a heavy heart

I feel it physically. I just feel like tearing my chest and pulling the lump stuck in my heart. It is very heavy, presses on my lungs and causes a lump in my throat. The pain that this ailment causes makes me want to cry... The root cause and the sole remedy of my complaint would be this man who is responsible for bringing me into this wonderful world. A man who loved me to bits and then even more. A man who lifted my spirits each time they sagged. A man who I will now meet only after I leave the world.

I wish I could give him one tight hug. That's all I crave for. Appa, I miss you badly. I want you to know it. I've seen tough times, this one is the worst for me...

Stay with me in spirit, pa. I need you to be with me through this.

Love you pa,

Haru.

P.S. Everyone around is so sad because you left. Everyone. You won't believe it. But everyone misses you. You were really special. 

Kolhapuri chappals... and a quiet Bandra

I went to Bandra today to meet an old friend, to take a trip down nostalgia, to revisit haunts where my heart skipped a beat... Nothing's changed. I didn't notice anything new.Yet, I found myself shunning the place and the memories. I muttered to myself, that without the jocund company of friends, Bandra drives me crazy and to tears.

I went to my old favorite stall that sells Kolhapuri chappals. It is this unique stall that isn't lost in the commonness of the Linking Road stalls. It stands separately near Metro shoes. It doesn't have a name, yet it has it's own identity. You can't miss it. I've been coming here for close to 15 years now; initially in accordance with my shopaholic teenage sister, later on my own adventures.

I love the stall. It retains its old world style and design and yet has some new, funky ones. It is nothing but a hutment on the road selling footwear - yet there is this alluring charm to it. Owned by an old Muslim chap who wasn't sitting on his small stool when I was there; his young sons were manning the stall.

Muslims. I came by Bandra station at 5 p.m.. Usually, the mosque there is blaring the evening prayers in a nasal twang that would put Himmesh to shame. (I hope I spelt his numerologically inspired name correctly). Yes, nothing changed. Yet, a lot was different.

There was a subdued character in the air around. Bandra station and Linking road are crazy places to be around in the evening. Yet there seemed to be some order and hitherto never-seen decorum. Crowds weren't thronging at Linking - and there is always a crowd of young girls there even on Monday afternoon.

Something has changed about Mumbai. It is deceptive, only a seasoned resident can detect it. I didn't initially, then I had a glint of suspicion and the more I think about it, the more convinced I am.

People seem to be wary of lingering around for too long. Either that, or young kids really have jobs or colleges that they're attending. The latter idea though, seems highly unlikely to me.

My hometown doesn't seem to enjoy frivolous and idle activities the way it used to. New Year's celebrations were not enjoyed with the same gusto as before. The city is still mourning, still recovering from the shock of being violated. I will be going to the city tomorrow, near the Taj. I am still debating if I want to pay homage; but I argue that it might be superficial and hypocritical. I am still debating.

Baltimore entices me because if offers me quiet even in a crowd. My hometown seems to be luring me with the same idea. Although I'd love of the idea of Mumbai becoming quieter, this pregnant silence is seriously deafening... and heart-wrenching.

There is sadness at home... and there is sadness at home.

2 weeks later...

Everyone's left. The sadness persists. Loneliness envelops. Reality is still sinking. The chair is empty without him, his stick waits for him to take it for a walk. Moksha longingly looks into our home waiting for her uncle to play with her. Santosh hesitates to cross the threshold. Anan looks for him in every surrogate grandfather and expects them to indulge her in comical antics and monkeying around - the way he entertained his daughters and granddaughter.

Yet, I feel his presence. I hear his voice waking me up in the morning promising me hot coffee. I hear him calling out my name to eat, to sit with him and talk to him, to make him rotis and to give him his medicines. I hear his loud booming voice shouting angrily at irresponsible people, muttering loudly at the pathetic state of governance. I hear him craving for his favorite foods and describing the best hotels in and around the city. I hear him pleading with me to make his fingers move freely - a plea I had no remedy for. I feel him patting my head when I lie down, trying to soothe my worries and lulling me into a deep sleep and into the realms of a utopian world. I feel his presence even though he isn't here anymore.

