Towards Christmas

'Away in a manger' gets me teary-eyed.

After the vacation

Now, I'm terribly tired. I need a vacation to get over this. Some famous retro dude (Charles Lamb I think) once said, "No man needs a vacation as much as one who has just returned from one.

5 plane rides and 9 days later, I'm a tired woman with one more plane ride to go tomorrow. KL made a shopaholic out of a non-shopper, and I think I've developed strong calf muscles following 8-10-hour-long promenades down snazzy malls and never-ending lines of stores. Contrary to public opinion though, shopping in Kuala Lumpur is pretty expensive. Pretty pretty. The cheap place is Bangkok. That's next on my list.

Expect more on the trip over the next few days. With pics and all.

And I'm very glad to get back to Indie-style meals again. Minus the Malaysian groundnut oil smell.

After the attacks: Catharsis

It's been awhile since my last post. A busy calender and a disturbed soul kept me away from GGG over the last week. The Mumbai attacks took place a little too close to home for comfort.

I spent two years in Mumbai between 2005 and 2007, and my Baba and stepmom Alpana Aunty live there. Baba's office is barely two minutes away from the Oberoi-Trident. Alpana Aunty works in a building in a lane roughly between the Taj and Cafe Leopold. My best friend Smita is in a building opposite the Oberoi.

But when gunshots began last Wednesday night, I had no clue. I was on my way to Birati for Chomu Kunda's reception (refer to earlier post for who Chomu Kunda is). It took ages to get there, saree-clad and all. And coming back was quite the rural midnight adventure, a tale I'll save for a later post. I stayed over at Roy's that night, it being too late to come home. Sleep happened only around 3 am, but watching the news was the last thing on my mind. The next thing I know, my phone rings at 7 am. Baba.

Baba: You asleep?
Poojo: Yes. Talk to you later.
Baba: Yes yes. Just wanted to tell you that we are all okay. Thought you might get scared seeing all the stuff on TV.
Poojo (half-asleep): Okay okay. I'll talk to you later.

Just another blast was what I thought.

Just. Another. Blast.

'Later' came much later, around 10 am, when I was on my way to meet Amrita (who is also hearing wedding bells) to help her shop for her January 23 wedding. That's when I called Smita, to find out if she was all right. She was, but what she said was ominous: 'It's like 9/11. The terrorists are shooting on the street. But I'm okay.' The phone signal went off then. No access to the news or to the newspaper. Time to call everybody in M'bai to see if they were all right.

Next call was Nisha. She was okay too. Gave me a full update on the situation. 'Fuck,' I went.

Then it was just a flurry of calls to see if everyone was alive. Usha, MoonMoon, Nancy, Euge, my ex-boss... They were. Thank God.

I bought my first newspaper of the day at 11.30 am from Gariahat. But apart from the highlights of the attacks, I didn't get a chance to find out more. Amrita had a wedding saree to buy. And everyone I knew in Mumbai was safe. The entire day was spent shopping, catching up, sharing laughs. But the attacks were at the back of my mind. What was happening?

It was 8 pm by the time I got home and turned on the TV to watch Mumbai burning. 'I didn't even know,' was my first reaction. I'd put off talking with my father while one of the worst ever terrorist attacks was in full swing. My reason? I wanted to sleep a little longer on my day-off.

Baba and Alpana Aunty are always near the Taj or Leopold's or Oberoi. They sometimes go into the Taj or the Oberoi to buy pastries or a birthday cake. When my sisters and I are meeting the parents and they are late, we walk down Colaba. I don't like Leopold's too much (they pander to the whites a little too much while us brown-skins are nearly ignored), but I'm often outside it - shopping, bargaining, wasting time.

The bottomline: It could've been me. Or someone I love.

While watching TV Thursday night, I blinked the tears away. I thought that once the TV was off, the tears would evaporate and I'd return to my optimistic oblivion once again. But it was a flood of anger at myself for not caring enough to find out from Baba what had happened, for not knowing when the gunshots had first begun, for waiting till later to find out if everyone was alive.

Hemant Karkare, the ATS chief, was about my Baba's age. They had the same moustache. My Baba is not a top cop. He's a consultant. But it could easily have been my Baba in Karkare's place.

I cried that day. And on the next. At work I wrote two reports on the Mumbai blasts. And then I cried again on Sunday, while telling Shreya that the attacks happened in a place that was, and still is, home.

It's been a disturbing week. One that's given me a new perspective. Irrespective of who the next home minister is, or who forms the next government, I'm not sure when I'm going to feel completely safe again. The roads, the stations, the airports, the markets... where the fuck are you safe?

Following the Mumbai attacks, I was paranoid. I stored two packs of Wai-Wai in my bag (in case 'something' happens). I made sure to charge my phone fully. I even carried the charger in my bag for a couple of days.

Sure, the paranoia is fading away gradually. But I was frightened last week. Terrified actually. When the gunfire is in your own backyard, it becomes so much more real, so much more tangible. I'm glad that everyone is safe. But my belief in 'everything will be fine' is shaky now.

Nine of the terrorists may have been shot, but this time they succeeded in their aim: instilling terror in people's hearts.

This is not one of my best posts. But it has been pending for awhile. Consider this my catharsis.