Ghanshyams vs Fairbrothers, and Bala goes to Singapore

The Ghanshyams are at it again.Dark fat bastards. The barbarians hit each other harder and harder. Each blow brings a cry with pain and their shrieks are loud enough to rattle the windows.

They scared away poor little Fairbrothers. They always do.

Fairbrothers.White nimble darlings. Gently they move with heavenly grace. Always well behaved and quiet.

Right now, it is the grimy Ghanshyams who occupy the stage. But God, in his infinite wisdom, has ensured that they won’t survive for long. If they are lucky, they move away unharmed, with painful lethargy.

However, the movement only delays the inevitable for the doomed brethren. For, it is their fate to kill each other, to degenerate each other into the tiniest of pieces till the last drop of their blood spills over the ground beneath.

And when the massacre happens, the occasion is celebrated. Peacocks dance. Thirsty trees begin greening. The farmer Ramsakha from Bhusakhedi thanks God for the rain. The violent death of dark clouds nourishes life on earth.

Later, accompanied with cool wind, return the white clouds that were chased away by Ghanshyams. Then, even Ramsakha from Bhusakhedi, standing in his green fields, admires the Fairbrothers playing in the blue sky. For him, the only virtue in Ghanshyams is their immediate destruction, right in front of his eyes.

I call it God's own apartheid.

Added later: Many told me that this piece was confusing. So, to clarify, Ghanshyams are Dark Clouds while Fairbrothers are white.

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That’s it. I’ve deleted the remaining drafts now and would make a fresh start from next post.

By the time I publish this post, my brother (nicknamed Bala) would be on his way to Singapore for his new job. I don’t have a family connection now with Mumbai anymore which saddens me. He has been there since last eight years.

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Bala would be sending his Television to me. No matter how far I run away from the idiot box, it follows me with even greater fervor. Three years ago when I shifted to my new place, the owner was a friend and left the Television back. I dumped it at another friend’s place. A bigger irony was to follow. I got a job where they write software for set-top boxes and I have Televisions (fantastic digital ones) all around me in office. I can have Tata-sky or Airtel digital Tv connection for free as per the company policy. I must withstand the temptation if the blog has to survive, if my Yoga has to continue and a few more good ifs, because the presence of TV around me works like dementors. I loose all senses and numbly zap thorugh the channels for hours. I prefer youtube. That way I watch only that which is worthy of searching and waiting for the streaming through broadband at Indian speed.

Bala had posted his requirements for a residential stay in Singapore on various rental sites. His inbox is getting invitation to share apartments from females too and each such mail is duly forwarded to all his friends in Mumbai.All of a sudden each one of his friends has gone high on morals and culture; they are voicing concerns that Bala should not forget the Bhartiya Sanskriti.

Understandably, my parents are not in a jolly mood today. But the point is that for all practical purposes he has shifted closer to them. Earlier, he used to go by an overnight train to Dewas which took 13 hours. Now he would reach home in 7 hours since all of his travel would be via plane.

He visited Dewas last week. He went to the VT Railway station directly from his office and removed his shirt to wear a black T-shirt in the taxi itself. Then he rolled up his yellow cargo pants. He was going to remove the black leather shoes in train itself before going for sleep. At the gates of the railway station, security police stopped him and started checking his luggage. He was surprised and looked around for a clue. Then he caught sight of a mirror. His outfit and luggage looked exactly like none other than that of Kasab. To make matter worse, he was carrying passport and other papers for visa preparations. You can only sympathize with the growing suspicion in police-wallas. Bala was a regular at the aforementioned gym and has good body with biceps and all. He answered all their questions patiently, explained them that the metallic rectangle is an I-Pod and let them hear Eminem through it; they even asked him to explain about the book he carried: “Three Men in a Boat”.

You feel the distance more when the time-zones are very much separated. Then it feels as if you are in a different universe. While in US, I always found it difficult to communicate with my parents. There were very few eligible slabs for calling home, mostly at least one party would be sleeping or in office. But Singapore is just 2.5 hours ahead, which in fact gives a perfect offset given the lifestyle of my parents and Bala. Parents sleep at 10.30 while Bala doesn’t even think of going to bed before 12. At 8 o’clock when my mom would ask, “Khana kha liya?”, I would still be saying “Itne jaldi kaun khata hain” while Bala just had to truthfully answer “Haan”. But the best thing about Singapore is that it is so easy to pronounce.

