aditya kumar's weblog

A few hours before Independence day, watching Attenborough’s Gandhi, I am left with a few more observations and questions.

Gandhi united our country, north to south, east to west. He walked, people followed. Today, 62 years after Gandhi, we are falling apart. We have long forgotten that we are Indians first. We have made it very convenient to forget that. We believe it is all okay. We have let chalta hai rule us.

Before 15th August 1947 we were fighting against the British Empire. Today we have to fight not only religionism but regionism as well. The worst part is, most people do not even realise it. Do a check and you will find that somewehere in it all, we have to fight ourselves.

The leaders that we elect are not leaders, they are politicians. It is an irony that India’s last known leader never held an office.

I do not think that Gandhi was the only reason we got our independence. There were other factors too. But I admire Gandhi most because he stood up and unified the nation. Because he sparked a nation’s imagination. Because he believed that Gita or Quran, it is all okay as long as the path leads to God.

Believe it or not, The Mahatama was our last hero, our last leader.

My dream is this. I want to live in an India where her citizens think of themselves as Indians first. Where politicians are held accountable for the offices they hold. Where justice is not looked down upon. Where people are not scared to approach the court of law. Where chalta hai doesn’t work anymore.

I wonder what happened to that dream Nehru had, the one he proclaimed to the world exactly 62 years ago as the clock approached midnight, just as it is now, as I write this. The same dream in which he mentioned India’s tryst with destiny. Don’t you think we have all lost our ways?

May there be Glory for India and her citizens.

Happy Independence Day.

Three years ago, a professor in Ujjain, was beaten in front of the cameras. He died on the way to the hospital, succumbing to a cardiac arrest. Later that evening, the clips were shown on television.

Day before yesterday, all six accused walked free. Reason? Lack of evidence.

This, after the crime was committed and caught on camera.

When Varun Gandhi made that speech at Pilibhit, Indian Politics hit a new low. Its a shame that the great-grandson of the late Pt. Jawahar Lal Nehru, architect of the modern day democracy that India is, has even uttered those words. It goes on to show how politics of hate is ruling the country, irrespective of what party is at helm at the center. That we listen to the crap that politicians like him have to offer is a sign how immature a society we are. Muslims in every nook and corner of the country will disapprove him for his speech as it was anti-muslim but only the (mostly) urban and rational Hindu will condemn it whole-heartedly — and how many would that be? The rest will glorify him and that is very unreasonable and disturbing.

Then there is the Charlie Chaplin statue that has evoked extreme sentiments in Karnataka. Why is the statue not allowed to be erected? Because the comedian was a Christian. Karnataka has started to scare me now. I mean, when were we so intolerant that we decided on our heroes based on their religion? Why does religion decide so many things for us now? Okay, I think there is a little mistake here. The people who decide things based on religion, the netas, leaders, politicians, the sevaks — birds of the same flock these, are not us. They go about doing this because they think they have a certain moral authority which I think comes because of the political power that they possess. The first thing that we, as people who disapprove of these birds of the same flock, can do is stop accommodating them within the realm of us. Stop letting them within the range of we. And then we take away what gives them, what they think is the moral authority that they have. We vote these people out.

My earliest memory of Bombay is also the most amusing one. My mother and father taking turns holding my sister and I holding one of them by the hand, standing on the overbridge of Ghatkopar station, pointing our gaze at the far end of the rail tracks, trying to ascertain which platform the coming train will ply on. If someone ever tried to find out a method to Bombay’s madness, here was one. At that moment, when all of us, despite everything, boarded the train, Bombay was an overcoming of obstacles.

The usual journey that took us to Bombay from the suburb we lived in involved a 45 minute boat ride, a walk through the Naval dockyard, a taxi ride, a train to be caught from the majestic Victoria Terminus. In monsoons, it was mostly an ordeal — much before we could make our ways through the Bombay roads that were full of filth and mire, we had to deal with the rough seas. But this fortnightly trip was something that had to be undertaken, for we lived in a place that was much away from the mainland. And going to the home of my father’s aunt — our only relation in Bombay, was a journey that was very comprehensive and offered me the only glimpse of a world that was so different than the one where I lived, only a few miles away. Then, Bombay was a collection of life’s first few lessons.

But the most rewarding of all was when I used to go to Bombay with my mother. She loved to windowshop at Crawford market (deep inside she still does, I know). We roamed around the fountain area, picked up some casual clothing and windowshopped at the costly stores. During one of those trips, I was amazed, almost to an extent of being in shock, to the sight of two glass doors opening (and closing) automatically as I stepped into a (very posh) Vimal Cloth Store. It was probably man’s greatest achievement, I thought — a technical feat. Oh and I almost forgot to mention the reward involved — the “softy” we called it then, the ice-cream cone that my mother treated me to. It was nothing less than a bribe. Getting it was not so easy — I had to keep my mouth shut while mom took her time choosing clothes. And on the rare occasion that I was extra good at it, I got twice of what was promised. At that very moment, Bombay became rewarding.

