Holes

God bless the media.

If it weren’t for them, we would have gone about this day as if it was any other. It’s been a month now since the leading dailies have been falling over each other trying to cover the one-year-aftermath of the Mumbai attacks. Rivetting re-accounts of the heroism and terrorism on display that day an year ago. Harrowing accounts of broken dreams, wounded minds and lost hearts a year hence. The blood scrawl on the wall is clear. We shouldn’t forget even if we do not do anything about it.

Our media has stepped in to fill the vacuum left by our fleeing conscience. We owe them gratitude. After all, what better than a full black and white version of the Times of India to remind us that a year ago blood was spilt in our city. Sure the blood belonged to Hindus, Muslims, Christians and Jews – but it all looks the same in black and white.

Even if we go about 26/11 as though nothing happened, replacing the color of fear and terror from our minds with saffron or gray, there are a few who will not. These are those who don’t need the media’s excellent and free reminder service. The birds which escaped into the sky from the fire and smoke below - would have found other spots to nest. I know they have bird-brains and all… but I wonder if they would be the same today. The hundredyearold walls of an institution which had only witnessed heads of state and washed out celebrities a year ago, would now be searching for terrorists. The freshly swept floor of one of the most beautiful and historic train stations in the world,  covered in blood then – swathed in gray fear today, would try to hide under the millions of feet. The million dancing lights in a cheery, vibrant and ecelectic street in Mumbai would try to forget what they lit that day. The inviting interiors and ever-ready beer mugs of a venerable institution of bacchanalia would now be standing with crossed-arms, sizing up anyone who tries to enter or pass by.

Because you see, the people of Mumbai might wear their hubris on their chest. It is what we Mumbaikars are so proud of. We go on, come hell, high water or LeT. But it was not the people on whom the attacks were aimed at on 26/11/2008. It was a living breathing historic gorgeous crazy city, like none other in the known universe, that the terrorists attempted to maim. The terrorists knew that. And so does the city.

People might move on. The bulletholes in the windows might have been sewed shut. Golden Dragon might have opened again. But the holes in the very fabric of what was Bombay are far more difficult to repair. This is the thing about terrorism. One can try to move on, but one can never go back.

Snappy Diwali

Is it only me, or did Deepavali 2009 resemble an imitation firecracker stored in a damp warehouse for two years?

As this year’s celebrations fizzled to an end with a feeble pop, even the typically ostentatious leanings of the high net worth residents of Hiranandani gardens in Powai seemed to be whittled down to a fraction of their former self. And I thought the recession was over.

When we went down at around eight in the evening with our contribution to the diwali spectacle (two packets of sparklers, one of anaars and one of chakras) – we were greeted with silence. For heaven’s sake, just the traffic on the streets on a normal day would create more light and sound that what we were seeing! Where was everyone? As we roamed around the complex, searching in vain for some signs of good old hindu excess, I felt a smog of change descending upon us. Maybe, urban educated Indians were finally realizing what has been amply clear to me since a decade - that burning money in the form of fireworks is a vulgar display of wealth in a predominantly poor country. (Some of those fancy rockets cost more than Rs.5000 a piece!) Not to mention, they pollute an already terminally ill environment and scare dogs and babies. When the celebrations finally limped to a start post 9PM, it lasted for not more than 90 minutes – during which we decided to have a traditional Deepavali feast at Pizza Hut (?!). And yes, the place was full of good traditional hindu families gorging on America’s produce.

So does this mean that Indians have forgotten what it means to enjoy Lord Ram’s return? Does this mean that (reducing to a whisper) God is dead?

Or maybe the usually smart Indians are realizing that the celebrations do not a festival make. Maybe festivals are for friends, family and relatives to come together for spiritual harmony. Maybe the rituals of these festivals are meant to be unpronounced and even personal. Maybe the Diyas of Deepavali are meant to be markers on a path to higher self-realization, community spirit without excess and the greater common good. Maybe the Mono-Sodium Glutamate in the pizza I had last night is playing tricks with my head and rendered me cuckoo.

