never dying desires. Another main reason is broken families or single parenthood. here children will not get any attention neither from the family nor from the society; feels alone and makes them engage in crimes. For instance , Children those have unpleasant past experiences would be rebellious to society. Medias like internet, and detective novels also plays a tangible role in making them worse. There are no short cuts to reduce the growing crime rate in society ofcourse , it is the duty of the police to maintain law and order in public . Efficent and impartial fuctioning of the police can help in curbing the crime rate in society .
But the health of society depends om many other factors. The army of unemployed youngmen is sweling . Naked materialism and consumerism have overpowered their minds and morals . Moral education in school can quite helpful in bringing down the crime rate effectively. To put it in a nutshell, todays children are tomorrows law abiding citizens. Everything should start from the root level. Government and society are equally responsible to make them perfect and to avoid crimes.
If there is nothing inherently creepy about the presence of children in genre fiction, there is something suspect about the ways in which they are made to function. No matter what roles they play, boys and girls in crime stories tend to be stereotypes: brave little soldiers with big eyes and quivering chins, but without the strong sense of identity that gives a character human dimension. As victims, they can't put up much of a fight, which makes them easy prey for sadistic killers. Cast as villains, they become caricatures of that wicked devil, Somebody Else's Teen-Age Kid. In their most transparent guise, children are the projections of their authors' own inner waifs.
"She was an exceptionally appealing little girl who deserved a chance in life," says Sharon McCone, Marcia Muller's detective, about the 9-year-old Arab girl she rescues from political terrorists in "A Wild and Lonely Place." "But of course that wasn't the half of it," Sharon admits, appointing herself the child's protector after the briefest of meetings. "I'd connected with her. From the moment she'd owned up to her loneliness I'd been solidly in her corner. I, too, had been a lonely child."
As a rule, authors aren't this candid about why their sleuths get all choked up over the tykes in their stories. The usual rationale is that the plot hangs on some criminal issue, like incest or child pornography, that reflects the grim reality of a child's world today.
I'll buy that from someone like Jonathan Kellerman, whose California sleuth, Alex Delaware, is a child psychologist who sees nothing but traumatized kids in his line of work. There are other authors who write consistently about criminal justice issues affecting children. Andrew Vachss, a juvenile-justice lawyer who is obsessed with the subject of child abuse, keeps turning out skin-crawling novels about the depravities done to throwaway urban youth. Sara Paretsky's detective, V. I. Warshawski, has always been a zealous advocate for the rights of women and children. Kit Deleeuw, the domesticated sleuth in Jon Katz's "suburban detective" mystery series, confines his practice to New Jersey towns where "raising kids is the only industry," and specializes in chasing down deadbeat dads in child support cases.
You expect detectives like Kit Deleeuw and Alex Delaware to run into lots of kids on their cases. Who else is a child psychologist or a family investigator supposed to work for -- investment bankers? You'd be surprised, though, how many detectives who don't need children for their work have acquired them anyhow and are waving them like flags to show off their sensitivity.
"I had to have me a baby. I had to," Easy Rawlins says in "White Butterfly." "I'd die without her." After playing it cool in Walter Mosley's early mysteries, the even-tempered private eye shows up in the third book of the series with an instant family: wife, adopted son and newborn daughter, whom he feeds, diapers and dotes on. Easy already proved he was a nice guy by the compassion he showed his neighbors in the black areas of Los Angeles. Fatherhood didn't make him any sweeter; it just made him maudlin.
The only thing more unseemly than an intelligent detective going gaga over some little darling is a detective sniveling over his or her own inner child. Scarier than that, though, is the genre's current fixation with the killer's inner child. Authors love to delve into a madman's psyche, and as often as not what they discover there is the victim of uncaring parents and an indifferent world. "He's killing himself," a character in Joe R. Lansdale's "Mucho Mojo" says of the psycho who is stealthily disposing of young boys in a Midwestern town. "He's killing the 9- or 10-year-old fatherless, unwanted child that he was." Such sentimental views not only deny murder victims the dignity of their own identity, they also reduce the monumental struggle between good and evil that is the basis of all crime fiction to the rotten luck of a lousy childhood.
All writing is a form of projection. For that matter, so is reading. We assert the strength of our ego when we identify with the detective hero in a crime novel. When we see ourselves in the victim, we acknowledge our frailties. The killer represents our secret sharer, the part of us that we fear because it threatens the part of us that we fear for.
FOR lazy writers, a child is a quick fix and a cheap prop. Any hack can figure out how to use the appeal of a child to spice up a stale plot, get an easy emotional rise out of the reader and humanize a detective who has become too tough-dull-dumb-tired to cut the mustard. Kids are also cute and funny and a whole lot easier to write dialogue for than full-grown adults; and they can sell books to the tribes of narcissistic baby boomers who are fixated on their own offspring -- and even more transfixed by the awesome spectacle of themselves as parents.
Although the form itself is easily manipulated, novels of mystery and suspense have the power to tap into the real fears that parents have for their children. It takes brave, thoughtful writers to examine seriously the darker, more ambivalent feelings that parents have for their children -- the fear of their assertive individuality, the envy of their youth and innocence, the all-consuming love and the frightening rages. A few genre authors, like Patricia Cornwell and Jonathan Kellerman, have dipped their toes into these waters. But in most domestic thrillers, children are battered and abused by some thoroughly despicable, utterly unredeemable creep -- never by a loving parent who loses control over his or her demons.
It may take a latter-day Joseph Conrad to come up with a convincing study of a homicidal child. Jon Katz gives himself a perfect opportunity to investigate the dark side of innocence in "The Last Housewife," when his child-loving detective encounters a terrifying 13-year-old boy, "a prince of the suburbs," who seems capable of just about any evil -- but ultimately isn't, because the author backs off. Faye Kellerman slinks away from a similar situation in "Sanctuary," after invoking the real-life case of Lyle and Erik Menendez to suggest that her fictional pair of teen-age boys might have shot and robbed their parents. They didn't.
The fact is, the middle-class teen-agers who are a constant presence in domestic mysteries are often scary, but rarely homicidal. Many of them are runaways -- a powerful image for the emotional withdrawal that can be so unnerving for the parents of a young adult. Police procedurals in which teen-agers are mowed down on the streets in gang wars can also capture that sense of loss; however disturbing the violence, it expresses the fear and anger that parents feel when their children begin the inevitable process of separation.
Genre fiction is driven by our need to demonize what we love, if only to express our fearful anticipation of its loss. As a repository for such fears, stories of criminal violence allow us to sacrifice the children we love in order to exorcise our fear of losing them. When the genre is really working, both the writing and the reading of such horrors become acts of love.Continue reading the main story