[Note: Link to actual events here.]
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Love made me do it. Love made him do it.
My love for the city. His love for me.
“For you, my love, I walk today,” one sore foot sighed to the other.
And the objects of adoration glowed gently in the January sun.
Another year, another marathon, and love that’s a long walk home.
Hah. Knew the title would get the stampeding hordes here. The hit rate on this post went up even before I clicked publish. But now that you’ve made it, stay. And listen to this:
The marathon this Sunday? I’m going to be there. A speck among a million Mumbaikars, resembling the mango that is the color of my tee. Walking for Ummeed and India Helps. I’m no different in my intentions. I feel the same way as the rest of my team. So I’ll leave clearer voices to speak for me while I limber up and flex my fingers to sign the slew of autographs you’re going to beg of me.
Only on one condition, of course. Read about the two causes close to my heart. One an old faithful bond, the other a deeply cherished newborn association. Come Sunday, the legs will pitch in. And hopefully, bring us helping hands in their wake.
And Bombay, my beloved Bombay, she’ll shine, shine, shine.
The one where I sound hopeful and cheery and mouth lines like “May the new year usher in many joys to heal and hold us in its blessed days” which I promptly trotted out in response to the Boy’s “What shall we text our friends this year?”
The one where I wish upon you the happiness you could just as well receive on September 15th. July 24th. February 2nd. May 9th.
The one where I look back on the days that were and sum up my life in neat little Tupperware containers. Health: C -, Work: B +, Love: A ++
Done. Put a lid on and pack it away. Next, please!
But I’m still here. As are the days and the hours. That layer of dust on the turntable remains unmoved. As does the home I came back to this afternoon. The precise look on Ma’s face when I’ve been gone a while. The way the cabbie spat out his tobacco. The lilt of ‘La Bamba’ each time my phone buzzed. And the firm, warm love that the Boy held out, from one day to the next.
There are still no dustbins in the Borivali National Park. And praline in vanilla fudge ice cream tastes just as good. I’m still struggling to find domestic help for the evening hours. The Bolshoi ballet continues to be sold out. The winter is as unshivering as always. My kiddos are as bouncy as ever. The fan creaks its ancient presence. People live with a rent in their hearts. I still haven’t found the perfect black kurta. The boys at traffic lights keep pimping pirated Adigas. Our arms are wound around ourselves, and sometimes each other, but we must unwrap them post haste, to be thrown up in predetermined celebration as the rapidly appearing milestones shimmer in the smoggy haze. Click a clock. Flick a page. And magically, we’re in Year Next.
But I’m still here. As are the days and the hours. And that layer of dust on the turntable remains unmoved.
Either it’s old age playing catch-up or it’s the time of (this particularly painful) year that has me oozing sop all over this page. This post may go down when I see it in the stark light of the morning, so don’t yell if you find it gone.
One of my (many) pet peeves is symbols. You heard me. And, by extension, symbolism. I have a theory about how the human race thrives on symbols because they help us make sense of the world and compartmentalize ideas/objects/people into neat little pockets of supposed comprehension. What I get annoyed with is how we use symbolism as a crutch that prevents us from thinking abstractly, out-of-the-boxedly, individualistically.
Now scratch everything you just read. Because for the first time in my adult life, I willfully created a symbol. Humbly. Out of sheer need. The need to hope, wish and connect. To do something with my hands that would help heal my heart. For the first time in my adult life, my annual Christmas tree routine took on critical, absolutely-must-do-or-I’ll-bust-all-my-blood-vessels proportions. And I dragged an already willing Boy by his full head of hair through an elaborate trim-the-tree ceremony because I had to (gosh I can’t believe I’m saying this, someone shut me up, please!) perform an act of love and meaning. I decorated this tree like my life depended on it. And, with the Christmas cake I’m going to ingest today, I also eat my words. Okay, I hereby ban myself from this blog.
Merry Christmas, folks. Here’s the tree in question. I’m off to pray for peace and sanity.
Credits: The Boy’s Olympus E-520 DSLR, in his hands.
P.S. Click on the volume icon (top left hand corner of the picture album) to play Faith Hill’s ‘Joy to the World’ as you view the pictures.
…is the name of the effort I was part of this afternoon. And oh what a chore it was! Clad in a Baywatch-red life jacket, I hopped aboard a snazzy, all-white-and-chrome speedboat manned by a cute Ozzie sailor that whisked me off to a little private sailboat with 5 of my friends and family. We took in the sights of the Bombay harbor, chomped on chicken rolls, quiches and brownies, gazed lovingly at the Taj and attempted to imagine how the terrorists could possibly have sailed up to this gorgeous city and wanted to annihilate her.