Well, whatever it may be, the change was pleasant. The morning after Deepavali, which is usually marked with the truimphant return of leftover fireworks, was more or less quiet. The birds were chirping, dogs were pooping and senior citizens where back on their morning walks amongst scattered debris of exploded cracker shells. Looking back at Deepavali 2009 – I hope this change is here to stay. Because we all have now seen times where economic progress has been humbled by the very thing responsible for it – greed and excess. Maybe, we all can light a candle to the fact that a Snappy Diwali is indeed a Happy Diwali.

Seasons Greetings to all Grimescene readers!

(Updated – 21/9 – I have now heard enough reports that mine was an outlier experience. More than Rs.1.8 crore of money was burnt in Mumbai itself – a quarter of the national total. Sigh. MSG can play tricks.)

Fecal Matter Disposal Aperture

It all began at seven thirty in the morning, as I stood – stooped to one side by the weight of my laptop bag – in a long line of similarly dressed and contorted men and women, before the hallowed ground dominated by large hulking voyeuristic machines and khakhi colored sentries armed with dongles which went beep, everytime they hit a steel kneecap. Welcome to security check  at Mumbai Airport’s Terminal 1B. When I wasn’t shifting from one foot to the other, or moving my burden from one shoulder to the other, I was glancing at my watch in disbelief. 22 minutes and 37 seconds. This was like watching sludge move in slow motion. And I am a patient man… so I could only imagine the plight of my fellow laptop shifters who aren’t endowed with an adrenalin valve. So we have the

1) Quarterbacks: Offensive humans who make it a point, every five minutes, to break the line and walk indignantly down the serpentine queue till the end, trying to figure out what the blasted problem is. And then trying very surreptitiously to insert themselves in the queue several paces ahead of where they had left it. These people are brash and brazen – stopping every body in an airline suit and expecting them to provide an answer to the question “Why me?”

2) Linebackers: Defensive humans whose job is to detect, block, tackle and if necessary pummel-to-death quarterbacks trying to cheat with the actual number of yards traveled. This tussle could end with either side winning, depending on who is larger, or louder or who doesn’t have testicles. Linebackers are often joined by other linemen in the tackle - and then typically the quarterback has to slink away with his laptop bag strap between his legs.

3) Coaches: These are the modern day spiritual gurus. Having achieved fame and fortune, these people are wise and charismatic. They are usually flanked by a loud starry-eyed bevy of fans who hang on to every loud, pretentious and totally unnecessary word that comes out of the coach’s mouth, paying their unabashed respect with loud shrill laughter that sends the quarterbacks running again. The coaches have an opinion about everything, from an accurate analysis of the reason for the delays to how swine flu can never affect them as they have the B+ blood type. (It’s true… I heard this!) Coaches enjoy the queue and feed on the human detritus around them – intervening tackles and dispensing with nerve-wracking advice on patience and superior human values – completely missing the fact that it is because of them that the queue is unbearable.

4) Sulkers: These guys never amounted to much in life. They don’t amount to much in the queue either. Standing anonymously like a bead in a string of sweaty beads, they shake their heads in silence at the unfairness of it all. They create vivid mental pictures of how they would jump in the air and decapitate the obnoxious coach behind them, in a Matrix-style kick to his empty head – but all they end up doing is burn a hole by staring at the nape of the neck belonging to the guy in front. Sometimes, one of these sulkers can explode like a soda bottle which is shaken a bit too much. Sulkers are serial killers in their heads. Brrrrr….

… and then there are the FMDAs (see title). Quarterbacks I can deal with, Linebackers I admire, Coaches I can blank out – but FMDAs – I feel like decapitating their foul heads with a matrix style kick. And there are so many of them.

And the unusually long and useless segue was for this particular FMDA who was two paces in front of me in the queue. For the entire 28 minutes that it took to reach the x-ray machines, he talked loudly on the phone, left the line twice – once for coffee and once to wet his shoes and generally made it clear to everyone around him that he was the king of the universe. As my heart leapt in silent celebration for reaching the end of my tiresome vigil – I heard FMDA loudly announce the meaning of his life.

“Shit!”

He turned around and started waving his boarding pass printout wildly, possibly showing the rest of the losers in the line how smart he was to have done a web check in. I soon realized, as I saw the white sheet of paper in his hands, what the problem was. FMDA had found the limit to his smartness and forgotten to get it stamped at the check in counter.