Slums were to be seen for the most part of the train journey. And there were different smells. A sea of smells. The smell of dried fish, the salty air. The city still retains most of it. Ah yes, the slums. They were just there, as if they had been there always. I never thought of them then — See, I was coming out of my shell and what I saw then was my idea of the world. So there it was, that another world alongside the railway tracks. The two worlds, by and large, living coherently.

So it comes as a surprise to me when they continue to derive so many things out of the slums. Spirit. Coherence. Unity. Tolerance. Pick up anything. Any movie, any literature on this city and you will find something or the other of the just mentioned coming out. Midnight’s Children, A Fine Balance, Salaam Bombay, Shantaram, Dharavi and the most recent, Slumdog Millionaire –each one of them a masterpiece. But why do we need to be reminded, by these works of art all based in Bombay’s slums, that religious tolerance and staying together are lessons that can be derived from an ordinary life?

At that time, for a 10 year old boy, Bombay was nothing extraordinary. It was just as things ought to be.

A month after the Mumbai attack, we limp on. We search for love and peace. One guy in Brigade road, Bangalore, gives free hugs to strangers. Some find peace in sending greeting cards.

Pakistani terrorists attack India. India ups the rhetoric. Pakistan deploys most of its army on the India border. India still talks diplomacy. Pakistan continues the troop build-up and checks if its nuclear bombs are in place. India talks more, says no war. Pakistan says no war too, but the Army is still out there aiming at us. I am just wondering, who should be calling the shots here. And who is.

Meanwhile the politicians hit back with two very disturbing comments. And probably the only thing more disturbing than the comments are the two people who these comments come from. Here and here. Farooq’s comment is particularly disturbing because he is one man who never misses an opportunity to give some credit, to pat the back of the guys across the border. Playing both sides — an old habit of his.

All these years I didn’t vote. Somewhere, somehow, I am partly responsible for all this. Now, I can’t wait.

I do not know how would I have reacted if I was in Bombay during (any of) the terror strikes. There would be a mix of reactions and feelings in my head and I wouldn’t quite know how I would be dealing with the situation. Would I be writing about it? Would I switch off my television, disgusted of whatever I see? Would I have prolonged discussions about it with people I can talk sense with? How would it be?

But I do have a certain idea of how I would not want to be. I would not be like Narendra Modi. I would not go there with my bunch of security guards around me and I definitely won’t talk to the press. All this while hostages and the commandos fight it out only a few meters away. I promise you that I won’t try to score a political point out of it, for deep inside I would know how shallow my words would be then, as they have always been and I would just not have courage to do it, no matter what. Perhaps I would fear that my doing it would show to the world how oblivious I am to the intensity of the situation.

I would also hate to be in the (then) CM’s shoes. After being ashamed of my deputy’s comments while trying to mellow down the mood of the public by telling that this was just a choti si baat in a bada sa shehar ( a small incident in a big city), what I would definitely say no to would be my son’s demand of accompanying me while I go (with my personal commandos of course) and inspect of what is left after the massacre. And even in the hypothetical case that I take him with me I swear to you that I would keep his friends out. No matter how good (or bad) a director you are, this is a ticket I can’t get you Mr Verma. I am Sorry.

Nor would I be like this man, who, I am sure, has quite earned the irk of of a few cosmetic companies apart from the womenfolk. It must be obvious that anyone condemning the lipstick should be prepared to be left “red-faced”. The ghosts would definitely come back to haunt when Mr Naqvi gets elected to some office in the Government (It may happen, who knows) and have a couple of women superiors to report to.

Lastly, I would hate to be this other CM and earn the wrath of the proud father of a brave soldier. I wonder, how much, if I may use the apt word, shitty, one can be to call a press conference and say it all, quite calmly, that “not even a dog would have glanced that way”.

Perhaps the most surprising impact of the Mumbai terror attacks has been the wrath earned by our politicians from the junta. It had been long impending. Today no politician can roam on the streets of Bombay or Delhi as a free man.

These are the leaders we elect and put on high places. Be scared because they come from you and me. Be worried because it is no one’s but our failure. All these years, we have failed to deliver one strong leader we can look up to.

These lines were captured on TV, while a mumbaikar took a printout and held on them:

Mr Terrorist: I am still alive, what more can you do?
Mr Politician: I am alive despite you.

I AM A MUMBAIKAR.

Its a pity that these come from the streets of Bombay, the pulse of what is the World’s largest democracy. What a shame.

They say it is India’s 9/11. I think I have heard that before. Maybe when they attacked the Parliament. Does it matter?

Reports like this come out once in a while and then are later discarded. Why?

The ATS team were interviewed by the TV last week or so. Did you know all of them were killed?

They attacked Leopold’s. Did they read Shantaram?

I was roaming on the same streets 3 days ago with a friend from far away while she absorbed everything on her first day in the city. I wanted her to have a safe journey, her first in this part of the world. Had this happened then, how safe would I have felt? How could I be my usual reassuring self?

How safe do I feel now?

This is Bombay, 27 November 2008. I am terrified. Petrified.