The Happening

Wednesday evening. Around 9 PM. I called up Chitto to discuss about the Goa-trip that we three (third one being Pravu) had planned for the first weekend of December. Tickets were booked, researches were in progress to have some serious kick-ass fun and my intent for the call was to finalize the place of stay. Having exchanged the pleasantries ( both of us greet each other with a “Hello Sir!” for reasons unknown), we decided to get Pravu too in the conference.. He stays in Gurgaon but was in Kharagpur at that time.

Just when we finalized on a Hotel on Calangute beach, Chitto asked us whether we heard the sounds of bullets in the background. Chitto stays in Colaba and informed us that there’s a gang war going on in Colaba at various place and he has switched off all the lights and bolted the doors & windows. I googled “Colaba” for any such news, but there wasn’t any update till then. I jokingly told him to show some enterprise, become a citizen journalist and take some snaps of the gangsters. He then heard the booming sound of a bomb or a grenade perhaps.

We decided to hang up some time later and I immediately called up my brother who stays in Wadala which is a few Kilometers away from Colaba. He is a party animal and visits places in Colaba quite often. He was at a friend’s place in Dadar at that time and was aware of the “situation” in Colaba. He assured me that he will leave only after the gang war is over. By this time rediff had a headline about shootouts in Colaba; details were missing.

A couple of hours later I checked the news again and by this time it was clear that Mumbai was under an terrorist attack at various places and around ten people have died. Once again I called up brother. He was still with his friend Munish in Dadar. Three of Munish’s friends were missing and not reachable. They were supposed to be in Colaba at that time. Brother told me that he will leave only in the morning now. He had called up our parents & informed them. This is something that we both always do; we both never get calls from home in times of crisis and it is we who inform them that there is a crisis and we are safe.. Last time there were blasts in Bangalore, I was the one to inform my father that there are blasts and that I am far away from the area where blasts took place which was a lie ; the affected areas were at walking distances.

Thursday morning I logged on to the net as soon as I was up. The death count was 100 and the attack was rightly termed as unprecedented in terms of impact and manner in which it was being carried out. All the news headlines were in bold and there was absolutely no coverage for any other news which included state elections. A picture of burning Taj was shown along with the count for dead, hostages and injured. Experiences of narrow escape and horror abounded.

I went to office and then called up Chitto once again. He told me that the Nariman Point house where a Jewish family is taken hostage is just two streets away from his place. There are trucks of army and firemen around his place. He didn’t have any option but to stay locked inside the house. Once again I called my brother. Two of Munish’s friends who were missing last night were shot dead in Leopold Cafe. The bullets went right through their heads. One of them was two years junior to me at IIT Kharagpur and was about to get married in December. The other was from Indore.

The idea of a rocking trip to Goa seemed too perverse at that time and I discussed the same with Chitto. We decided to call it off, but gave ourselves a couple of days before we put a death nail into it and inform Pravu. My brother was going to Dewas the next day and he too cancelled the tickets now. The carnage was still on and the end was nowhere in sight. Contradictory news and rumors abounded. Taj and Oberoi were reported to be free a couple of times only to be followed by with news about raging fire and even more bullets and grenades.

My brother works for Yes-bank and Friday afternoon I got a call from him that Yes-Bank chairman Ashok Kapur was found dead in Oberoi. Saturday morning I went out for a walk and saw some reporters at the Frank Anthony school which is quite close to my place; one can hear “We shall overcome someday” when they sing in the assembly. The reporters were here because the NSG Major Sandeep Unnikrishnan, who died bravely combating the terrorists, studied at this school.

By Saturday afternoon, the trauma had officially ended. This was the first time things were happening to people connected to me. Thinking about my feelings about all this seems guilt filled indulgence to me. How does it matter if everything would be forgotten in a few days? Many of us are expressing rage, offering solutions, analyzing the situation, writing articles, commenting on the news sites. Will it be the same short lived patriotism, rage and sadness? Would the voices once again die down without any actions? One-minute-silences would follow, dead would be forgotten and then life will go on, waiting for another day when once again these maniacal devils would come to play with their bullets and bombs and bathe with our blood.

For this one time I wish there is a One minute where entire Mumbai erupts with people shouting at top of their voices. Let there be screams and cries, let there be shrieks, let the city roar. Let the twenty million souls voice there anguish and anger together; the sound would be loud enough to tremble Delhi and Karachi. This time Mumbai shouldn’t be praised for its ‘resilience’, but for its strength and the will to not to forget what was done to it and to not let this happen again. How we all wish that. But would those wishes remain a dream and would we once again allow the reality to become a nightmare.