“Hey! Jet Airways!”

Everybody in earshot turned around, half expecting a man dressed like an airplane (like the life-like Mickey Mouse at Disneyland) to come prancing by and give him a wet towel to wipe his ass. But he was shouting at a poor line usher with a lanyard who, on not finding the prancing airline-man like the rest of us, realized, it was he who was being hollered at. Humbly he came closer to the barricade and FMDA shoved his virgin boarding pass into his face.

“Can you please get this stamped?” (just because he said please doesn’t mean he isn’t a jerk) Born into subservience, the poor usher, trembling under the hot gaze of his master, managed to mumble “Si..uh..uh..r… I cannot get this stamped…”

“What?? If you cannot get this stamped – why the hell are you standing here?”

Not to wipe your ass for sure.

“I-I… am so… sorry sir” The usher was visibly terrified now and looked like he would soon need a wet-wipe himself. And all this while the line had stopped moving. But, FMDA didn’t care. He just stood there like a defiant prince who just found out that the sun was the center of the solar system.

“Call your superior! I will lodge an official complaint!” Hearing the dreaded “C”-word, the jellyfish-usher, gathered his imaginary skirts and ran like Julie Andrews jumping over bushels of imaginary edelweiss. Meanwhile the linebackers were shouting from the back with self-righteous anger - “Hey! We have been waiting for so long blah blah…”  But FMDA stood his ground. “These airline people take us for a ride. I will lodge an official complaint!” Your mother should have lodged an official complaint with the creator for giving her a monkey instead of a boy.

Meanwhile, people started stepping around him and queue started moving again. But I kept my sights on this developing situation. The usher’s “Superior” – basically a better dressed guy who spoke better english – came bounding, “Sir, can I help you?”

“This idiot refuses to stamp my boarding pass! Now I might miss my flight becauses of him!” Because of him???? He wasnt the one who was stupid enough not to follow a simple well articulated process.

Though his eyes said “Inshallah!” – the official said “Sir, you have to get it stamped at the check-in counter with identity proof.”

“YOU MEAN I HAVE TO GO ALL THE WAY THERE TO GET THIS STUPID STAMP? WHAT KIND OF SERVICE IS THIS?? CALL YOUR SUPERIOR!!”

All our hopes of seeing Naresh Goyal in the flesh were dashed, when the Jet Airways official buckled under the constant bayonetting by the FMDA and swore on his mother that he will do everything for the prince including licking the lint between his highness’ toes. The poor guy ran like the wind, (powered by images of smelly feet I am sure), to get the print-out stamped – and the FMDA stood tall – chest out in triumph. Another victory for the glorious and all-powerful FMDA. All say hail!

I wonder what they were thinking when they wrote in the bible “The meek shall inherit the earth.” No sir. It is definitely more effective being a Fecal Matter Disposal Aperture.

Fools gold and the not-so-silent scream

The IPL is a good thing. It has given Yash Raj Films and other partners-in-crime a reason to do something else other than adding to the collective waste of time of Mumbaikars through plotless, brainless drivel. So when we arrived at the Tata Theater at the NCPA on Saturday evening to catch a stage rendition of Paulo Coelho’s “The Alchemist” – we were (un)pleasantly surprised to see a theater packed with people who would be typically standing in line for popcorn at PVR. Dee raised a disapproving eyebrow when she saw people dressed in T-shirt & Jeans and (gasp) shorts and chappals. We should have read the signs… but it was too late. The next two hours were spent in wondering why did Mahesh Dattani (ordinarily quite talented) even attempt to bring “The Alchemist” to life in such a literal way.

