The Wait

CONTINUED...

“Water”. That was her first utterance, when we slouched on the couch at our reception, finally trying to regain sanity. I remember being told that when someone meets death in the face, his life till then seems to pass by like a feature film. Nothing like this happened to me, which provides me with a couple of plausible reasons. One is that I just saw two shots and two lives convert to corpses. I did not see the face of death, or even if I had, may be I just did not recognize him. The second could be my memory could well be full with too much stuff to be summarized and played in the feature film format in such a time frame. But what really did come, which I would really hate to admit could well be called fear or if you intend to GRE-ise it trepedition, tremor, timidity - all on the T worldlist.

Fear is something like water or as sleep. It laps your feet, engulfs your knees, up your loins, waist, chest until you just sink. But when the lurk is of the unknown, of death in a physical state that you know not, a cloud that might suddenly condense to become ice and freeze you, a mellow soft drink that suddenly turns into a smoldering cauldron and erupts just as you are about to sip. And you may just turn your eyes from all this and miss the identity, that of your unknown enemy; death.

By that time, P seemed to have regained some bit of sanity as experience and maturity seemed to take the better of dread. “M, how many of us are here?” she said visibly taking charge. “Three of us, you, me and S, one of the pantry guys and D, the security guy.” I said. “Ok all of us stay close. Be visible to everyone of us.” Rat tat tat, brrrrrrraaaaaaaaamm! Sounds of three sub machine gun fire and a huge blast, deafeningly aggravated by the closing corridors – a grenade, says P as she looks down and fidgets with her toes.

P for part of an assignment had spent a fortnight in Beirut, which had familiarized her to certain sounds in life. A mofussil childhood had taught her certain sounds of silence, the chirp of a twitter, wasps treading on petals, drops of water into a puddle. But that fortnight changed her sonoric senses as she learnt grenades, launchers, 120 rounds a minute, bazooka shots.

“Lets switch on the TV”, I said. That’s the most logical thing to do. Come to think of it, we are residents of a patch of land in this country who command more than a quarter of this country’s gross domestic product. Dining even at the bhel counters on the sidewalks in this five hundred square metres of landscape happen to be the dreams of many a B school grad. And the orgasmic fantasy seems to be at the Oberoi. Situated at the waterfront at the end of the Queens Necklace popularly named Marine Drive, the Oberoi is made of two majestic hotels, the Oberoi and the Trident, resplendent in royal pride. And a grenade attack here should be aperitifs for national prime time television.

The TV set seemed to unfold the real story behind our eyes. Certain groups of people, fuelled by maniac ideologies had landed by boat in Colaba. Having dined and paid their bills at the iconic Café Leopold, they did not find the climate and the dessert much to their liking – and so matter of factly, opened fire at the citizens of Mumbai. Then they just went for a stroll to the Mumbai CST, where incidentally I alight every day and would have taken a train back home, had our shipping friends not had arrived, and thought, nice place this and opened fire yet again. As we saw free inhabitants of a free country slouched with fear, walking on their knees, hands held up in their own city, at places which they call their own, stand, stupor, gossip, call each other names, embrace, shake hands, transit for ganne-ka-ras, vada pavs, pattice, dosas and medu vadas reeked with acrid gunpowder.

S looked up from his laptop finally, England vanquished, “Leopold is it? Must have been that these guys refused to pay after a good round of drinks and being asked for money, opened fire.” S had explanations for everything. S was a Mumbaiite, by birth, at least thats what he claims although both his parents on his identity register is preluded by the word Late. His father was chief purser at the Air India flight from Canada titled Kanishka while his mom earned her title while trying to light diyas at her house one Diwali. He was nicknamed Bhaiyya by most of his friends, including his girlfriend, and political concoctions took it quite literally, so much so that he was hauled up one day by certain ‘locals’ of Mahim and asked for his native land. S had replied, “Where do you want it to be?” Typical S. Comically hostile, ludicrously belligerent. “Why P, its good fun, for television ait time, now that Big Boss is over?” he commented and went for the fridge and took out a can of beer. Normal times, he would have been admonished for such actions, the comment as well as the beer, but now no one seemed to take notice.

Ring ring. Call 1. Boss on my landline. Have you left? Who asked you to be there for so long? What the hell have you been doing? Why cant you guys be alert? What has happened to this country? Why are we so meek in front of fundamentalism. Where is our character, response system, admonishment, introspection? Boss, now is not the time, will keep you informed. Click.

Ring ring. Call 2. Fiancee on cell.
- Where are you?
- Oh just opening the lock to my flat, honey.
- Oh! You are safe aint you sweety?
- Sure honey, why anything wrong?
- Some gangwar on in your part of the world (pronounced g-u-n-g-w-a-r), eeks these NDTV guys got their spelling all wrong. Had the bai come, did she make food, did you ask her to make it less spicy?
- Yes honey, just having water now.
- Good, have a sumptuous dinner and go to sleep honey. Do not try to act smart tomorrow if this thing goes on.
- Of course honey, good night
- Good night and say it once na, please.
- Okay (wipe beads of sweat as another blast of machine gun fire hits on, P just increases the TV volume). I love you.
Click. Act 1.

S comes up and gives me a good hug and says, “Mujhe abhi tak chadhi nahi ( I am not yet inebriated).” There is another panic stricken call from P’s husband and three year old kid and another and another. P instructs to be on sms please.

Ring ring. Call 3. At the reception landline. P picks up as a lady speaks from the reception in a very routine manner, as if reading out from an instruction pamphlet. There has been a mercenary attack at the hotel. Please stay calm and please do not open your door no matter what happens. We are doing whatever it takes to make yourself comfortable. Do not drink water from the kitchen sink or bathrooms, it could be poisoned or infected. P interrupts. “Sanju is that you? It is P here, you remember me don’t you?” “Yes, I do, please stay safe,” difficult not to miss the emotional emphasis on the word, safe. P and Sanju often indulge in girly talk at the hotel foyer. They come from the same neighborhood. Often when we go down for our dosage of chai or peanuts P and Sanju become engaged in some ravishing world of their own to which S always explains, “Oh, its about lingerie sizes, you know!” Someone or the other always remembers to kick him, by the way. There is an accentuated “No!” in the background, someone trying to make a point against an instruction. “I hope all is fine, Sanju,” continues P, “we are …” Another round, Rat – tat – tat. The intercom goes mute and the television dead both at the same time.

Ring. Call 4. Baba, my father on my cell now. This conversation is in chaste Bengali.
- Have you reached home?
- Yes dad, just watching things on TV.
- Yeah, hopeless city you are in. There is just no peace. I have been watching things as well and it seems to have snowballed into something which was not yet anticipated. Do not venture out if things are like this tomorrow. Hope you understand. I am an old man and I can only fret and worry from here. Got precious little to do. Can you do this much for me?
- Yes dad. You please take care of yourself. Do not worry and sleep well. Good night.
Click. Act 2.

And the five of us finally looked at each other and allowed ourselves one final luxury. We smiled.

TO BE CONTINUED!