November 26, 2009.
Gateway.
These mist covered mountains
Are a home now for me
And then, near the Taj, a van crosses by proclaiming, 'A Nation salutes its brave soldiers'. 'Tourists' line the street, admiring the large bulletproof military vans. the kulfi wala opposite the Taj is doing mad business. The group of teenage girls all in white t-shirts and wide smiles, get their pictures clicked as they salute for the camera.
The procession walks by, screaming, 'Kasab ko phaansi do'; 'Hum sab ek hain'. Followed soon by the saffron brigade carrying flags with the 'Om' displaying prominently. 'Desh ki raksha kaun karega, bajrang dal, bajrang dal. Dharm ki raksha kaun karega, Bajrang Dal, Bajrang Dal'.
There's so many different worlds
So many different suns
And we have just one world
But we live in different ones
They proceed to chant more Hindu specific chants as I move towards Rahman's voice wafting from near the Gateway. The concert just ended, I'm told. Music. Crowds. A lit Gateway. Girls in skirts, giggling and clicking their pictures next to the military vehicles. People in fancy dresses, with T-shirts demanding some dude be hanged. Is it more a carnival and less a mourning? A carnival of our survival. For now.
A few youngsters sit in a circle, with a wobbly centerpiece enquiring, 'Mumbai Spirit?'. The crowd pushes me aside to see what's going on; then getting bored, leaves soon enough. Mumbai Spirit?
'Hindustan ke veeron. Saari duniya ki tarf se shraddhanjali. Aatankvaad ko jud ke khatm karne ke aapke adhoore sapne ko hum poora karenge'
Nearer the hotel, there's a bunch that sits on the pavement selling candles.
Processions will be processions. Even the ones in mourning, would require one person to scream the first line, and the rest of the procession will scream the second. And in every procession, there'll be one guy who'll pick the wrong moment to scream. And it'll lead to guffaws. 'We all mourn the dead. But ha ha ha, his voice was so weird just then'
Crowds gather around the TV interviewer. Seeing the crowd gathered, more crowds gather to see why the crowd has gathered. Someone is carrying a flag; which is then inconveniently hoisted and clumsily waved, and the crowds dutifully scream 'Vande Mataram' and 'Bharat Mata ki Jai'. And the camera records it. And all of us are a part of the spectacle that is all of us.
And later, in the cordoned off area near the Gateway
We Pledge. We Will. Mumbai Shapath.
And though they did hurt me so bad
In the fear and alarm
You did not desert me
My brothers in arms
A hoarding displays the names of all victims that died. There are two 'unknown's. No anonymouses. I start reading their names. I give up soon enough. The names were too hard. Too boring.
Erected to commemorate the landing in India of their Imperial Majesties King George V and Queen Mary on the Second of December MCMXI
The self picture clicking fest continues. Especially beautiful is the effort that goes into (trying to) getting the smile just right for the pictures. And once the picture is clicked, we must rush to see whether the attempts at smiling in that particular way succeeded. Or should we fake-whine to get the last shot deleted, and try one more time.
Back at the Taj, as I stand taking a final look, a middle aged guy walks past carrying a placard and a small flag. Sensing my curiosity to read what's on the placard, he pauses, holding the placard up for me. I stare at the placard, earphones still on, as a few moments pass. 'If you understand Marathi, that is', he says. I remove the earphones. The placard has some demand written in Marathi, written in Saffron, with the word 'kasab' in green. 'I don't,' I say, 'but I get the import'... 'Kasab,' he explains, smiling. 'That bastard.' he says, and walks off.
Now the sun's gone to hell
And the moon's riding high
Let me bid you farewell
Every man has to die
But it's written in the starlight
And every line on your palm
We're fools to make war
On our brothers in arms