Now, those who have read the book, would surely know that it is a “DIY Spirituality Guide” in the guise of the parable. The parable, the characters, the settings themselves are nothing special – cliched at best. It is what they represent, it is the sybolism which makes “The Alchemist” special – and certainly the reason why it enjoyed space on my bookshelf next to my copy of “The Prophet” and “The Old man and the Sea” – during my college days. Mr. Dattani – obviously a fan of the book – has taken Santiago’s journey through remote and dangerous lands and an unforgiving desert, to the stage, as it was. There is no interpretation, no creative application (unless you call adding song and dance, creative application) and it had its characters walking in circles with slow elongated steps for long periods of time, simulating a journey through a desert on camels. Shudder. All this could have been excused if the acting on display had been good. No luck there – the cast seemed to have been picked up from the unemployment lines… apart from a couple of theater regulars. And the dialogues? Somehow they sound ok in the book – but when Santiago’s true love says “I may be a woman of the desert. But first, I am a woman.” with a vapid expression of desire confused with ineptitude – it is time to desert.

"God! Will this torture ever end?"

The saving grace was the ever-melliflous Asif Ali Baig – as the “sutradhar” in the form of an elder Santiago – crooning through various pivotal points in the young Santiago’s journey (and also helping him change his clothes once in a while.) We saw the play with Dee’s cousin, who is herself in the theater business – and her unenthusiastic reading of the whole thing summarized what was wrong with the play. There was no conflict, no clash of ideas or ideals, no struggle. Sure, you would say… it is after all just a journey. But then is theater the right medium for this? What it was, the play and some scenes (like the horrendous battle-dance sequence in the middle) received standing ovations from the crowd – and I realised that the play was probably ok. I was just the wrong audience. They are playing all over the country – watch it if you like bollywood style melodrama (and acting).

In a bid to get the bad taste that the play left in our mouth – we decided to watch another, more promising one the next day. This was “30 days in September” – directed by Lillete Dubey and written by guess who? Mahesh Dattani again. Aparently this play was born on the sets of “Monsoon Wedding” and deals with the struggle of a young woman, who was sexually abused as a child by her uncle. A controversial topic, handled and presented in an even more controversial manner. It was 90 harrowing (in a good way) minutes long and we could see the audience squirming uncomfortably in their seats in many scenes. The premise of the play was that Mala – the young woman – was unable to hang on a relationship for more than 30 days, and was moving from one man to the other, having sex for the sake of it. Stuff like “I like it when

A still from "A thirty days in september"

men use me” are dialogues not oft heard in the Indian theater scene. Finally her last lover, expertly played by Joy Sengupta, forces her to face her demons, face her mother (played by Lillete Dubey herself) who refused to acknowledge that anything bad had happened to her daughter and face the uncle (played by the ever versatile Amar Talwar), who had single handedly destroyed a family. There was conflict, a clash of generations and most of all there was a scream for help. Now, this is my only gripe with the play. Ira Dubey (Lillete’s daughter, who played the role) was more hyper-ventilating than acting on stage. Granted there was angst, and she was pretty screwed-up in the head – but pain is best shown through silent vulnerability. I can imagine a younger Shabana Azmi giving a completely different take on the pivotal role of Mala.

This was the 100th show of the play – and again they are touring everywhere. Watch it – if you don’t mind being exposed to an uncomfortable topic. What was heartening though, was the fact that the hall was packed. I really hope that bollywood takes a hiatus – and more people discover that the experience of theater can be infinitely more satisfying than a movie. After all, actors on stage do not have the luxury of a second take – much like life. (although “The Alchemist” definitely needed one…)

It’s a Lang way to Vienna

It all started a few Saturdays ago, as I hauled my Suburban butt all the way downtown, early in the morning, to join the South Mumbai milieu in a preordained futile exercise of obtaining tickets for the Parsi spectacle of the year. Strictly speaking Zubin Mehta does not restrict his music for ears which belong to followers of the Zoroastrian faith, but when “aapro” (“ours” in Gujarati) Zubin returns to his city of birth, his kith and kin and their Parsi neighbours flock to pay homage to arguably the greatest living conductor of western classical music. I had never seen him live, only listened to his performances on CD… so I was excited and afraid that I might turn back disappointed, as there was a large queue in front of me.

Dee and I reached the ticket counter when there were just 5 remaining in the category we could afford – and we were jumping with joy, holding up tickets for A-5,6, stage right, front row for a performance that promised to be – hazarding a term not typically used to describe western classical performances – mind blowing. Zubin Mehta was conducting the Vienna Philharmonic Orchestra (one of the oldest and most respected) and would be accompanied on the piano by Lang Lang – the 26 year old sensation who has made classical music “sexy” and “cool”.

