aditya kumar's weblog

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.

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.

Back in 1994, in New Delhi, my imagination was stirred by a Hollywood movie that I would later go on to watch 5 more times. Jurassic Park was the first Hollywood movie I watched that I completely understood. Maybe it was so because my first viewing of the movie was in Hindi. Besides, I had never managed to watch a complete Hollywood movie before.

Besides introducing a 13 year old boy to the science of cloning, it also introduced me to the rich experience of a Steven Spielberg movie and Computer Generated Imagery but the most profound and long lasting was the effect that Michael Crichton had on me. He was the author of Jurassic Park and there was a world out there to be read.

I had just started reading “The Three Investigators” and my insights into the English language and it’s literature were few. What I was not afraid of was, to pick up stuff that at first glance made little sense for someone my age. Nor was I afraid of picking books that were big in size.

I made my parents buy Jurassic Park, the book. It was a costly purchase, I remember. But more importantly, it was the start of a tradition that would serve me well — to buy books that are later made into movies.

I made myself a promise that from then on I would read every Michael Crichton book. I went on to read The Terminal Man, The Lost World, Airframe, Timeline, State of Fear and Prey. I started reading Sphere but during the course of it I once woke up to a terrifying dream. I could not complete the book. The back cover of “The Terminal Man”, the second Crichton book that I read, informed me that the author’s last name, “Crichton” rhymed with “Frighten”.

As you can see, the effect of Jurassic Park, the movie and then the book, was quite strong.

It has to stop now.

Michael Crichton, October 23, 1942 – November 4, 2008. You will be remembered as a writer who captivated minds. You fired my imagination.

And You will be missed.

Meanwhile a bunch of interesting links that I’d like you to visit:

Caferati and livejournal have come up with a new contest. Its flash fiction. And the topic is “journal”. The end date is 7-September. Some of the prizes include serious cash, a chance to get a Livejournal paid account and a chance to see your story in print. I tell you, check this one out. Here.

Shradha visits Golkonda fort and blogs about it here. Picture blogging, this.

Fellow blogger Sneha has this acrylic work. One of the best that I have seen in recent times.

Meanwhile, traveling in the USA, Dilip comes across what they claim to be, “The most honest place in the world”. Turns out, it might as well be. Read it here.

Barely 250 meters ahead was the U-turn that would enable the rider to be where he wanted to be. 250 meters the side I was on and 250 meters on the other side — A ride of half a kilometer would all that would take him to respect the law.

But yet he kept waiting on the side of the road, the same side as I was. The problem with this section (on this side) is that vehicles come at a higher (than usual) speed and for the pedestrian, it is quite a challenge to cross the road. This is not so, once you are half way through because the other side has an intersection down the road, which prevents the vehicles on that side to speed up.

So while I waited, and I waited approximately 4 minutes to cross the road, this seemingly well educated man on his bike waited too. Engine turned on and quite ready to put his bike on the divider in the middle and then cross over, at the first opportunity.

Needless to say, a 500 meter ride instead would have taken much less time and given a lighter conscience.

As I arrive in the middle and stand on the little space on the divider, so does this man, on his bike. We wait for the traffic on the other side to ease up.

I look at him and ask: “Why are you doing this?”

The guy is expressionless.

He looks down, then looks behind him and gets his bike on the same side he was on. With that little guilt that I saw in his eyes, he rides ahead, on the way, quite literally if I may say, to follow the law.

I stay where I am. I look straight and there is another guy on the other side. I notice he is trying to say something.

With sign language, he asks me if its okay to ride his bike over the divider.

I see this guy, has this Johnny Depp kind of a beard and a physique that could make the strictest of gym goers wonder what could be wrong with their workout regimen. Only later do I realize, because of his continued conversations on the phone, that he is a Muslim. He is called Aslam.

So we rode down to the river where the Victorian ghosts pray
For the curses to be broken
We go underneath the arches where the witches are and they say
There are ghost towns in the ocean
The ocean…

He is not a strict Muslim, that much I can see. For he does not do his prayers on the floor but on the train seat itself, with a pillow on his lap. And it is at that moment that the words are spoken to me, the sound in my head —

Gunners in the houses and gunners in my head
And all the cemeteries in London
I see god come in my garden but I don’t know what he said
For my heart it wasn’t open
Not open…

Suddenly it’s all very clear. That very moment, those few seconds, I cease to see him as Aslam. Instead, I start seeing him as a misunderstood Muslim. And perhaps more importantly, a Muslim that has misunderstood it all. I have not come across many defining moments in my life but I sure know how it is when one happens.

A few days back I read it somewhere and I think it was Bono who said — “Generally, religion gets in the way of God.” I know exactly what Bono meant when he said that. Certainly, this is not about U2 or Coldplay’s latest or Aslam. It’s about identities lost, perceptions — both right and wrong, failures to connect with each other at the human level and a broken hotline with God, to top it all.

Suddenly, it’s all very clear to me.

“The right way is”, he continued, “to figure out the lesser culprit of all — and vote”.

Teaching a language gives the teacher a whole big playground of subjects to play with. “This is a pen”, “That is a clock” or moving on to a little more complex syntax, “We should all vote”. Complex still — “Who will you vote for?”. That is how this small lecture on politics started, as our Kannada teacher made sure that he put his point through, the responsible citizens that we are, we all should vote.

Not for the first time though. The three sessions he has taken, in a classroom used for teaching Bsc Nursing students that transforms itself into a Kannada school on Sundays, politics is one topic that our teacher seems to enjoy as much as, if not more, teaching Kannada.

The short, stocky, balding man who prides himself for being an ambassador of pure Kannada could very well take pride in the thorough understanding he possesses of state politics. Intellectualism comes in all forms, and sometimes in the least obvious ways.

So while the little man stresses on finding the lesser sinner of all and voting for him, he also mentions one important fact that could well turn out to be the sentiment of the common man — A coalition government just won’t do.

During the coffee break as I stare, silently amused by reading the words “Female Toilet” and wondering if there is a “Male Toilet” I could ‘meet up’ somewhere nearby, our teacher comes up to me and asks if I have my name in the voting list. And then we carry it on to why S.M.Krishna lost and why Kummaraswamy should not come back again.

A few perfectly valid reasons later I am left wondering where did our country go wrong in the last 60 years. For the things that make the common man so “common” deserve much more than the Krishnas, Kumaraswamys and even the Advanis that our political machinery has regularly churned out.