Aquasail India, the company started by India’s first gold medallist on international waters, has come up with an interesting way to help the families of the 14 Mumbai police officers who died in the line of duty during the 26/11 terror attack. All proceeds from cruise bookings this week go directly toward the said policemen’s fund. I am unable to answer specific questions as I was a guest on this expedition and the info-mail I was to receive hasn’t made an appearance, but (see details below) you can contact them through their website or call one of their skippers– Abhishek– at 9969372914 and they’ll be happy to help you.
If you’re interested, make a trip sooner rather than later, because this offer’s on only for a week. And honestly, I can’t think of a more enjoyable, relaxed way to reach out to my city.
More efforts, of course, continue here. And we’ve only just begun.
…….
Edited to add: Received the Aquasail e-flyer this morning. Am posting a relevant excerpt.
The team at Aquasail felt that we need to do something with boats and sailing to make a statement, to sail beyond, to tide us over this feeling of sadness. As we talked about this we thought about what to do involving all of you who share with us a love for Mumbai and its amazing spirit as well as a love for the sea and all that it means to us. Why not use our boats for people to come together in a way that would be positive, bring in energy and revive a sense of hope?
And from this came the idea of a Sail For Peace & Freedom From Fear. . To use our boats to raise funds, help those affected in a small way and demonstrate a spirit free from fear. So join us for a sail for Peace & Freedom from Fear in the Mumbai harbour. The fundraiser is on from 20th Dec to 26th Dec. Please donate generously for every sail as per your ability (minimum Rs. 1, 000 /-). Every single rupee thus collected will be used for relief to those impacted by the events of last month. The recipients of this donation will be the widows and families of 14 very junior policemen who laid down their lives during the terror attacks. The money will be given to the Ashok Kumar Foundation who will ensure it reaches them.
As you sail in the harbour, you will see the physical scars of a city that was under siege but demonstrates a spirit that has the power to heal. In our own quiet way we hope this would be one very small and token step towards creating a positive wave of energy, of saluting Mumbai, of remembering and perhaps finding stronger ways of addressing the challenges before us. We hope to see each of you Sailing For Peace & Freedom From Fear and donating towards this cause.
…is a good movie title, but in the non-celluloid world, a clutter of heartening and heart-wrenching events can put you on the straight road to Loontown.
I’m in the middle of a big family event, the second of four this season, and while I greatly enjoying being with my extended family, it’s been hard. To smile, to dress, to welcome guests without the bile rising in the pit of my stomach, all the while questioning how we can celebrate while our city lies brutalized. But troopers are us, and if only for the sake of those we love, get to it we must. For two precious little girls with the warmest hugs possible and for what their navjote means to them.
Add to this a post-horror pilgrimage on Tuesday, a solidarity rally at the Gateway on Wednesday, a failed internet connection for three days and our anniversary coming up tomorrow, and we have enough peaks and troughs to resemble the Rockies. Strange days these, when so many of life’s miseries and joys are compressed into a capsule, like the blending of multi-colored playdoh.
Apologies for being AWOL at a time like this. I will put pictures up once the immediate whirl abates. In the meanwhile, a quick update before I rush off again:
I spoke with Dr. Jyotsna Kirtane, head of pediatric surgery at the J. J. Hospital and she recommends providing protein powders like Pediasure to the children’s ward. These are usually unaffordable by the hospital administration and assist greatly in physical rehabilitation. For adults, Complan is a good bet. (There aren’t too many children admitted for this particular tragedy, thankfully.) Dry fruits are also welcome. Do not send perishable foods, they already have plenty of those. I did raise the question of tinned goods being cornered and re-sold in the black market, to which Dr. Kirtane said we could open the tins in front of the staff if we wished.
There was no urgent blood requirement as of 3 days ago, but you can keep checking at 23701366. To be honest, I didn’t expect the phone to be answered, given the magnitude of workload they are currently facing, but it was and a coherent response was given. As the initial hullabaloo abates, the hospitals will struggle for resources again, so some of you may wish to be continued donors instead of one-time respondents, if you think that’s manageable.
Next up: Locating a fund for families of soldiers/policemen/commandos who died in the line of duty. Does anybody have updates on this? I have contacted Dina Mehta and am waiting to hear from her. My friend in the media is another point of contact, but she just got proposed to, so I don’t want to rain on her parade with sombre questions unless I absolutely must.
In the meantime, take a look at this page. A bizarre, chilling thought entered my head while I looked at this site. What if the terrorists set up one of these pages, to misdirect funds or simply gauge public reaction and gloat over it? I wouldn’t put anything past them. Anything at all.
And now that I’ve completely creeped myself out, I must go pick out a saree, contort my hair, cross my fingers and hope that I’m a good enough actress to pass muster tonight. For so many of us, the nightmare began on this day, 16 years ago.
God bless.
… The Huffington Post tells us “Bloggers Provide Raw view of Mumbai Massacre”
And goes on to mention the comic relief provided by some user named Orange Jammies.
