That frenzy with which we expressed our grief, horror and fear has now settled under a very thin veneer of calm. The attack on Mumbai seemed to be an attack on each one of us, a personal, violent, intensely destructive act that we all took to heart. After all, it was our city, the places we all knew and loved, and, under it all, that much-vaunted spirit that was uniquely ours. It was a pain that only we, as Mumbaikars, could understand, because it was at us that the whole thing was directed. And we talked about it, in incoherent, disjointed sentences, in cliché-ridden editorials, in weeping anguish facing a television camera, in living rooms and over the phone, to people at home, at work, on trains, on the street. Finally, we all gathered outside the site that made the most impact: the Taj Mahal Hotel. And we all sang, spoke, chanted and cried. A kind of catharsis, an outpouring of anguish, a solemn declaration that we are all seeking a common goal.
And a sense of solidarity makes us calmer. No less angry, no less grieved, no less hurt. But sure somehow that together we can make it happen. As one, as a people, as Indians, we will see that tomorrow, maybe the day after, perhaps next year, we will feel sure that we can walk outside our homes and not be shot or hit or blasted out of existence by a terrorist, an extremist, someone with a weapon and a determination to destroy.
Now we wait and watch, hoping that things will have changed in our lives as Indians, that we can look forward to the situation getting better for all us of, whether we exist as Mumbaikars or as citizens of this wonderful country. Even as we hope, we all realize full well that not much will change – it never does. But the words and preliminary actions are, to us, who are hurting today and will be so for years to come, indicative of some level of resolve.
There is a wonderful cynicism to those who live here. Hard-boiled and determined as we are to keep on going no matter what, we collectively realise that any action – or even just a call for it – from our government will almost certainly be limited to speeches made, papers signed and the call for implementation of new ways to make us and our nation a safer, better place to be in. Even then, we keep hoping, praying, sometimes even believing that the change will happen. It has to happen, we all say, especially this time, because it was different. The attacks were personal, with real faces behind the guns and grenades and potential bombs. There were living people who stared down the sights at the victims they shot so coldly, and we could all see it happen. It was no longer some faceless villain who set a bomb to go off and kill scores of people. We saw the men who killed, we saw them killing, and those images, we hope, are what will make the difference this time.
Of course, there is another aspect to it. Most of the time, in previous attacks on our stability, it has been “them” who died. On trains, on buses, in taxis, at the passport office or the Stock Exchange building, on the tracks or on the road, it never happened to “us”. This time, it was in places that we knew and spent time in – the main train station, two multi-star hotels, targeting not just the ordinary person, but the elite, those who we always believed to be safe, protected. And that is perhaps most frightening of all. Some invisible bastion has been stormed and there is nothing that can be said that will reassure us that we, people who live in the city and live ordinary lives as Everyman, will not be targeted the next time a group of sick fanatics choose to carry death in their backpacks.
And even as we stop ranting for the television news, as we get back to living our normal, routine lives, as we cover the pain of loss with everyday laughter, we know we need to fight our own battles, that no government, no leader, no politician will do for us. In that realization, we have started to play the game that we so desperately need to win. A game that we will win.
No comments:
Post a Comment