A Case of The Rich vs The Poor…

   

                   

I got a message asking me to wear white on the 26th of November in memory of those who died in last year’s carnage. I dutifully wore a white tee and was very pleasantly surprised to see a whole city in white. Not all had obliged but in a city of 19 Million, even if a miniscule percentage complies… it becomes a swarm of white. You can do the math if you want.

There was a countdown to the anniversary of 26/11. The Media, fresh from a couple of very recent countdowns (viz, Tendulkars 17,000 and Tendulkar’s 20 yrs of cricket or Tiger Woods’ bedding count for that matter!!) appeared frenzied about the event’s aniversary, almost as if hoping for the carnage to reoccur and boost the TRPs again. The Times of India released a Black and White edition and the same images have been splashed over and over again for the last 10 odd days. If the idea is to make the people of Bombay remember, it is a touching gesture. But what about the people who want to forget and move on and still they  wake up everyday to see their loved ones sprawled across the floor every morning?

What if the places under attack were not The Taj and The Oberoi but the other 54% of Bombay – our slums?! The Media would have given it the same coverage, but would our ‘conscious and aware ’ citizens then flock to the disregarded slums of Dharavi and light candles for them? Or shout slogans like “Bharat Maa kii shaan hai.., Mumbai meri jaan hai!”? (I’m still talking about the lesser of the two Mumbais here.)

Isn’t is a point worth pondering whether the NSG would have even been dispatched if Dharavi would have been the point of attack?

 

         

 

    The elite commandoes, the Home Minister’s visit, posse of policemen and the tributes of all the high profile ministers were given just because the point of attack was The Taj. Maybe they were secretly thanking their stars for having chosen some other place to squander taxpayer’s money that day!!

Maybe I am being too harsh.

I know the terrorists were being gracious in choosing the elites once and including them in our misery. The fact that they chose the iconic CST as a point of attack was an equaliser of some sorts as it was the Common Man’s Taj Mahal.

But I would be a hypocrite if I would say that I wasn’t hurt by the attack on Taj and The CST. A visit to Bombay is incomplete without gawking at The Taj. Though it is only a hotel, it enjoys equal popularity in the city when compared to it’s more illustrious namesake in Agra. Thousands throng to The Gateway of India everyday, admire it and then turn around to look at the most splendid structure of Bombay. So many times have we seen the newly-wed middle class husband show his wife The Taj proudly and then whisper conspiratorially in her ear, ‘Do you know, a cup of tea here costs Rs. 200/-’ (God knows why are we so fixated with the cost of tea at Taj and but each of the 19 million residents of Bombay are guilty of uttering the statement!) An attack on The Taj was not only an attack on India’s claim for being safe for tourists, it was also an attack on the psyche of the happy go lucky Bombayite.

The siege lasted 60 hours and it had kept an entire nation on it’s tenterhooks. After it was over, the whole nation heaved a sigh of relief and what followed was a tremendous wave of anger. In an unorganised show of solidarity, thousands had thronged to the Gateway of India to express their solidarity with those who lost their loved ones and also to declare their love for their city. 80% of the people who had come for the March had never been to The Taj and in all probability might never ever afford The Taj’s obscenely priced meals, but The Taj for the Bombayite, goes much beyond being our premier 5 star hotel.

 

 

Still, what prompted me to write this was a nocturnal visit to the city on Christmas Eve. My friends wanted to munch on the famous kebabs from the Kebab Corners behind the Taj and when we had reached The Taj, I observed that the short stretch of road was guarded like Fort Knox. It’s a very small road and yet a slew of policemen were stationed, checking upon every motorist and trespasser. For a minute I thought we were somewhere near the border, but then I realised that the rich were attacked a year ago..!!

A Case of misdirected concern…!

                     It was the day the Sri Lankan army blew the top of Prabhakaran’s head off.

Mum was not so happy. I too, felt bad for the fallen leader the same way I felt sorry when I saw the videos of Saddam Hussain’s last moments. I thought it was the same with Mum.

“So, what about the Tamils in Sri Lanka now? Would their lives be any better now under the Sinhala Government?” She asked.

“Why should we care? Don’t we have enough on our platter?” I replied, rolling my eyes. I knew where it was leading.

“Arre, how can you say that? Don’t you know how Tamils are discriminated against by the Sinhala Government?” She asked incredulously.

“They are not Indians, why should we care?” I replied, irritated.