Hmm… what was this tweeter thinking, being a clown at 3 a.m.?
Thanks, Whipster, for the ping.
The nights since the horror was officially declared over have been spent convulsing into a pillow, after futilely seeking comfort in sleep. I know why I tweeted through a large number of those 60 hours. It began with attempting to keep friends abroad and those without access to news updated. But as the hours wore on and my fingers flew over the keyboard, furiously keeping pace with unfolding events, I realized it was my route to sanity. Sleep was unthinkable. I had to DO something to partially mitigate the loss of control and hopelessness I was experiencing. When the siege wound down, I determinedly went back to living out my routine, because I believed I was cocking a snook at the people who had brought my city to its knees.
But the feeling won’t die down. I’m struggling with the sadness and it’s coming out in strange ways. In withdrawal from a slightly bewildered Boy, who moved to Bombay only in his teens. In the need to connect to people who feel the same way. In a fresh batch of tears in the middle of a café. In wanting to talk about my precious city to everyone I think will listen. In staring achingly across at the Oberoi each morning, shrouded in dense smog. In hoping to share the experience with folks who really, truly understand by virtue of having had a similar childhood. People who were here long before there was this. And this is me, the usually inclusive girl who can find something to relate to in every person.
I’m helpless and angry, heartbroken and anguished, as furious monologues in my head yield nothing. I’m running around in circles trying to find ways to help, something concrete, something permanent, something all of us can sustain. And of all the things I yearn for, the one thing I want is for my city not to forget. I don’t want our ‘spirit’ to keep us going, I don’t want us to move on and move past, I don’t want the news reports to be palmed off to the raddiwala, the people who succumbed reduced to grainy images of old hat.
Mourn, Bombay, mourn. I WANT you to wail. Plaster your streets with the names of the murdered, paint the walls with the redness of graves, shriek your questions aloud at the ether, hang your noose on the silences in conversations. Forgetting will be our death trap, tolerance, the last nail. Yes, I know the world’s a zoo; be any other animal but not an ostrich, pound your pain into something tangible, keep it alive until you spark outrage.
Stop, I want to scream, at the city back to work on a Monday morning, the funeral isn’t over. Is this it, the beginning of forgetting, all the mindspace we can afford our present? Why are we such misers when it comes to grieving? Can we really not afford more regret? How does a nation so proud of its ancient history spawn a city that thrives on collective amnesia? Have we swapped our souls for bloated bellies, cramming moremoremore of Mayanagari’s delights?
Weep, Bombay, weep. Seethe, Bombay, seethe. Rage, howl, heal. Do anything, show anything, but not your tattered, intact spirit.
Do not go gentle into that good night. Linger, my sweet Bombay, in the twilight zone… just a little longer.
I heard my first bomb explosion at 14. Except, I thought it was a tar drum rolling down a bridge at the time. All alone in class and making out a list for a school farewell party the next day, I pricked up a ear at the low boom and went back to laboriously inking out names. It was March 12, 1993. Half my lifetime ago.
It’s interesting how the human memory stocks up. When the first of the blasts went off on Wednesday night, my gut knew, even as reason laughed at my alarm, telling it to stop being a drama queen. There’s no smoke in the distance and it’s just leftovers from Diwali, I scolded myself. But I knew. And mentally hugged my knees and waited. Two minutes later, another one.
We’re fed to death (sorry, that’s a sick pun and totally unintentional) on what occurred next, so that’s not what this ramble is about. My city, my sliver of the world, it’s wrecked. I’ve lived in 6 towns/cities on 2 continents, but only one was ever home. As a fifth generation Bombayite whose entire family on both sides is born and bred and has lived and loved here (yes, we have exactly two people abroad and only one north of Worli, with everyone else within 10 minutes of each other), my love for this archipelago is irrational. All-consuming, intimate, territorial. I may cuss its traffic and weather to kingdom come, but say one not-so-complimentary thing about it and you’re on my permanent dislike list. We Leos do such stuff. Deal with it.
And now, my stomping grounds have been reduced to mere blips on a map, flashed on international television networks amid raised reporter voices, to the point where I want to snatch them off and say, that, there, is my annual Christmas ritual. Ma and Daddy took us to see the Oberoi tree every year of our childhood. And this year, I was to take a very special little boy to share my tradition. Many happy Saturday afternoons were spent at its arcade café, guzzling strawberry milkshake after Daddy got done at work. I combed its shops this past Diwali, strutting my purchases to my American friends.
And that one over there was my perennial threat from Nana. “If you don’t eat like a lady, how will I take you to the Taj?” And so I fed my face like a well-trained robot lady at 6, because the Taj, as we know, is The Taj, and every 7-year-old dreams of a Shamiana ice cream with a pink biscuit stuck in it. In college, our parent Rotary held its weekly meetings at the Ballroom and we’d gatecrash them on flimsy pretexts so we could devour pastries from the Sea Lounge. It was earlier this month that the Boy and I strolled outside the ‘old’ Taj while I narrated the story of Watson’s Hotel and how an insult founded this magnificent structure.
