Sheeple, PartTwo

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

Sheeple, Part One

November 26, 2009
Marine Drive. 8 PM.

I walk my usual end-of-work walk to Churchgate, my usual earphones in tow blaring the usual music. The queen's necklace plays host to a flood of small-time processions in remembrance. Impoverished kids holding placards that read -

"Politicians are the root of all evil"
"Our politicians are our terrorists"

Twenty-somethings sporting "I heart Mumbai" T-shirts. News crews doing their jobs tiredly, and hundreds thronging the scene for a few minutes, and getting bored and moving on. A nation of ADD afflicted people mourns.

"They started it. We will end it" screams the poster lying on the floor of Marine Drive.

TV news anchoresses (?) enjoying being the center of attention with their TV make up on. Foreigners clicking photographs of the poor family lighting the candles. They ask the poor mother and her children to pose. One day they'll enter this practiced shot in a photography competition and win the third prize.

"Sorry doesn't make a dead man alive"
"Only in India. Worli Sea Link Project 400 to 1600 crores"

The director of the TV show pats the kids' heads spouting vague profound platitudes to his anchoress, "The terrorist is there in us". Then continues to speak broken laborious hindi with the poor family.

The Professional Party of India spouts its triteness with web addresses prominently positioned on their t-shirts.

"One India. One People. Do not divide us for political gains."

The people in the Hero Honda sponsored sub-procession drum their raucous little dhol and chant their raucous little chant . For some reason, the Hum Awaz Charitable Trust is carrying a hovercraft on top of its gigantic bus. Candles lit in front of the Trident. The sub-processions pose for the cameras.

"We are the offenders & the victims if we do not vote !!!"

You know, I would have actually missed your point but your three exclamation points really jogged my brain and transformed my whole life view.

Barely twenty feet away from them a mother and her son lie on the marine drive pavement. The mother wants to sleep, her head resting on her raggedy slippers. Her worn out sari her bed sheet. She tries to sleep in vain (its 8 pm) as her son cries and tugs at her.

"Free the police from the politicians. Implement Police Reforms."

The rally participants pass her by. So do the happy couples enjoying the queen's necklace on a windy November evening. Perhaps the worst are people like me. Those who'll pause and observe the scene, with the phrase, 'grotesque irony' swirling in their heads. Who'll think for a fraction of a fraction of a second if they can do something. And then leave after convincing themselves at nano speed that 'of course there isn't. How stupid of me to even consider this question. What can I do? Its just the way it is. I dont want her to be poor. Its just the way it is.'

A wife, husband and her mother-in-law pass her. The wife pauses for a second. I can read her mind. She'd much rather that the woman on the pavement not be on the pavement. She stops. She lurches towards the sleeping woman, unsure of herself. Her husband and mother-in-law pull her back. She complies semi-reluctantly.

Main janda tainu ajj
Peerh hundi
Dil tere uthhdi ey
Chees

Main janda aunde
Din ‘ch tufan kai
Kujh sujhda na
Udddi ey reit

Probably she'll forget all about it before she reaches Not just Jazz by the bay, a few steps down the road, and takes a heavenly whiff of the pizzeria. Maybe she'll think of her in the night, and then think, 'Oh but I wanted to help her, but they pulled me back. What could i do?'

Tera maseeha
kivein das bane koi
Duniya sabh bhulli firdi
Khud varke tainu folne paine
Khud painde tainu chalne paine
Navein akhar gharne paine

And opposite the Express building a tv crew has cornered a politician and a bunch of concerned citizens of mumbai. The citizens question, some trying to sound intelligent; others wailing about why kasab has been kept alive for a year. The politician justifies. The anchoress counts seconds to when she gets to stop nodding vigorously and say this, "Aaiye junta se pata karte hain kya sandesh hai har mumbaikar ko, ek saal baad ..."

The Air India building carries a huge picture / shadow that spells 'In rememberance' with a picture of the Taj and a huge candle.
Half a dozen people stop to click a picture of this magnificient display. They'll go home and upload it on their facebook page. A TV crew cameraman records them clicking it. He'll put it in a montage for the late night anniversary special on his news channel. I write about the cameraman recording the people clicking the photographs. I'll post it on an unread blog. You're reading what I wrote. Perhaps you'll tell it to somebody.

"We're all going to die"

(yeah, ok, this one wasn't one of the placards)

The candle is tilted. 'If it tips, it'll set the Taj on fire again', I think as I stand at the marine drive pavement marked '0000 Meters'. A guy does his stretching exercises. '0100 Meters' A sketching artist sits jobless, waiting for someone to come any look at his wares. '0200 Meters' A young couple sits still and stare into each others' eyes silently. Feels like they've been that way for a long time now. '0300 Meters' Two foreigners sit with two large headphones on their ears listening to music and stare out into the sea. '0400 Meters' Two professionals sit with a small laptop with a broadband doggle, and stare into the laptop. Opposite them a Taxi Driver cleans his taxi.

T-shirt quote of the guy who passes me by - "Someday they'll make a movie about me". I turn right towards Churchgate.

Next - Sheeple, Part two - November 26, 2009. Gateway.