The last time May 1 was more than an ordinary day for me was many years ago. We were leaving – or trying to leave – the gorgeous, ancient, politically complex city of Istanbul, en route to Geneva, where we planned to live for a while. The normally 25 minute drive to the airport took about two-and-a-half hours, with me starting to giggle with sheer incomprehension, Mama saying frantic volumes of prayers to assorted gods and Papa getting more and more edgy by the stop – and there were many stops. At almost every intersection, a steely-eyed, stern-faced phalanx of armed and uniformed guards circled our car as the most stern-faced and steely-eyed of them all, gloriously glinting with medals, checked our passports. Yes, we were leaving the city, my father assured them. And, yes, we had indeed enjoyed our visit to Istanbul, we all nodded enthusiastically. As we made slow progress towards the outskirts of town, we started to relax, in spite of the tanks, the barbed wire, the machine guns and the – believe it or no – anti-aircraft batteries in the square outside the beautifully lacy Dolmabahce Palace. There was trouble expected, our driver told us, and Mama’s prayers took on a new fervency. I had the typically ghoulish desire to stay and see what happened.
But Geneva expected us…in a kind of futuristic way, maybe tomorrow or the day after, but not May 1. We found the apartment that had been rented for us, but no grocery stores were open. Somewhere, somehow, we managed to scrounge up a meal of tinned peas, bread and butter, ham and milk, Mama muttering all the while about bad planning, inefficient governments and inconsiderate families who expected to eat. Labour Day, as it was called in Europe, was a total holiday, the clerk at the only store open told us in fractured English, so nothing, but nothing, would be open or working. You must stay home and watch TV or go on a picnic, she said, wagging her head at the idea of anyone trying to start life on May 1. No working, no shopping, no nothing, she insisted, go home.
It always amazes me how a day called ‘Labour Day’ is one where little labour is done. Saraswati puja day, later in the year, is another strange one – Saraswati is the goddess of learning; on ‘her’ day, you collect all your instruments and books and worship them. It would make more sense, methinks, to actually use them instead, thus worshipping the goddess in the way she would most appreciate. No? Someone explain that one to me!
For us, more locally in the wonderful city of Mumbai, May 1 is Maharashtra Day. It means that offices – except for newspapers, one presumes, who need to report n the various ‘celebrations’ – are closed, people stay home, there are parades, demonstrations, flag hoistings…whatever crumbles the government’s cookies. Closer to my own home, there will be a parade and a march past at the main circle – what that will do to the already chaotic traffic there, I shudder to even start imagining. Everyone will mill happily around, the netas will arrive late, work their way through populist but perfunctory speeches and then everyone will go home to watch the cricket or be otherwise gainfully occupied. Happy M-Day, folks!
There are those who will not have such a happy day. Suryanarayana’s family, for one, caught like hunted deer in the glare of the media’s unforgivingly relentless flashlights. And then there is Sabrina Lall, Jessica’s sister, who has to cope with death and its anniversaries all at once. Kavya Vishwanathan, who in spite of all the brickbats being flung at her, still deserves bouquets for her astonishingly good writing of a less-than-average book. Who knows what more May 1 will bring – ‘ordinary’ doesn’t start to describe it.
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