“If we don’t, who will?” She asked, it was a line straight out of Dan Brown’s Angels and Demons. “That Rajapakse (Sri Lankan President) is worse than Hitler!”

I think it was  poor analogy, but then Mum, being my Mum, has her own set of theatrical ways of showing her concern. It was her way of saying that she hated Rajapakse as much as she hated Hitler.

“Why should we care? Just because they speak our language doesn’t mean we should feel their pain too!” I persisted.

“Why do you think I say this because they are Tamils? Isn’t there something known as Humanity?” Mum demanded indignantly.

“Oh! Humanity, was it? Where was your Humanity when our Tiger Cub was bellowing his lungs out against fellow Indians? Don’t they deserve more of our concern?”

“Do you feel the same for the Humanitarian crisis in Chechnya and Somalia? Or Sierra Leone for that matter?” I asked, mockingly.

“Alas, Son! I am not as well read as you. I don’t even know what ails these countries.” She replied sarcastically. “Though, I have never been so condescending when you spoke at length about the horror of the Taliban or when you felt sad for Pakistan. They’re not Indians as well.”

“That, was for Humanity.I felt sad for our neighbours and fellow humans.” I replied airily.

“Well, So did I.” It was her turn to roll her eyes..!

Callousness, at it’s best!

This incident had occurred 3 or 4 years back. It is so clear in my mind that it seems that it was only yesterday when this occurred. I don’t know what reminded me of this today.

That day, I was on my way back home from Chembur in a bus. It was 8.00PM and the bus was pretty crowded. I had managed to get a seat and was thanking my stars profusely.

“Maitri Park!” The Bus Conductor shouted.

Some people alighted and among those who came aboard were these two young girls who were apparently returning home from college or from work. They marched straight towards the seats reserved for the ladies and were happy to have found two men seated there. They simply went to them and tapped on their shoulders. One was a young man who got up immediately and made way for the ladies. The other man chose to ignore them. He was a bit older maybe in his mid-fifties.

“Uncle, utho naa! Dikhta nahin hai kyaa ladies seat hai.” One said. Get up, can’t you see that it is a ladies’ seat?

“Haan, dekha!” He replied. “But I am not getting up. The bus was crowded when I boarded it and this was the only vacant seat. You simply can’t barge in like this and ask us to get up!”

“So what? This seat is reserved for the ladies and as per law, you have to vacate it when a Woman asks you to.” She replied.

The argument went on for quite sometime. I was sitting quite close to them and was wondering why was the old man trying to fight over a lost cause. The girls were right and he was needlessly arguing. Soon, the Bus Conductor would intervene and the Old Man would have to get up. Besides, it was a ladies’ seat anyway.

Then, the inevitable happened. One of the girls called out for the Bus Conductor and asked him to resolve the matter. People in Bombay are scared of offending women. The Conductor came promptly and asked the Old Man to get up from the seat. He refused and continued with the same rant that the bus was crowded when he boarded it. The Girls were breathing down the Conductor’s neck. The Conductor became increasingly rude towards the Old Man and called him names. But the Old Man was simply too stubborn.

Finally, the exasperated Conductor asked the Bus Driver to stop at the nearest Police station. A Cop entered the bus and asked what was the commotion all about. Upon learning the facts, the Cop simply asked the Old Man to get up. He refused. The Cop tried to pull him by the collar.

The Old Man tried reasoning with the Cop. He said that he was tired after a long day at work and sat on the Ladies’ seat only as a last resort. He said that he was not young anymore and that the Girls were young and could stand. As it is, one seat was vacant and none of the Girls bothered to sit. They seemed determined to get the old man off the other seat as well.

The Cop slapped the Old Man.The air was thick with anticipation.The Cop then dragged him out of the bus. The Old Man was shouting in indignation. Amidst tears, he shouted that he was an educated individual and was very unfairly treated at the behest of young girls. The Cop slapped him again and took him to the Police Station. There was pin drop silence in the bus. I had not moved an inch. In fact, everyone in the bus was transfixed to one spot. I hate this ugly curiosity with which we watch someone else’s misery. It nauseates me. Today I was a part of the mob as well.

I looked at the girls. It was very evident by now that they were college students. They were trying to look out of the window and see what had happened of the Old Man. One of them seemed to have spotted him. She pointed a finger at something, and both the girls started giggling uncontrollably.

It took all I had in me to control my impotent anger!