RIP? No, thanks

I am stunned, I am saddened and I am furious too. Furious at their nerve, furious at our loss and furious at the cliches that abound and fly fast like bullets. Everytime.

I don’t want to hear about the spirit of Mumbai.

My father decided to drive to work the morning after the siege started, like he always did the morning after a terror attack, a riot, a flood, a curfew or someone’s tantrum. The city goes on, and all that jazz. For the first time, he had to drive back home; his office was closed. There is such a thing as too much. Thankfully. There’s nothing to love about a city that does not let you mourn your loss.

I don’t want to hear that the Taj is the pride of Bombay.

I know it already.

Every summer till I was 15 was spent in Colaba, every evening passed strolling at the Gateway of India and the Taj. I still remember walking past the plush stores at the Taj as a kid, my little knees warmed and cooled in turns by the radiators and the partly open doors of those fancy shops. The bakery was a favourite. This is where I’ll be when I grow up, I thought every time. And someone heard. My special cake for my special fourth birthday was from the Taj. A chocolate swimming pool with marzipan swimmers. Appropriately, I had lunch at the Taj on my first day of work.

I cried when I saw it in flames.

I don’t want to hear that terror does not have a religion.

Bullshit.

Excerpt from the Times of India:
“All the hostages were asked to reveal their religion. When the Muezzinoglus said they were Muslims, their captors told them that they would not be harmed. The other three Caucasian women were removed from the room next day, and the terrorists informed the Muezzinoglus that they had been shot. “

We condemn these attacks, said Politician X

Oh no you don’t. You don’t have a right to. While you were busy appeasing the neighbours, grovelling for votes and condemning terror strikes, there were people dying; dying defending their dreams, their families, their countrymen.
And then again, what right do I have? I just have a voice, and a blog. And time to spare. Because I am not living the nightmare that friends, family and fellow Mumbaikars are.

The phenomenon of Friday friends

In Mumbai, we do not let our hectic schedules and jet-set lifestyles circumscribe our social lives. True to the spirit of the city, every true Mumbaikar’s life is full of several sets of friends, including:

School/college friends: Common interests and mutual enemies form the bedrock of childhood friendships. Before BFF was coined, people were happy peddling the term ‘best friend’. This didn’t always come cheap – you often had to listen to hours of whining and pining; but you knew that your friend would do the same for you.

Building friends: When you have several storeys of smiles, squabbles, foibles and eccentricities within a few breaths of each other, how can bonds not be formed? This is the stuff that childhood games and evening walks are made of. As strange as it may sound, I haven’t had a building friend since I was 8. My mother, however, more than makes up for this unsociable streak in the family.

Train friends: Local trains play an arterial role in the strip of land that is Mumbai. They are often the fixed points in otherwise volatile lives: many people take the same train every day for years and years. It is no surprise then that the 9.46 Churchgate fast has its own cliques. Women who share jokes, gossip and opinions, men who share jokes, gossip and opinions, making the monotony of metropolitan life a little less tedious.

Sundry: Work friends, gym friends, etc.

After I came to grad school, I was introduced to a new breed of friends. The Friday friends: people you run into every Friday, at a mutual friend’s place or at the club downtown. These are people who have seen you in your finest form, and you have seen them in theirs. You exchange smiles, names, some complaints and sometimes, phone numbers. Conversation, no, small talk brings you closer; but that’s because you cannot hear someone who’s more than six inches away. Occasionally, you get shards of fascinating conversation and confessions. Is it the alcohol? Is it the latent candour that you can summon only while talking to a stranger?

I can’t help but wonder about this eclectic bunch: what’s he like in the day? what’s she like without the make-up? do they really know my name? Of course, I can get to know them better if I try to, but Friday’s gone. I will have to wait another week to make plans with my Friday friends.