What he meant to me is inexplicable and verbose enunciation will only kill the feeling. I don't think anyone will even under-estimate the beautiful bond that a doting father and his daughter share. To be able to spend 25 years of my life with a man who exemplified strength, steadfastness, courage and will power is an honour that I have been bestowed with; but to spend it as the daughter of a man who loved to love is the greatest gift I have received. I think my sister will nod in agreement to this testimony. In her, I see his resilience, his strength and the innate resolve to keep things going. In her, I see his large eyes and humped nose. In her, I see his ability to forgive and love.

Appa has been the epitome of will power - and I say this again and again... and I will keep saying it all my life. He shielded us from all the sorrows and took the big blows himself, my mother keeps saying; I cannot but agree with her. He was shattered, but picked up the shards and glued them together and led us to believe that there will be a better tomorrow. But the todays were good enough for me as we were together in it. No matter how glossy tomorrow will be, Appa, it will never be as good as yesterday - for you were there yesterday, to give me hope and to give me a smile and keep me smiling. For you, I will keep smiling, we will all keep smiling; in the wonderful hope that you're smiling with us wherever you are.

Love you Daddy.
Yours forever,
Haru.

What if ..... by Kate Winslet

This is the song, by Kate Winslet, that Anan and I have been singing hoarse in the last few days. I've always loved this song and she loves it too... and today I dedicate it to the first love of my life... my Dad.

Here I stand alone, with this weight upon my heart
And it will not go away
In my head I keep on looking back, right back to the start
Wondering what it was that made you change.
Well I tried but I had to draw the line
And still this question keeps on spinning in my mind

What if I had never let you go?
Would you be the man I used to know?
If I'd stayed, if you'd tried, if we could only turn back time
But I guess, we'll never know...

Many roads to take, some to joy, some to heartache
Anyone can lose their way
And if I said that we could turn it back, right back to the start
Would you take the chance and make the change?
Do you think how it would've been sometimes?
Do you pray that I'd never left your side?

What if I had never let you go?
Would you be the man I used to know?
If I'd stayed, if you'd tried, if we could only turn back time
But I guess, we'll never know...

If only we could turn the hands of time...
If I took you back would you still be mine...
Cos I tried but I had to draw the line
And still this question keeps on spinning in my mind

What if I had never let you go?
Would you be the man I used to know?
What if I had never walked away
Cos I love you more than I can say...

If I'd stayed, if you'd tried, if we could only turn back time
But I guess, we'll never know...

We'll never know......................................................

Love you pa,
Keep smiling wherever you are.
Anna.

Taj

Majestic splendor,
A metaphor for opulence and power
Yet it arose as a symbol
Of resistance, of revolution
Of refusal to bow down

You stand upright with pride
Staring at the imposing brown stoned structure
That symbolized imperialism
You mock aloud, that she is but, just a mere gate
Into your hallowed hallway

A testimony to change
As hard as stone, but warm and mellow inside
Large heartedly welcoming guests
With hospitality that makes us proud
Then you got stabbed in your back

Your cry was heard the world over
A cry of betrayal, treachery, mind-numbing brutality
You bore the suffering without a word
Resisted the wounds and burns inflicted on you
Let yourself be raped by hallucinating ruthless vagabonds

The stains of innocent blood will be washed away
Not by the sea you stare at everyday
But the efforts of brave men and women alike
Who will stand up and retaliate, I hope and pray
And not let bygones be bygones anymore

Oh beloved Taj, like your older namesake
You are pristine in your loyalty and untouched in your innocence
Even after the massacre, you stand unshaken
As if inspiringly exhorting us mere citizens
To remember the sacrifices of our brave brothers
To remember the splattering of blood on your walls
To remember the shattering of your glass panes
The plumes of fire bellowing away from your crown
You inspire us to stand tall and unshaken
In the face of wrath, anguish and pain
To be less aggrieved and take more action
But do we have the strength to do so, ask I of us…

ANSWER

This might seem redundant - to beat my chest and cry aloud for what is happening to my beloved Mumbai, my city, my home. I have always been asked what community I belong to - and people are always surprised to know that I am a Tamilian. (Apparently, I look like anything but a Tam). I am not bragging, but I have always claimed to be a Bombayite at heart and a Mumbaikar for political correctness. I identify more with the cultural bhelpuri that Mumbai is a moniker, a metaphor for, than with my Tamilian roots. Make no mistake, I am not denouncing my roots - I am very proud of it. Yet, if I were to choose, I would choose the city of my childhood, the city that gave me everything I have today - the city that shaped my dreams.

