Terror Encore

The last time Mumbai was attacked, I wrote in anger. Today, four days after the worst terrorist seige India has ever seen, I write in confusion.

Yes, there are questions to be asked. But what exactly should they be?

Should we ask ourselves 'why Mumbai again'?

Should we ask 'why again'?

Should we question the motives the perpetrators have behind these heinous attacks?
Should we question our government's poor handling of the situation when even the mightiest country on the planet was reduced to rubble in 9/11?

When I asked myself these questions, I realised how perverse our own logic has become. If as a citizen, I cannot question the ability of my goverment to mitigate my city's vulnerability, then my thinking has fundamentally and successfully been flawed by the powers that be.

'The spirit of Mumbai' that every polititician alludes to in the aftermath of a killing spree has never left me feeling more cheapened as it has today. It is the unity and grit of the people of this city that helps us pick up the pieces and reconstruct life. It cannot be taken for granted. Just because we've always looked ahead in hope, doesn't mean we've forgotten to look bck for answers.

This attack has convinced me about the irrelevance of our politicians.
They really didn't matter when the nerve-racking flushing out operations ensued at the Taj, Oberoi and Nariman House.
Their presence was not wanted and in fact compromised the safety of the citizens.
Their speeches in the middle of all the hellish drama were an intrusion rather than a reassurance.
And their dramatic resignations post this nightmare seem to lack perspective in the wake of this enormous loss. We face the horror, we pick up the pieces and we live another day, while their presence in our lives is simply a well-rehearsed insipid speech on the media.

As a citizen, I fail to understand the role they play in our lives. And that is something no citizen should have to feel about the men and women they have put their trust into.

And this is the question we need to ask ourselves. Have we as a people become so habituated to ineptitude that we fail to bring our politicians to book? And really, what does our government actually do?
In the four days that Mumbai stood hostage, it seemed to me and to most of the city's people that the times we live in are akin to having no political system in place at all. Since clearly, whether they're in office or not, life goes on. And in Mumbai's case, terror goes on.

Evening

The calm of the day's surrender to the night brings countenance

to the trials of the hours before.

She will be here soon, to ink the sky with her own new shade of purple

and blot out the day's distortions.

The moon stands sentry to her arrival.

Stars hurriedly take their place,
Each hoping she will chose them to light her path.

In the distance she arrives.

The remnants of light see the futility of their struggle.

In one elegant sweep, she envelops the sky.

Slowly, she nurses the weary hours with hope.

For daylight will not relinquish claim to them for very long.

Easier said than done

Why is it so much easier to listen to the voice in our head?

The one that emanates lower seems just as persistent.

Perhaps it has something to do with the very nature of the place that it dwells in. The heart is gentle and nurturing. It’s a place that poets and artists turn to for inspiration. A place we spend most of our lives searching for in someone else.

It knows nothing of the coldness of logic and judgement.

Like a wide-eyed child shadowed by the conversations of older kin, it tries hard to be heard. It fights for attention. It talks constantly. It tries its own tender form of reason with the mind. It seldom wins. But never stops trying. In the hope that one day it too will have the same legitimacy as the voice of reason.

When you're happy and you know it

Happiness is the sum total of the instances that make us smile.

It’s the grin that surfaces when the world expects to look at us and see a grimace.

It’s a disobedient, beautiful moment that insists on replaying itself to test its charm.

Happiness lies in everything that isn’t good for us. Ironically, everything that’s frowned upon.

Flip Side

If Life were a person, what would he look like? Or considering popular sentiment about ‘life being a bitch’, what would she look like??

Maybe Life would be like that annoyingly confident know-it-all we’ve all encountered at some point in our lives. Full of answers and immensely liked by everybody.

But you.

The thing with Life is that you think it’s yours and you have the choice to do with it as you please. That thought process is all wrong.

Life is not a reflection of our deepest desires. It takes its own course and decides its own end. Nothing we are brought up to believe in is sacrosanct. Nothing is perfect. Nothing is predictable. And it doesn’t happen to the other person.

Life just is.

Brown-The new white

Sixty years ago, great men and women fought for the independence we enjoy today. It was as much a fight against slavery and injustice, as it was a struggle for preservation. Ours was a land rich in intricate customs and beliefs; that dictated how we lived and interacted. Till the British arrived and disturbed the balance. High tea and scones replaced lassi and parathas. Polo substituted kabbadi. And fitted trousers booted out the loose folds of dhotis. 60 years after we attained freedom from this suppression, it seems ironic that the benchmark of our progress lies in our acceptance of the very same western concepts.

But yes Pandit Nehru, we did awake to a life of freedom. And six decades after you made that rousing speech, we’ve managed to keep our tryst with destiny. Albeit in a slightly different way.

On the face of it, we’re a third-world country, rising to the ranks of a developing nation. But look closer and the evidence of a silent global take-over surface. It’s the people of Britain wiping their tears this time around. With every spicy bite of their national dish- chicken tikka masala! Our ability to multiply has also worked to our advantage. One in every five Britons is brown, not white (raising the probability of the 6th being caramel). Yoga has finally managed to make the west bow down to us. Bindis and Henna have branded their women (and quite a few of their men as well). Indipop literally makes them dance to our tunes. Call centers have contributed to the dramatic drop in their household income (if rice boats and lake palaces haven’t worked their charm already). And young technology prodigies from South India control the superpower that is America.

It’s an India that the freedom fighters would have loved to see: Non-violent in her approach but clear in her purpose. Powered by a generation that might not display the same degree of patriotism, but nevertheless feels a great sense of promise in the future of the nation. A generation that takes globalization as seriously as Indian-ness. A generation of leaders in their own right, who approach independence as an opportunity to shine rather than a mere escape from tyranny.

To live in India in her 60th year of independence, is to live in exciting times. Our nation is far from old and spent. She is a country in her prime. On the cusp of something big. And it’s the global interest in India that makes this even more apparent. ‘Indian’ is ‘in’. From fashion and food to technology and spirituality. We’re no longer a land of snake charmers and elephants. We’re the nation that astronauts and steel tycoons come from. A nation that gives the world thinkers and innovators. And when the rest least expect it: great writers and unimaginably gifted sportsmen.

When we wake up on the 15th of August this year and watch our flag being hoisted, we will know that it’s not a gentle breeze that makes our tricolour flutter. It’s the winds of change.

Left Right Left

Some people hear voices in their head. I hear an entire army. Their footsteps give my dreams a rhythm and then fade out into a background score till the drama of my reverie reaches a crescendo.

Every night for as long as I can remember, I’ve heard the brisk thrust of a hundred feet on a crisp morning ground.

At first, it would make me rush to the window and stare down the street to see the uniformed men in action. It never occurred to me that the prospect of a live regiment walking through the by-lanes of Bombay was a farfetched one. If people can see UFOs, real men in a march past seemed perfectly plausible.
But when not a single foot stomped past my sleepy eyes, I realized that the street they were on was paved only in my imagination.

I’ve never seen their faces. Or know their names. To me they’re a sound or at best a vision of ironed trouser legs over brightly polished boots.

Is it an anomalous result of being born on the eve of my country’s independence day? Are they an army of ‘knights in shining armor’ vying for my approval? Is it the bad karma of all those avoided sports days in school?
I’ve long since stopped debating the reasons. And prefer to live with my demons, or in this case; my soldiers. There aren’t too many people I know who can lead an army. In their sleep.