(20 Apr ’08)
Husband looked shocked:
almost like I was responsible for the Scarlett episode. “You want to go to
Sandhurst Road, Dongri, for Ramnavami? These are synonyms for traffic
jam.” I said it was a part of Mumbai I’d
not seen. (It houses a remand home and is famous for riots).
We went, mainly because
the late Lt. Nawang Kapadia, a descendent of the Gaitondes of Palolem, was
amongst those being honoured at a function there. “Religious processions”
generally mean gathering here, a diversion there, loudspeakers on carts
hampering vehicles, men flailing arms and legs to booming drums, statues upon
crawling trucks, garishly lit… in narrow, filthy lanes. I was prepared for it
all. The photo-studded, glossy, multicultured invitation stated it was
sponsored by a Muslim organization.
It was crowded, dirty,
rundown…the heart of India’s richest city. The narrow street was full of deaf
people. You could blow your batteries down, no one would budge. In one maidan,
a cricket match was happening to ‘pormote
peace’. Much money was being spent on getting together Hindus and Muslims. The
clogged gutters, the dilapidated chawls weren’t worthy of cleaning/repair. If
you didn’t die in a communal clash, you’d die of an infectious disease or a
building crash.
The shamiana, bordered
by glittering lights, set up in the space between two buildings, was made of
new cloth. Our host, the Sriram Mitra Mandal, comprised residents of the
Chinwala building which, one smart young volunteer told me, had 215 rooms.
“I’ve spent my childhood here”, he said with the same pride that I’d heard a
Maharaja say of his palace in Jodhpur. He (young man, not Maharaja) told me
that the temple behind the building, the focus of their activities, was a
result of their efforts.
I had insisted on being
punctual, ignoring my family’s protests that ‘nothing starts on time’. We were
the guests, I argued, we had to set an example. Other invitees came an hour
late. To entertain us, the man on the mike spoke incessantly for the entire
sixty minutes. He was reciting poems, verses, hymns, in Hindi and Marathi. His
prominent lisp didn’t worry him. What confidence! What a memory! From under the
flapping shamiana ‘walls’, little urchins’ heads kept popping in to see what
was happening. Between the buildings, the ventury effect made the breeze strong
and cool.
Ram’s birthday was
being celebrated by honouring young soldiers (and one policeman) who had sacrificed
their lives for the country in the line of duty. The Mandal had done its
homework: got the names from the ‘competent authority’, visited the families,
made a cd of snippets on each young martyr. This Mandal chooses a theme each
year: literature, sports, music. Whatever is left after spending on big, fancy
banners advertising the occasion, pujas, etc, is diverted to these causes. The
cause is represented by expensive mementoes that will tarnish in the weeks
ahead. I should have come away happy with the effort the young people had made.
Instead I wondered why so much was spent on useless things and so little on
what’s of worth. These Indians have the
will, the energy, the heart to do so much, were brimming with ideas, and
willing to execute them. Who will direct them to do what’s useful and correct?
The local politicians? Who will guide them to buy shoes for the sportsmen,
sponsor art material for painters, set up a trust for retired musicians? There
is an urgent need to grow trees in the area. Certainly a need to spruce up the
buildings. That would be money better spent.
The modern gurus say on
Aastha channel: look only at the positive side of things. I took their advice.
On the way back, I decided not to take a look at the people sleeping on the
pavements and to ignore the overpowering smell of sewage. Who was I to decide
what’s right and wrong?
Ram’s in heaven, all’s
right with the country, say the believers. Amen.
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