But this bristling excitement slowly turned to simmering anger, as we got stuck 15 min away from the Venue on D-day. The extra security put in place (not for the artists, but for the VIP guests) had created a bad traffic jam. We reached the venue just in time, to realize that parking was full. Being the only one with a license valid in Mumbai, I volunteered to park the car and sent Dee in. By the time I returned, Zubin and his Viennese musicians had blazed through the Overture from Mozart’s “The Marriage of Figaro” – one of my favorite pieces. I put the loss behind me and settled in my seat next to Dee, right in the front row, just in time to see Lang Lang’s boyish face and lithe frame walking towards the polished Steinway. “Let’s see what the hype is about!” I thought to myself as they launched into Chopin’s Piano Concerto No. 2 – a piece written by Chopin when he was merely 20.

Being stage right, we were facing the back of the piano, and could see Lang Lang’s head throwing itself back and forth in unbridled passion and intensity, as his fingers danced on the ebony and ivory as if they were 20 and not 10. With Mr.Mehta and the Vienna Philharmonic providing magnificent harmony, Lang Lang’s interpretation of Chopin was exuberant, even dangerous. Sure enough, the audience thought he deserved the hype, and at the end of the performance, the entire hall stood up and congratulated the little maestro on his genius. It was some experience watching a young genius rendering another young genius’ work immortal…

After the longish interval (when I realized that we were rubbing shoulders with Mumbai’s who’s who…Aamir Khan, Shobha De, Anil Dharker et al) Dee and I settled down for the part of the evening, I had gone through so much trouble for. Zubin Mehta was about to conduct the Vienna Philharmonic Orchestra through all four movements of Beethoven’s 7th Symphony. Now, the 7th does not have the celebrity of the 5th or the 6th. Nor does it have the grandeur and historical significance of the 9th. But as a classical piece it stands head and shoulders above the rest in its spirit, complexity, vision and sheer spread of instruments. In fact, Beethoven on multiple occasions alluded to the 7th being his favorite work.

So here was one of the greatest musical ensembles in the world with two violin sections, violas, heartbreaking cellos, oboes, clarinets, bassoons, horns, trumpets, timpani… and did I mention I was there? In person? Mr. Mehta was magnificent. The way he directed every part of the orchestra with precision, and attention to detail, coaxing his musicians to squeeze every drop from their reservoir of musical talent until it became musical genius… his smiles, frowns, frantic waves of the magical wand – just watching him in action was worth 10 times the price of the ticket. And how was the orchestra? The complexity, frequent changes in tone and tempo of Beethoven’s 7th would be a challenge for any orchestra to perform to perfection. The Vienna Philharmonic just breezed through it as if they were doing this in their sleep. The timing was exquisite, their coordination perfect. And Dee and I, sitting up close and personal, were nothing short of mesmerized. And so was rest of the crowd. When they finally completed their furious rendition of the fourth and final movement – the standing ovation was spontaneous. Mr. Mehta, now well past his 70s had enthralled an audience, who had come with sky high expectations and yeah, the Parsis in the crowd were probably awash with tears of joy. He truly is a great contribution to the world by India…

Mr. Mehta left the stage amongst the applause, but returned with a beguiling smile and announced to the breathless audience that they were about to be regaled with Strauss’ Emperor Waltz. This evening was turning out to be unforgettable, even more so, when he followed that up with Strauss’ “Tritsch-Trasch Polka” – another audience favorite.

“Music expresses that which cannot be put into words and cannot remain silent” said Victor Hugo. Though I have attempted to use words to describe the experience, I still cannot describe the music. Let me just say that it was magical to be in the presence of true genius. I sincerely hope that Mr. Mehta decides to visit Mumbai again…

View Point

My hands are cold and hurting. My knuckles are white from holding tightly on a rope, hoping I won’t fall into the muddy sea. The dingy is making slow progress and, being light, is being thrown around in the choppy waters. I turn and look at my other mates. I admire their resolve and hope to live up to their heroism. They are the true soldiers of Allah. Is there a better way to live? Indeed…is there a better way to die?

