Weird Sundays

I can feel for residents of Chembur today. I can feel for employees and owners of Kamran Power Control Pvt Ltd today. As the ATS swoops on them with the glare and flash of TV cameras pointing dead ahead on them, barking dogs zoomed in and out on the TV screen, residents must be feeling, but this is what we see on television everyday, if Mr. Bachchan is not returning without alarming Mumbai Police or Mr. Govinda is not slapping around people. How is it that becoming the protagonist becomes a different script altogether? How come Phir Bhi Dil Hai Hindustani does not look all that unrealistic?

Might it sound gibberish, let me put things into perspective. Circa 26th of July 2008. Late at night, I landed out of a flight at Mumbai domestic airport. I had been traveling for the whole of that day and was in no mood to haggle with the cab driver. Hence I tried to mindlessly calculate what would be the cheapest trip home in Navi Mumbai. Before I could arrive at a comparative analysis of the figures, I found myself in a cab uttering ‘Vashi’. Customary calls went to home, having landed safely (I am yet to figure the significance of these calls, since if I do not, it would anyways be on breaking news on most channels, but lets not be argumentative over emotions).

Having dropped my bag on the corner, I thought to flatten myself before venturing into check the ingredients for a dinner ensemble. And I seem to have dosed off, as is so typical of me. (It all started in the biology laboratory twelve years ago, while cleaning my petri dish and I had turned the snooze button on at the wash basin. And from there on I have managed to do so in front of a raucously squealing Rani Mukherji in Saathiya in full blast, at the immigration queue at the international airport, and in all sorts of compromising and dare do situations.)

I was suddenly brought into that weird state of awaked and snooze to the shriek of the door bell. I realized I had not even changed and the twilight over the window meant that Sunday dawn was here. The logical retort would have been shut up and let me die in peace, but the tenacity of the bells seems to be increasing. I stood up and in those precious few seconds tried to make myself as sober as possible, as I trudged to the door and peeped out. There seemed to be quite a few number outside but more importantly some familiar faces from the floor that I stay in. Tepidly, I opened the door.

Mr. Unde, the amicable secretary of the housing society came from behind and wished me good morning and said, “Son, you do stay on rent, don’t you?” In any other place it might have been greeted by a logical yes or no answer, but being Mumbai, the answer could be what kind of joke is that, or couldn't you have found a better way to insult me at the start of the day? I stayed with the more staid former and said yes. “Then son, there are a few questions from these people,” as he blended into the background.

A more formal and stern gentleman with two persons stepped up. Spectacled and too formal for a Sunday early morning. “Mehta here, can I check your rent agreement?” “Yes, but..” Flash came out the identity card, “We are from the ATS.”

Screech, shriek, and someone just seemed to splatter a cloud of cold water on your face and shouted, what the hell, wake up!! I still fumbled for words, “I mean what is up.” “You go on and bring the agreement and we would explain,”went on Mehta, when I could sense the bulge at the waist of the two gentlemen out of their safari suits and the curt looks meant that they were really not looking forward to exchanging pleasantries.

As he went through the rent agreement, Mehta asked, “Where does your landlord stay?” Three neighbors answered that. A visibly displeased Mehta said, “Let him do the talking please.” Silence!

“Is your police record submitted with the society?” quipped Mehta. “Yes sir.” I dutifully replied. He turned around for confirmation and received one. “Hmm, can I step in for a round?” he asked. And all the three of them did. They looked at the bathrooms, the kitchen even opened cupboard which was anyways ajar. As they did so, this is what I could gather from my neighbors.

Yesterday, 18 blasts had tore through the heart of Ahmedabad city. Around 5 minutes before the blasts there was a ghastly mail sent to most media houses by a terror organization named Indian Mujahideen about the retribution that they were about to strike against all the injustice that has been meted to them. This was their reminder. While the blasts at Bangalore, a day earlier was just the preamble meant to provide a warm up, this was supposed to be the real bolt. This mail was traced down to an IP address of an expat family residing in a building as a tenant, very close to mine. Hence as a precautionary measure the terrorist squads were doing a check up on all tenants in the neighborhood.

Mehta came back to ask a few more questions which included if I was single and stayed alone. Why did not I have a housemate or why did I stay alone in such a reasonably spaced house. What did I do for a living, where I had my food, who did housekeeping for me, what did I do in my spare time and all those questions which a would be father in law might ask out of a groom. And when he was satisfied that he had ravaged me enough, he turned his attention to a neighboring apartment with his coterie by his side. No one apologized. My secretary only asked me to look out of my balcony and what a sight it was.

A queue of media personnel along with satellite equipped media vans of all major television houses one could conjure, ambulances, fire engines, police and security vehicles, hordes of people, journalists, camera men, lights and dogs of all species made a throng I could never imagine. Mr. Unde and myself conversed for a few minutes more. We complained how the police including the ATS made a mess of normal people’s lives.

I switched on the television and asked Mr. Unde to stay back for a cup of tea. As the sun was trying to get a look over the shoulders of the skyrise in front we stared down at the bustle on the street down as the television blared on breaking news from the night ahead. As people tried to gather remnants of apparels, ornaments, flesh, bloods and memories of near and dear ones blown to smithereens, Mr. Unde sipped on his tea and opined to himself that the maid would have an excuse to be late again today.

So I can completely feel for the residents of Chembur. Their maids would be late today, erratic professionals would be barging into their privacy and interrogating on stupid occupants. While residents from Gaffar Market, Greater Kailash and innocuous visitors at CP try to reconcile their shattered faith.

And not to forget the fact that sartorial tastes are under the scanner as it gives us a chance to keep wardrobes on the attack. Till then we await another Sunday awakening to another blast!!