And today, my home is burning. With rage, with shock, with sentiment, with grief, with red tears that stain its structures in the false hope that the sea, betrayed by treachery, will wash them away.

I am oceans away from home, yet my grief is no less and the pain is palpable even in this cold town I live in.

My questions might seem redundant, boring, oft-repeated. But as Mumbai's child, as a stakeholder, as someone whose home was invaded, ransacked and whose home survived an attempt to reduce its structure and fabric to rubble, I demand answers to my questions - NOT BECAUSE IT'S MY CITY, BUT BECAUSE IT'S MY COUNTRY:

1) How can the home minister of the state have the sheer audacity to relegate these horrific incidents to be termed as "small" incidents that Mumbai is now used to? Does he have a heart? Does he have a brain? Does he have eyes? Does he have any sense?
He hails from a small town unaccustomed to the terror that Mumbai has seen in the last 15 years. He came with a baggage of small-town mentality that was focussed more on shutting down dance bars (as if they were terrorising the city) and forgets that as the Home Minister, it is his duty to ensure REAL EFFECTIVE EFFICACIOUS BULLET-PROOF JACKETS TO ATLEAST THE ANTI-TERRORIST SQUAD. It's a no-brainer situation to me. He sits in a plush bungalow surrounded by commandos who ought to have been protecting innocent citizens, but were forced to protect this insignificant insensitive man as a call of duty. Will someone at least slap him?

2) WILL PEOPLE PLEASE STOP BRAGGING ABOUT MUMBAI'S RESILIENCE? There is a limit to how much you can falsely hype our helplessness for resilience and use it as an escape into amnesia. Does anyone remember the lives lost in the July 2005 floods - where is the promise to clean the Mithi River? A 2001 report had pointed out the failure of intelligence activities on the Indian coastline - the primary route for terrorists in the the 1993 Blasts and the 2008 Massacre in my home. How many years and how many more lives before you sitting in that high and mighty chair will decide to do something about it? Don't politicians at least have a collective conscience that reverberates into action for national security consciousness?

3) WILL SOMEONE INVEST IN THE POLICE FORCE OF MUMBAI? PLEASE. It is no joke that the city falls prey to terrorism time and again. If it is not suffering from chilling spineless ruthlessness and cowardice of terrorism, it is held to ransom by the mindless bloodshed by the underworld, or just the gimmickry of cranky politicians greedy for print space.

4) Will the responsible politicians please step down? I DEMAND THE RESIGNATION OF VILASRAO DESHMUKH, R R PATIL & SHIVRAJ PATIL.

5) WIll AFZAL GURU PLEASE BE HANGED - ATLEAST NOW? (Yes, I absolutely support capital punishment for the devil incarnate).

I am seething with anger, I am pained with the grief, I am scared for my people. We have been taken for granted for too long. It is payback time - to give Mumbai its due and not leave it to bleed each time in the false hope that resilience will bandage its wounds and the need to survive will nurse it to normalcy. Enough is enough.

Never alone

I am never alone in this crowd
It’s never quiet, there’s always a shout aloud
Yet loner they call me, so it be
The silent noises wafting seamlessly

Lonely I walk, but am not alone
Stalking me is my past soul
It’s funny that my alter ego talks in a guy’s baritone
If he comes alive, he better be handsome and toned

They talk to me, I stare at them
Wondering if they said something now
It’s queer to ask them to repeat their lines
Once, twice, thrice; but then how many times?

It feels so weird, so many voices
When it’s just two of us debating the choices
Physically I might look like two
But now my mental twin is trapped in my body too

AAAAAA I wish I could scream
I stuff the pillow on my face screen
To stifle the cry, and deafen the noise
But their sounds penetrate them even otherwise.