I think about the people I have left behind. Amma and Abba… they will be so proud of me. I hope I can live up to their dreams. I don’t know if I will ever see them again. The pain is too much. I ask my brother next to me to give me something to ease the pain.

It is better now.

I can see the hazy lights of the city now. Glimmering like a small galaxy of stars in a tepid, smoky sky. This is the sky of the enemy. These are the stars I will seek to extinguish. I see people, families now. Tiny specks in the distance. They will have to die. I have nothing against them. This is war and nothing is personal in war. Perhaps like my fellow Jehaadis… they will die and go to heaven too. Maybe allah will treat them as martyrs like He will treat me.

The leader is signalling us to be ready now. I take some more of the medicine to calm my nerves. I can hear my heart pound in my ears louder than the sounds of the sea. 

Relax Ajmal. This is what you have been training for. This is what you believe in. You are a son of the great Mohammed. You are a chosen one.

I am shivering now. My brother notices my angst and puts a hand on my shoulder. I look at him and see conviction in his eyes. They tell me that this is the moment in our lives which will set us apart from the rest. This is the moment when our destiny will be one with the destiny of our country, our enemy and our God.

The leader signals. We are there.

I close my eyes. Allah give me strength.

I give my hand to my brother who helps me out of this boat. My gun suddenly feels heavy. A sudden wave of panic hits me… what if we are caught before we do our job? What if we fail? I then remember the planning and the training. I remember how I was chosen over thousands of others because I was the best – much like my other brothers here with me. We have gone through this again and again… I can see the streets of my enemy’s city in my head. I can do this.

I quickly go into action. Precisely executing a sequence of steps as I am told to. There are so many people. Everywhere. There are children. They told me to kill without discretion. To strike terror in the hearts of the enemy of Islam. This is the job of a true Jihadi.

Allah… give your soldier, your son the strength to live his destiny. Give me the strength to die as a hero. May the world remember me as a martyr and nothing else. Ya Allah!

And I point my gun at the enemy and squeeze the trigger.

Ya Allah!

Breathless

…that’s what my country is today. It took us five decades to shed four centuries worth of oppression – this new millenium ushered in a new India. Those of us capable (and who had the opportunities) went along gleefully, working hard without stopping to take a breath, thinking that if we run hard enough, we will leave all our troubles behind. Call it optimism or naivete… this is what we as a collective have decided to do.

To hell with the naysayers, damn you if you don’t believe in the new India. Today we are shining, and the sheen is of our sweat and blood.

Who’s got the time for tears? Who cares if sometimes our blood is taken from us…along with lives, souls and families? We are breathless.

We believe in the power of education…and we have more engineers than anyone else in the world. The poor from the villages don’t need to study – who will drive our rickshaws and taxis? 

We believe in the power of intellect and we are working breathlessly to regain the glory of Aryabhatta. We are the heroes of the zeroes.

Our cities are growing faster than any in the world – our property prices are higher than those in Manhattan. Even the guys living under the flyovers are lucky!

We have the muscle today to buy foriegn companies – may the sun never set on the Indian empire!  We live and die by the Electro-Cardio-Gram of the Sensex. We breathe with the frequency of Mumbai’s local trains. And you tell me – our freedom is in danger? Shame on you!

We are guided by our principles of non-violence and peace – and we think that non-violence equals not fighting. Gandhi would have been proud of us no? 

We are secular – we believe all religions are equal and all Indians (from our side of the LOC) are our brothers and sisters. We believe that this gives our brothers in the Indian Mujahideen and their franchises to slap us in the face every now and then. What are a few spats between brothers we say. I love you my brothers…go ahead, rape and pillage…and I will love you still. Because frankly… we don’t care.

Because we are breathless in our success.

We are content with the status-quo in Kashmir – as long as we have our jobs. We want to keep talking with our neighbours… and because we believe in the half-full glass… we think they are swell. We are growing faster than we ever have before…and faster than most of the world. We have set our sights high… and we are constantly looking at the fireworks in the sky.

Boom! and flash of light and colours – we think we deserve the celebration, the adulation and the respect of the world. Boom! The ones in the marketplaces and the railway stations get lost in the fireworks above. We have to keep looking up. Keep moving forward.

