Good Riddance or Fond Farewell?

No, I do not understand politics. For me it is as interesting as an archeological site is to a bungee jumper. Yes, I am one of the youth of the nation who knows nothing about anything and doesn’t much have an opinion on anything either. I am as blonde as can be. For me politics is as complicated as trying to understand Schrödinger’s Cat Theorem is to a layman. I do not read newspapers and can’t remember when I last sat for a GK exam and was able to answer questions. My files are full of certificates from winning different competitions but I can’t recollect if I ever won a quiz.

Oh, I know random bits and pieces. Kalam was once the President of India. And Manmohan Singh, the firangi’s stooge, is Prime Minister. See I know! But I can’t seem to recollect who the current President is. The President never even does anything except attend openings and stuff. So why bother anyways? Appalled? Shocked? How do I get on with life you ask? Isn’t your life mundane? No, it isn’t. My life’s pretty adventurous and thrilling and fun. Yes, I am the selfish, self-obsessed youth of today. I simply don’t care.

So suddenly, when with the passing away of an old man - who I always prayed to and almost relied on to create a ruckus one night before my exams - everything came to standstill, I cursed. Yes, I have been taught cursing only too well. Something goes wrong in life, we curse. Cuss words, swear words, slangs all flow like A. R. Rahman’s rhythms till the issue is forgotten and buried. I cursed that a trip I had been waiting for had to be cancelled at the last minute and I had to trudge back home disappointed. I cursed when I couldn’t find a single auto and had to trek 2 km with a heavy bag. I cursed when on wanting a quick bite, I found all restaurants shut. Oh, of course I completed my duties. As soon as I spotted empty roads and the men in white with tilaks roaming on bikes and in jeeps warning citizens with dire consequences for carrying on their usual business and aiding the economy, I shot them dirty, angry looks. I even went on social networking sites and vented my feelings. I debated with friends over the issue. Do I mourn for his death? Do I not mourn? Was he good? Was he a royal pain?

The country already grappling with the issue of tiger extinction lost one more tiger yesterday. Although he is supposed to have been lost a couple of days back, we ‘officially’ lost him yesterday. However dumb I might be, I do know of him and the ruckus created by him over the years. He was a great orator. An amazing artist and cartoonist. And an equally awesome racist. Wow! You know quite a bit, you say? Well, you can’t be a Marathi Manoos and not know. You can’t live through broken shop windows, disrupted public transport, sudden Maharashtra bandhs and not know.

I have never attended his speeches. Nor have I bothered to hear them on TV. But I have definitely enjoyed catching snippets of them through the closed doors of my room as my family primly sat before the idiot box, gazing at THE MAN. I do agree with some of his ideas. What he says at times does make sense. I do not know much about how he single handedly became the Father of Mumbai but I do know that Mumbai is most definitely his child.

One of my friends compared him to Hitler. And I respect Hitler. He was a fanatic. He had skewed beliefs. And so did this Saheb. The one thing I definitely know about him and do agree on is his insistence on Marathi. Yes, Bombay is a metropolitan city. And Maharashtra pretty much a mixed state. But so is every state. You have people from everywhere living everywhere. But what has made Bombay different for me is the openness. You can be from anywhere, you will get by here. Any language, any caste, any creed, you will hardly face a problem. But it is not the same everywhere. Spoken from personal experiences, try living in South India purely on Hindi. Or even English. You won’t be able to get by for a day. Go to Gujarat and everywhere you will see business being conducted in Gujarati. Was Saheb wrong in demanding the same for his state? That preference be given to Marathi? Mind you, I’m not talking of the force or the execution here. But I am talking of the idea. Of the wish. I completely agree with it. Yes, we need to have hoardings in Marathi. Have them in English too. But having them in Marathi will not cause you harm. Yes, you need to learn Marathi in schools. When every country forces kids to learn their language and so does every state in India, why not Maharashtra? It is the history, the culture of a place. Preserve it. Or it will soon one day be extinct.

Yes, I am a Maharashtrian. Am I saying this because I’m Marathi? No I’m not. I’m only half-Marathi. And no, I cannot speak Marathi to save my life. I am not proud of it. I wish I had paid more attention in school. I even wish my parents had insisted more on talking in the family language at home than in the generic Hindi and English. I support the cause to keep the state language alive and flourishing.

India is a caste based country. Aren’t we promoting casteism when we force such rules in the state? No we aren’t. Preserving your legacy and respecting others is what must be taught. Yes what happened with the ‘Bhaiyas’ was wrong. What happened with the 'Madus' and 'Southies' was wrong too. They were attacked mercilessly. The idea wasn’t wrong, its execution was. And who can forget the dread lovers feel with the approach of V-Day. A dread created by Sainiks. A soldier protects, but Sainiks have become synonymous with destruction. “I did not ask them to get violent”, he says. It is wrong to break shops. But then, why do we never hear of any Sainik being ostracized from the party for his behaviour? Why is the man who ruled with an iron hand suddenly pussy when it comes to wrongs done by his own protégés?

Who can forget the son? A son whom no one I know respects. A son being forced to live up to his father’s legacy. A son bent by comparision and blind hopes.

After his passing, the city shut. Was it fear? Was it respect? It is an eternal debate. In a city with a population of 1.25 crore, it is said lakhs attended the funeral. An impressive figure. But is it enough to convince me of the respect the man once demanded? And will it assure me of the respect his progeny will continue to demand? No, it doesn’t.

Perhaps it might have. If the respect had not been forced. If the turning was as impressive with shops staying open. With streets not looking like a photograph of the once Bombay, empty. Bereft. With people allowed to laugh. To watch what they want. To live.

Yes he was powerful. Powerful in a city drunk with fear. Powerful in a city of the uncaring. Powerful on the free booze and chicken biryani distributed during elections. Powerful.

And there he lay powerless as the news of his death was shrouded. Powerless as the body rotted. Powerless as the internal politics raged. Powerless as his city was forced to sleep. Powerless he slept. As I continued to pray for an additional day of Bandh. And continued to curse the shutting of restaurants. The city bid the tiger a fond farewell while still waiting to be rid of the nuisance.