And then there’s yet that other one, the Victoria Terminus that was our pride as we carted suitably admiring foreign visitors around, reveling in what was ours. The first train in India chuffed off from here we’d point out, as their eyes took in the gargoyles and gothic grandeur. So many bleary-eyed childhood trips were flagged off from its innards. Two minutes away at college, we’d laugh about how every Hindi movie has its one obligatory VT shot to depict arrival in Mumbai. What would we know about arrival, chronic natives that we were.
As a child, a strange compulsion had me pleading with my father to take the Marine Drive route, no matter where we went. “Oh please, Daddy,” I’d beg, “I absolutely must see Marine Drive at least thrice a week.” Thankfully, they realized their little girl had inherited their passion for the city.
For the 5 years that I lived on the other side of the planet, my desktop computer had a wallpaper of Marine Drive. “Wow!” non-Indian friends would say, “It’s like Miami.” And I’d smile smugly knowing that piece of gorgeousness was born and bred mine. The most familiar part of a city that graciously gave me home, family, friendships, education, social responsibility, belonging and identity.
When I returned, South Bombay embraced me like I had never left. The arts, theatre, the cultural scene, the international flavor, the best watering holes, constantly innovating eateries, they were enough and more to keep me going back for my bi-weekly fix. And then, there’s the South Bombay vibe. A feel, an intangible pulse in the air that even lifelong suburb-dwellers admit to. This is not a post about the town-suburb divide. It is a recounting of the geography of all my meaningful years. South Bombay is the bearer of my history. School, college, crushes, weddings, navjotes, birthday parties, music lessons, dates, births, agitations, shopping expeditions, girl guide projects, German classes, street festivals, museum visits, road rage, annual melas, essay competitions, choir rehearsals, dental appointments, exhibitions, funerals, hospitalizations, Asia’s largest marathon…. my hours have been spent in gratitude here.
I’m parked at the Gucci store, I texted on Saturday evening, as I waited outside the Oberoi Trident for a friend. Walking out of the Indigo Deli (situated behind the Taj) later, we were content, confident and oh-so-safe as girls out on the night in our invincible city. Having attended an art showing and photo exhibit at the NCPA on the same day the nightmare began, I am acutely aware that had it been a weekend ambush, this blog would have been silent today.
My view at work overlooks the Oberoi Hotel from across the curve of the bay. And each morning, (cheesy as this may sound,) as I climb the slope with the sea to my left, my heart gives a little happy fillip at my favorite sight in the whole wide world.
I know she’s not perfect. I bemoan the fact that my children will have no parks, no schools, no animals to see. (When I get back to wanting children, that is. Right now I’m too busy questioning why we bring them into this mess.) I know there are too many cars, too few arterial roads and that the underworld-Bollywood nexus thrives like lice on a festering scalp. I know the Love Grove sewer at Worli smells even as the Atria Mall right ahead showcases French and Spanish couture. I know rats run over diners’ feet at the Bade Miyan eatery where the RDX was discovered. And I face despairing parents every day as they jostle for a spot in the limited schools. My parents knew this when they conceived me and their parents before them. But each generation has raised people who love their home unwisely and I know mine will too. And when the sixth generation of Bombayites is ready to hit its beloved streets, my friends, I hope to be here. To see my children and theirs breathe in with delight the polluted, addictive, sacred air of this, my beautiful, beautiful city.
I’m an unlikely candidate to have connections in bureaucratic circles. A schoolmarm with a social work background hardly hobnobs with the jet-setting ministerial cadre. And yet, I have one such friend. Someone who I wouldn’t have ordinarily mentioned, had it not been for the backlash he constantly faces from land sharks, political bodies with vested interests and foreign companies wanting to invest unethically in the state of Kerala. Time and again, stunts are played out to pull him down. And media intervention in the form of exposes helps him retain his head and position in the nick of time.
Attempts have been made on his life and saner folks wonder why he labors in government positions when the corporate offers thrown at him would enable him to live like a czar. We’ve discussed this more than once and idealists that we are, we believe somebody’s got to effect change. And so I chant nursery rhymes instead of working in glitzy PR and he gets sent off to the interiors of Madhya Pradesh on random pretexts, so plans can be implemented to get rid of him. While my efforts are and will always be humble and limited, this man’s strife is worth a wider audience.
Let me point you to the Indian Express article about him on November 21st. And if for no other reason, please browse through it to know that not every IAS officer is out to feed off our country. There is hope, and its name is Radhakrishnan Luxman.
Ultra Violet
Wisdom Wears Neon Pyjamas 
Vox populi