If we run fast enough…we will leave our troubles behind.

Let us throw a 1000 new cars on the road for every mangled bike. Let us create a thousand new engineers for every broken life. Grace under pressure. Grit under duress.

Sure there are troubles around us and sure we had that fight yesterday - but isn’t it great that we have a nationwide pandemic of Alzheimers (which usually hits in the 60s…how apt for India!) and we tend to forget our spats and try to get along?

Come join me my brothers and sisters in my breathlessness. Run as fast as I am running…and soon you will leave your troubles behind.

Meanwhile…if you really want to know what Mumbai means to a true-blue Mumbaikar – read this: http://wisdomwearsneonpyjamas.wordpress.com/2008/11/29/of-home-heart-and-horror/ - The words are almost as beautiful as the city…

Why?

…an American asks, as we are huddled over a muffled CNN-IBN live feed, playing on HG’s laptop, ensconced in the regulated calm in our offices in Sunnyvale, California – far away from the madness on the streets of Mumbai. The reporting is as chaotic as reality over there… with rumours becoming headlines and then “corrected” with fresh rumours. No one know’s what is going on. All we know is that Mumbai is under attack. Luxury Hotels are being targeted. There is rampant gunfire and blood on the streets and images of women prematurely mourning the dead. The number of dead itself is being updated every 10 minutes…started with 3 and now I see the number 90 on the screen.

Why?

One of our Indian colleagues here, whose sister lives in Mumbai, answers, “No one knows why. In fact these terrorists themselves don’t know why.” Prior to 9/11 Americans wouldn’t have understood this. Now they understand this only too well…

Why?

HG and I are feeling helpless, both of us being away from our hometown. From aamchi Mumbai. Our people are ok. We just checked. Dee is tweeting away with live updates. My head spins as I see the insanity unfolding in front of us – hapless policemen being directed by hapless ministers and their hapless emergency committees. HG asks, “Why the hell do they have to have meetings now? Why can’t they have standard plans they can execute?”

Too many Why’s.

There are hostages now. Dee sends a message at 3 AM India time – “They’ve wrecked our home Abhi. Annihilated it.” Wrecked is what those high profile hostages in the five star hotels, would be feeling right now. Atleast the ones who are still alive. The injured are 900 weak now. The insanity continues as the Deccan Mujahideen claims responsibility for these attacks. What? These guys have frachisees now? Why are they growing unfettered and unchecked?

Why?

This is terrorism back to the basics. No huge bomb blasts – just scores of terrorists loose on the streets with dual cartridge AK-47s and grenades. This is Urban Guerilla warfare. This is the kind of terrorism that will get under the skin of everyone in Mumbai. As Dee puts it – this is like Somalia. Top cops are dead. Was this too a part of the plan? The famous dome of the Taj Mahal Hotel is burning.  All flights coming into Mumbai have been cancelled or diverted. Will be able to get back in time? I want to be there…with my family.

How long will we, as a nation, stand this? Again and again they strike at our heart. They hurt us, kill our brothers and sisters. And we blame Pakistan, close the borders and sever diplomatic relations. I can’t believe I am saying this – but I am suddenly realizing why US reacted the way it did after 9/11. At one point, concillatory policies have to be replaced with aggression. This is war. I hope we realize that soon…and fight. Or else – even after the embers die down tonight – it won’t be long before they strike again.

Edited: The first photos from the mayhem are coming in from Vinu…you can see them at http://www.flickr.com/photos/vinu/page1/

The Limerick Raj

There was once a man called Raj Th****ay,
Who vowed to keep outsiders at bay.
He shouted and screamed,
“All from UP and Bihar should be creamed!
Who cares if they built Mumbai with their toil?
They should go because they are not sons of our soil.”

He took a bunch of idiots and made an army,
And asked Bachchan to leave; how barmy!
So, with many a luminary a fight did he pick,
Ranting and raving like a deranged lunatic,
He claimed ownership of India’s greatest town,
Proceeded to riot and pillage to make the police frown.

Guess what Raj, you dimwit,
Your ideas amount to horseshit.
What matters is what you do, and not from where you hail,
Which is why now, your sorry ass is in jail. (wish it were without bail.)
‘Tis obvious no one taught you to be human in school,
because finally, you have trumped your uncle as the bigger fool.

