Who killed Bombay?

THE process of disintegration began with Mohammad Ali Jinnah who, though himself a ham-eating, wine-drinking, non-praying, Europeanised Indian, declared Muslims to be a nation apart and so made Muslims loyalties to India suspect in the eyes of other Indians. Then came L.K. Advani who led the rath yatra from Somnath to Ayodhya, ending in the destruction of the Babri Masjid and further fouled relations between Hindu and Muslims leading to savage riots which took a heavy toll of Muslim lives. Muslim goondas retaliated and more than levelled the score by bombing buildings all over the metropolis. It was ideal ground for the likes of Bal Thackeray and his limpet followers to pose as champions of Hindu rashtra: anyone who criticised them, as did Justice Srikrishna, was dubbed anti-Hindu.

Decent law-abiding citizens have crept back into their well-appointed apartments. Today the men who call the shots in Mumbai belong to mafia gangs who extract protection money from shopkeepers, tradesmen and professionals, and sell smuggled gold and drugs. They slug it out between themselves, to divide areas of control, cock the snook at the police and buy politicians to support them. If someone proves recalcitrant, they get rid of him by paying a hired killer. About Rs 50,000 as supari is the going price of a human life. So what was once the best administered city of India in which different communities prospered in harmony with each other, has become a chaotic mess. "It is merely the run up to India’s and Maharashtra’s upcoming elections, just that distant clap of thunder over a near-dead city," writes Pinki Virani in Once Was Bombay (Viking Penguin).

Pinki Virani is the most gifted and the gutsiest woman reporter and writer in the country. Her first book Aruna’s Story was about the rape of a young nurse working in a Bombay hospital and engaged to marry a doctor. The rapist tried to kill her but only succeeded in crippling her for life. Aruna is still alive, a human vegetable unable to hear, talk or sit up. The rapist served a life sentence, but is now a free person. The tragic story of Aruna told by Pinki Virani made her into a celebrity. Once Was Bombay will enhance her reputation as a bold reporter of enormous talent. She reproduces dialogue in Gujarati, Marathi, and Bombay Hindustani sprinkled with earthy obscenities which brings underworld characters like Karim Lala, Haji Mastan Mirza and Arun Gawli alive. I have not read anything better written on Bombay.

What is more fascinating than the vivid description of the seamier side of Mumbai is the information about the city’s past and the names of localities like Kala Ghoda, Khoda Parsee and others. She tells us: "Bhendi Bazaar, so named because of the bhendi, okra or the Indianised lady finger vegetable, planted row upon row in the entire vicinity during the 13th century rule of the Solanki ruler from Gujarat, Raja Bhimdev. The Raja brought with him several useful fruits and vegetables as also trees, and had them planted all over, from them the names of localities evolved.

Parel, from Paral or Padel, the trumpet flower tree; Wadala, wad, the banyan grove; Chinchpokli, the tamarind dell; Cumballa Hill, the lotus grove; Byculla from bhaya or cassia fistula; and Umarkhadi, from the fig tree creek opposite Babliseth’s Dongri chawl which was filled in and a children’s remand home put on top of it."

Perhaps the most popular Muslim name for a male in Bombay is Salim. Its popularity poses quite a few problems. Virani writes: "The police liked the idea and began sorting out all the Salims. Salim Kurla — he lived there, Salim Haddi — he had a prominent Adam’s apple, Salim Passport — he could get any one fake documents, Salim Chikna — he was good looking, Salim Kutta — his nose made him look like a dog and not be confused with Hanif Kutta who had once bitten a constable on his arm, Salim Gadha — who botched up every single job the underworld gave him, Salim Ketley — he began his life as a teaseller, Salim Talwar — he used swords for booth-capturing during elections and was not be mixed up with Salim Rampuri who wielded a mean knife all the time, Salim Topi —he always wore a cap and was not to be confused with Munna Topi who also wore one and who in turn was not be mixed up with Munna Dadi who had a long, flowing beard. Salim Falooda was the one who had mistakenly killed a falooda-seller on the road. Falooda — brought by the Persian-Parsis to India — is a milk drink mixed with rose and other syrups, garnished with cooling grey-black takmariya seeds and other noodle-like slippery slides to be served with a blob of ice cream on top. A combination merry to the tongue and throat if made well, unfortunately acquiring notoriety after Salim Falooda’s mistake with the Bombay phrase. ‘Mere ijjat ka falooda nahi karneka’. — Do not kill my self respect or otherwise."

Spirit of Saragarhi

On August 12, 1897, 21 jawans of the British Indian Army drawn mainly from Ferozepore and Faridkot manning a small fortress Saragarhi were attacked by lashkar of thousands of Afridi tribesmen. They fought back till the last one of them was killed. In the memory of these valiant soldiers, a Saragarhi Memorial Gurdwara was built in Ferozepore by a donation given by the Queen of England. It has become a place of pilgrimage for Indian soldiers. Robin Gupta who is Commissioner of Ferozepore division and in charge of the administration of this sensitive frontier district facing Pakistan has written a poem entitled ’Saragarhi-1999’ to remind our Jawans of what the country expects from them if Pakistan unleashes yet another war on us. I reproduce two verses from it:

"And when marauding hordes
threaten to desecrate you
Oh! Motherland
I will unsheath the sword of God
and defend you, with this life
you have given me
"And for you I will lift up
the bowl of death!
and drink from it fully
with both these hands."

No solution

"We cannot win against them, and they cannot win against us. Their strength may not be evenly matched against India but their motivation is much greater. This is the reality."

"Isn’t it possible for both sides to disengage from the glacier?" I asked, "Can’t some sort of solution be worked out?"

"Does anyone really want a solution?" he said quietly. In his voice there was the same note of despair I’d heard before. "I don’t think anyone wants a solution. Things will just go on, like this."

Scene at Wagah

"A great buzzing of video cameras signalled the start of the main event. Black-uniformed border guards appeared, in the midst of a tumult of barked commands. The guards were all of formidable size, well over six feet, and their height was emphasised by their enormous black turbans. I was put in mind of a basketball team at a fancy dress ball. Later, I was informed that both armies reserves their tallest and most imposing-looking men for these border squads.

"Leading the squad was an immense turbaned soldier with a reddish, henna-stained moustache. He went goose-stepping to the gates and flung them open, to reveal an equally tall, equally well moustachioned Indian soldier doing exactly the same thing, a few feet away. The two men snapped to attention, their chests all-but touching, frowning fiercely into each other’s faces. Then, standing inches apart, they launched upon a series of complicated drill manoeuvres, strutting and preening and stamping their feet like anxious roosters.

Their steps were perfectly coordinated on both sides, every movement being enacted in perfect unison. It was clear, from the rehearsed precision of their performance, that they spent just as much time in synchronising the rhythms of their limbs as do most honey-mooning newlyweds. Yet, their faces were frozen into masks of snarling ferocity and their eyes flashed defiance as brightly as those of Kathakali dancers. There was something so sublimely comic in this pantomime that even the Japanese tourists were moved to laughter."

(From Amitav Ghosh’s Count Down — Ravi Dayal)