On late visarjan
night, the walk in the rain from railway station to home was not nice. People, going
for or returning after drowning (can’t call it an ‘immersion’ after knowing how
it’s done) the Ganapati idols, needed a tot of liquor to revive/relax them during/after
the dancing. Dancing meant flailing limbs in all directions, dismayingly
ungracefully, with un-co-ordinated pelvic thrusts. Heads that rolled/bobbed vigorously
on necks made me giddy to even watch. Subsequent days, I imagined, would
involve casual/sick leaves and visits to spine/neuro surgeons to get relief
from cricks and sprains. And ENT
specialists, too, for the drums were big and loud, the brass-clangers bigger
and louder, giving aches and hearing loss, no doubt. To describe the scene in
two words: Dirty, Avoidable.
Visarjan over,
the municipal workers slaved the entire morning cleaning up the streets. In
spite of our cribs, these guys work. We should do our bit by reducing the
quantity of garbage. But what the hell, the reduce-reuse-recycle mantra is for
activists, not us, right? We’d rather live with the dirt, thanks, and complain
about what the government doesn’t do.
No government
has the courage to say: keep your religion in your homes, don’t let it spill
onto the streets. Majorly guilty are the Hindus and the Muslims. The
Jains/Sikhs/Christians a little; Parsis and Jews are too few to make a dent in
traffic/crowds. If I’ve missed some religion, please send me a mail, I’ll
include it the next time.
But Mumbai got
back to normalcy immediately. Shops opened on time. Peons/clerks/drivers/maids
reported to work. Local buses/trains were on schedule.
Of the many
things Goa can learn from other places, Mumbai’s public transport should be top
of the list. The kali-pilis don’t mind the Ola-Uber competition. Imagine that;
none has ever gone on strike for putting metres on cabs/autos either.
One evening, I
attended a classical music program in someone’s house. Of a pukka,
national-level, famous singer, not the offspring of a couple dying-to-show-(our)-child’s-talent.
Gracefully laid table with a few well-made snacks, a great sound system and thirty-odd
persons sat quietly to enjoy a good performance. Someone took the mike and
explained the raag, the poem/lyrics, the history behind the gurus of the singer
and of their times, the language, the instruments accompanying them and the
musicians who played them. A few weeks ago, at KA, I’d enjoyed a wonderful
program like this one. But…and this But says is all…the
announcer or MC or compere or presenter kind of ruined the evening. She was a
Ms T. She ruined the experience by using, in her minutes-long speeches (yeah,
several of them) absurd and unnecessary adjectives--- ‘majestic’, ‘wonderful’,
‘outstanding’, ‘divine’, ‘spiritual’, ‘fantastic’—without telling the audience
anything about the singer or the singing.
Dinner was in
a very clean, inexpensive downtown hotel. We have many such in Goa. What made
this one different was it was managed and run by an institution that looks
after and trains destitute girls. The quality of the food, choice of menu and
most importantly, the cheerful efficiency of the girls have won this place its
customers. It doesn’t need advertisement. Word of mouth recommendation keeps it
crowded. More kudos followed later: we exited from the back of the restaurant…
it was as clean and tidy as the front. That Dirty-City could have spots like
these was a revelation. Another lesson Goa can learn, cleanliness is doable at
individual level.
A board at
Dadar station said passengers/visitors could have access to free WiFi. I tried.
It was a fast connection. A million heads had bowed down to their cell-phones
at this station. A tribute to technology. I wondered just what those million
heads were looking at and thinking of when they were using that free-WiFi
connection.
That’s when I
read the news on the little screen of my instrument: “Seventeen jawans of the
Indian Army were killed at Uri in Jammu and Kashmir.” While life was going on
with the office-goers, school-kids, hawkers and time-passers doing what they
routinely did in their waking hours.
“More will die of the injuries caused
by that devastating fire,” Shri Husband said.
Mostly in their twenties, fathers of
toddlers, husbands of young women, sons of toiling farmers, these soldiers
were/are the reason I am comfortable doing my thing in my home/city/state. I
write the way I want, move freely, speak my mind, read the books and see the
films I wish to, thanks to them.
I owe them, paid by my taxes and
through my government, appropriate and the best gear, training, transport,
equipment, support, intelligence and good decisions to be taken by
the babus and mantris so they can do their jobs well. Selfish reasons… so I can
live in secure comfort.
I asked Shri Husband, “Why do babus
and mantris make decisions for them?”
“Because we have a democratically
elected civilian government,” he said.
“If they make the decisions for them,
they should share the terrain and the dangers, know about the profession of
fighting a war, right?”
Shri Husband fell silent. He never
admits it when I’m right.
One co-passenger commented: “Neither
country will use the nuclear bomb.”
Another replied: “You think ‘they’
are going to shower flowers on us in war?”
I said to Bai Goanna, “I don’t like
war. War breaks buildings, roads, water-pipes, electrical connections. War
means no medicines when you’re ill, stinky food when you’re hungry. War means gaping
wounds, fractured bones, loss of limbs, bullets in spine ---paralysis---,
splinters in flesh, injuries in eyes, deafness in ears, coffins and cremations.
I’m a lover of embroidery, poetry and music.”
“If,” Bai Goanna interrupted
sombrely, “You must have that stuff, someone has to guard your home, your
country and its borders.”
“It’s a complicated issue,” Shri
Husband pointed out, “Beyond the scope of your column.”
Perhaps. But can’t I send our
soldiers, through this column, somehow, my deep salaam/namasthe/pranaam/salute?
Can I? I wonder on my journey back.
Feedback:
sheelajaywant@yahoo.co.in