- a very pissed off Mumbaikar.

Edited: As pointed out by Dee this is not a limerick in its truest sense. A limerick has 5 lines…in a,a,b,b,a format. Just wanted to do a take on “The License Raj”… Hope I am granted a bit of “poetic license”…

The power of mother’s milk

Now the title is not a bid to get the attention of all those mommy-bloggers! It is just an incident (or social experiment as the Joker would say) that occurred in my life otherwise filled with ennui (that is actually not true – just wanted to sound like martyr today…).

This occurred a couple of rainy Fridays back…when I was driving to meet Dee for dinner. (oh that’s funny…hyuk hyuk! Get it? …C for Cat and Dee for…nevermind…)

Anyway…as happens often when the Gods cry their tears to wash away our sins of summer…most of Mumbai appears to stand still. As if taking a moment off from their busyness to look up in silent wonder. (If anyone didn’t realize that was my euphemism for the monsoon traffic jams…please leave right now.) In reality Mumbai transforms into a massive sound-stage for the “Irritated Driver Philharmonic Orchestra” without a conductor. The resulting harmony is a cacophony of bleats and honks and minute “triiing-triiings” from the poor cyclists getting drenched to their skin and probably hiding their tears in the rain. (Try telling them that the meek shall inherit the earth!) The music is often accompanied with an amazing Choral section with carnal dedications to every class of female relative; and impassioned promises of impaling rear-ends with sticks, antennas, exhaust pipes and so on. Charming.

Such was the scene in which I existed for three lifetimes – trying to block out the wall of sound with … well another wall of sound inside my car. Then miraculously the scene before me cleared. I didn’t believe it until I saw the red lights in front of me getting smaller. I moved forward and my smile shone through the intermittent interruption of the wipers. I was so happy with my new found freedom and so engrossed in the sounds of James Blunt’s Bedlam that I almost didn’t notice a Hyundai Santro without headlights, honking desperately while trying to overtake on a single lane road. Now I am the sort of person who is a patient driver and let’s others in a tearing hurry overtake. No ego when someone wants to go – is my mantra. But I am little picky about who overtakes me. Driving a Porsche and desperately want to prove to your girlfriend that it was worth the money? Go ahead…be my guest. But a Santro without headlights on a single lane road? I don’t think so… So i resisted. He kept honking and kept coming closer to me… and there was a real risk of the Ben Hur finale being recreated in Powai… but I was determined. No way, No how, No Overtakin.

Soon both of us realized a trip to the repair shop was futile…and screeched to a halt…right next to each other…followed by a mexican wave of screeches of behind us. I looked at the maniac…he was listening to loud Himesh Reshammiya…and was glaring at me, waving wildly and mouthing what seemed like a love poem to my non-existent sister. I had two choices…either ignore him and carry on…or give him somethin back. Gandhi and Mangal Pandey collided in my head and found Dennis the Menace instead. I lowered my window…and through the rain…said loudly – “Agar Maa ka doodh piya hain to baahar nikal.” (If you have had your Mother’s milk – come out (and fight)”

Non Indians (and even South Indians for that matter) will not understand the primal nature of this statement. But in the India we love, Maa Ka Doodh equates to masculinity. Or something I really haven’t figured out. But it is enough to rouse anger in the meekest of men. And this guy didn’t exactly look meek. He roared and stepped out of the car into the rain and ankle deep slush. Impervious to pain, rain, stain and the resurgent orchestra honking in vain, he slish-sloshed his way around to my car. I let him get real close…and just when he was about to reach my door – stepped on the gas and unleashed 75 horses of pure acceleration – spraying him with muddy water and floating rats and leaving him with wet clothes, middle-finger sticking out of the window and triumphant tail lights.

As I looked in the rear view mirror…the bully appeared stunned, dumbfounded for a few moments – before starting to run behind me!! He soon realized that running in slush would even slow down Usain Bolt…and gave up… waving his hands in the air and shouting like a madman…

That was the last I saw of him. Though he left me with no doubt that his mother gave him plenty of milk – I don’t think she gave him any manners.