Strike Three

Right now, Bombay is the city of fear. We hide from the stone pelting. Crouch under our concrete shields and breathe easy. Lean back from our tinted air-conditioned windows and look the other way. Yesterday several people did not land up at work. These are people who don’t live in slightly sensitive areas, and probably took the day off as a great break. The city, despite all the din and uproar of its international appeal, cosmopolitan nature, surreal metropolitan life, is held at ransom because of a fundamental jerk.

Yes, I agree somewhere that the locals need security on the job front, but it is appalling to see someone strangle political power and use it to beat old men up, smash taxi windows, and break the bones of someone who wants to give his Railway exam. The first time it happened, they let him off after, as of now, Thackeray’s lawyer is confident the rat will be let loose because of insignificant evidence. (This was written yesterday, as of now, the fucker is released).

What does this mean? The city is lawless, has always succumbed to the political pressure of the filthy Ranes, Thackerays, Deshmukhs. Mumbai summons to the slightest beckoning of a linguistic dumbfuck who has a couple of men who just need the smallest provocation to start a fight, actually even that would be asking for too much. Yes, we’re all aware that we live in Maharashtra. Ancestrally, I’m Pakistani, being less than two generations away from migrated grandparent. What matters is that I work just as hard as anyone else, and pay my share of taxes as an Indian citizen. The amount of futile energy expended in this foolish exercise every now and then (including shutting down transportation systems and vandalising public property) is atrocious, if people in the BMC worked with this man’s gumption, we wouldn’t have a single slum or pothole anywhere. I wish he would lend his power to bigger issues that need attention, but for now, this is the Idi Amin who reminds us how helpless we can get.

Of course, in the race for biggest moron of the year, Sharad Rao comes a close second. Leader of the newly formed taxi union, his goons forced cabbies off the road as the sudden strike wasn’t actively supported. 55,000 cabs and 1.5 lakh rickshaws of the road. Throwing thousands in the lurch with the infrequent BEST bus service running (where people were packed like a can of sardines), most had to walk forty-minute distances home. Is this how a “world class” city such as Singapore, Shanghai or even Bangkok would operate? The only silver lining was the considerable reduction in pollution levels.

The common man has come to adjust to the worst state of affairs. A year ago, I would’ve never dreamt of leaving Bombay, because it has shaped much of who I am, has granted several opportunities and experiences, and in general, holds a beautiful ethnic character which few do. Call it nostalgia or patriotism. As me and N, were discussing, the city is now a shithole, and no amount of salsa classes, foreign film festivals and dabbawallas can change that.

Yesterday, D and I were waiting for almost two hours to gain access to our syllabus for the M.A program. A class of more than two fucking hundred people, but one bunch of notes to go around, plus a head of department who is “plaaning too geev averyone exam soon”. I kid you not. Mumbai University is simply dilapidated and dirty. (oh wait, we have a concentration of Maharashtrians there, yay!). After a glass of champagne at a previous conference, I was dying to grab a bite, but stepping into a rat-infested kitchen, it was like the Dark Ages revisited. I could see sweaty people digging into oiled-to-death vada sambar in slow mo.

When you contribute more than 10 percent of your income to an incompetent government, it scares you that fact remains that they are incapable of building a single road without an Ngorongoro-sized crater and scattered pebbles which provide natural acupressure. Like my friend B said, who needs to smoke in a city like Bombay, just throw your windows open.

I watched a French-Arabic Days of Glory (2007) by Rachid Bouchareb, which traces the brutal injustice in treatment of the Algerian Army fighting against German (Nazi) forces on the behalf of France, in the early 1940s. I usually avoid war epics, but this was lovely. Sami Bouajila as Corporal Abdelkar is the brooding, intense rebel and terribly hot, making the army look good. Nominated for Best Foreign Language Film Oscar and the Palm d’Or last year, it is said that the film motivated former French President Jacques Chirac to restore veteran pensions to the North Africans who fought alongside French troops during the war.