Oh yeah, yeah...
A Wednesday. There was a movie of the same name. Maybe it was an inspiration for whatever happened. The date, that is.Wednesday night, 10.30 p.m. A relaxed, post dinner atmosphere. We have friends over for dinner...we are cradling ice cream bowls in our hands and discussing embroidery, movies, an impending sister's wedding among other things. Some of us crack jokes at the current recession situation. The TV is on to a reality show which is a re-run of a previous re-run. A friend's cell phone rings. She answers, its her folks from home, who are asking her if everything is fine. A look of confusion crosses her face as she wonders why she should be asked something so incongruous at this time of the night. We hurriedly switch channels and alight upon a news channel. "Mumbai attacked", it says, in loud, all capital letters. The harried correspondent is standing outside a hazy outline of a building. We sit up bolt upright in unison, as we realise that the hazy outline is VT station. Gunshots are to be heard even as the correspondent speaks. And that, did not even mark the beginning. We hear of Leopold cafe being attacked. We hear of the Taj and Oberoi hotels being taken over and people there held as hostages. We hear of Nariman house taken over and the Israeli families trapped there. The ice cream bowls lie unattended to one side, ice cream accumulating in tiny, chocolate coloured pools.
One of us breaks the silence nervously. With a fidgety laugh, a friend says, "Thank heavens that we live in the western wilderness in the middle of nowhere". There are dull murmurs across the room. Suddenly, another news flash. A taxi has been blown up in Vile Parle. The friend's smug smile has disappeared. This time I chime, "Thank heavens we are home". The friends depart, and in the sullen silence we watch as channel after channel relays the horror that is unfolding in the oldest part of the urban metropolis of Bombay. The vibrant night is paralyzed as the number of dead climbs and the number of injured rises exponentially to keep up with it. A bizarre number game evolves; and the night turns into a nightmare without an end.
The morning after. There is no way it could have ended in one night, is there? With trademark cynicism, we begin the day to newspapers full of gory photographs, and news channels doing more than their bit to ensure no one steps out of home. I cancel a business trip because the administration in our office has refused to let us travel. We watch, over a piping hot breakfast of omelets and buns as the 105 year old Taj heritage building burns, with its symbolic back to the gateway of India. We quietly thank God that we are out of it, that we re in our plush homes and not there as the terror drama unfolds. We answer hasty calls made by relatives and friends and say the same platitudes, "No, nothing is wrong. Everything seems ok in our area. Sorry? Oh he, he came back by 8 itself in the night. No, none of us were there. Office? No, I do not think it is working today. Even the BSE is shut. I think the Reserve Bank will declare a holiday. No, don't worry, we won't venture out. Oh yes, the Taj was beautiful. But what can we do now? Ok, you take care. See you." The conversation is also peppered with breakfast details. By 10 a.m. it is declared a holiday and people settle back for a day at home.
The news channels show the photographs of a few police officers who have died the previous night in the encounter. One of them was on TV last night, asking people to stay calm. There is a sudden jolt as we realize the enormity of what is happening.
The day goes on. We look at channels, newspapers and see if the situation is improving. By now the atmosphere at home is one of a national holiday, with an elaborate lunch, post lunch siesta and evening walk, all planned. We chat, read and blog without a care in the world. We read about the General Manager's family who are killed at the Taj. We hear about an italian woman with her baby inside the oberoi. We hear that the fisher men had noticed some suspicious looking people landing at the wharf of the Colaba port a day before, and that nothing was done about the suspicion. A finance biggie says that in all resilience, Mumbai will be back to work tomorrow. Sure it will. As if it has an option.
Some one at home makes calls to arrange transport to the suburban office for the next day, as the main office is opposite VT station and is cordoned off for the general public. I wander out to buy vegetables, and notice that the crowd at the market is half the normal size. I buy my stuff, and humming a song, walk back home. We have a good dinner, and discuss that this is bigger than we imagined. We look at photographs of the dead policemen again and again, until we are sure that we would recognize them anywhere we saw them now, except that we are never going to see them again.
One more morning. The situation is not under control. I get ready for office as usual. I peep out of the window, and see that traffic has almost been restored to normal. Children are heading towards school; people are walking towards the station to catch their trains. I see that no one has so much as a frown on their faces. If it were not for the news channels and the papers, no one would have believed that anything was going wrong with the city.
I reach office. People are lounging in every corner and everyone is discussing yesterday and Wednesday night. There are talks all around about who came yesterday to office, what was office like with twenty percent attendance, and whether those who didn't come would have their wages cut or if it was to be considered a holiday. I munch on a mayo sandwich for breakfast and look around at faces around me. There is a blankness, a rehearsed precision to what people are saying. Like a war weary journalist says on National TV, " We are so used to handling and ignoring such things now, we are veterans at it".
I observe cynicism in every comment and stoicism in every response. People have gone beyond fear. Every thought or statement about staying indoors or not venturing to office is met with a wry smile which seems to say, "And how will that make a difference?" No one here is indoors today, Friday.
This city adds a new dimension to the statement "Life goes on". Yes, life goes on. At different times, different places, different people and lives get disrupted. We read, we shrug, we dust ourselves after each fall and move on. Ignoring our wounds, ignoring the pain, practising numbness with each stab, stitching the torn fabric of our lives, and pretending nothing has happened. Oh yes, we pretend. We pretend to not be afraid, we pretend to be workaholics, we pretend to have no time to confront fear. We pretend that whoever has died is not our won, we pretend that it will never happen to us, and we drag our feet towards the future in incredulous hope. Hope which might shatter with the next blast.
The world calls it resilience, I call it helplessness.
posted by Anupama. @ 7:45 pm
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