my privilege, my duty—”
“No, really. The duty was mine, to save you—you don’t need to repay me. I’ve lived in Mumbai so long—believe me, I can take care of myself.”
Before taking my leave, I make sure he understands he is not to follow. I look back a few times to check if he obeys, but cannot spot him through all the people around. I am struck by the throng—the all-clear sounded barely ten minutes ago, and already Marine Drive is swarming, as if the stadium at the other end has just let out after a cricket match. Wasn’t the city supposed to have emptied out?—where have all these people been hiding? A multitude of heads stretches all the way to Chowpatty, like pixels packed in a photograph.
I immerse myself amidst these pixels, their flow carries me along. Smiles and laughs abound—people wave flags like on Independence Day, blow paper horns. Perhaps their jubilance marks the just-survived attack. In the distance, the footbridge Gaurav mentioned rises high above the road and adjoining tracks. THE NATION IS ON THE MOVE , a billboard across it for Nike footwear proclaims, in giant letters the colors of the national flag.
Ahead, the crowd bunches up to detour around another crack in the ground. Jets of water shoot spectacularly towards the sky as the sea tries to squeeze in. As I round the tip, a boy comes running up to hurl himself over the chasm. A wave crashes against him in midair, but his momentum carries him across. He lands and raises his wet arms in triumph—the onlookers applaud. A giggling young lady follows, her sari puffing up under her as she leaps through the air.
At the swim club, a crush of humanity forms a knot at the gate. I think of all the evenings spent there taking lessons from Karun. This is hardly the time for a swim—why are all these people trying to get in? Then I realize they’re attracted by the vantage of the diving tower. Masses cluster precariously on the platforms, a thick line winds up the stairway. I watch to see if anyone will jump like Karun and me, but the clumps remain intact.
I near the footbridge, teeming with people as well. Hands and arms stick out through the gaps around the billboard and lob objects into the crowd below. A bottle explodes on the pavement nearby. A rock hits a woman who collapses to the ground, holding her bleeding head. I manage to pass under, unharmed.
Curiously, no projectiles fall on the other side of the bridge. A row of people crowds up high behind a second Nike billboard, faces craning towards the Chowpatty sands. I forge ahead through the crush on the ground, wondering what makes the aerial spectators so spellbound. I begin to see loudspeakers tied to lampposts—the sound of chanting fills the air.
A large cloth sign announces a yagna, a great holy fire ceremony. “Rise, O great Mumbadevi, to save your city,” it proclaims. The list of sponsors underneath includes several temples and religious groups, but not the HRM. In fact, I can spot no Khakis in our midst. The men blowing whistles to direct the crowd wear no uniforms, no saffron bands adorn their necks.
And yet, saffron is everywhere: flags fluttering from poles, kiosks sprouting from the sand, a banner that has come loose and undulates in the wind—the beach has been inundated by a saffron wave. Behind the kiosks and a bank of generators lies the stage. It rises thirty feet into the air, supported by a cluster of bamboo legs, like a giant cricket hovering over the multitudes below. Stairways spiral up the legs—as I watch, men clad in loincloths ascend and seat themselves in orderly rows on the platform. The sun reflects off something—perhaps the white Brahmin’s threads across their chests.
The scene reminds me of the Olympics—I wait for an athlete to go running up and light a flame. But the prayers commence and I realize the fire must already be consecrated. I have witnessed yagnas before, but on a much smaller scale. Mentally, I trace the actions of the
“No, really. The duty was mine, to save you—you don’t need to repay me. I’ve lived in Mumbai so long—believe me, I can take care of myself.”
Before taking my leave, I make sure he understands he is not to follow. I look back a few times to check if he obeys, but cannot spot him through all the people around. I am struck by the throng—the all-clear sounded barely ten minutes ago, and already Marine Drive is swarming, as if the stadium at the other end has just let out after a cricket match. Wasn’t the city supposed to have emptied out?—where have all these people been hiding? A multitude of heads stretches all the way to Chowpatty, like pixels packed in a photograph.
I immerse myself amidst these pixels, their flow carries me along. Smiles and laughs abound—people wave flags like on Independence Day, blow paper horns. Perhaps their jubilance marks the just-survived attack. In the distance, the footbridge Gaurav mentioned rises high above the road and adjoining tracks. THE NATION IS ON THE MOVE , a billboard across it for Nike footwear proclaims, in giant letters the colors of the national flag.
Ahead, the crowd bunches up to detour around another crack in the ground. Jets of water shoot spectacularly towards the sky as the sea tries to squeeze in. As I round the tip, a boy comes running up to hurl himself over the chasm. A wave crashes against him in midair, but his momentum carries him across. He lands and raises his wet arms in triumph—the onlookers applaud. A giggling young lady follows, her sari puffing up under her as she leaps through the air.
At the swim club, a crush of humanity forms a knot at the gate. I think of all the evenings spent there taking lessons from Karun. This is hardly the time for a swim—why are all these people trying to get in? Then I realize they’re attracted by the vantage of the diving tower. Masses cluster precariously on the platforms, a thick line winds up the stairway. I watch to see if anyone will jump like Karun and me, but the clumps remain intact.
I near the footbridge, teeming with people as well. Hands and arms stick out through the gaps around the billboard and lob objects into the crowd below. A bottle explodes on the pavement nearby. A rock hits a woman who collapses to the ground, holding her bleeding head. I manage to pass under, unharmed.
Curiously, no projectiles fall on the other side of the bridge. A row of people crowds up high behind a second Nike billboard, faces craning towards the Chowpatty sands. I forge ahead through the crush on the ground, wondering what makes the aerial spectators so spellbound. I begin to see loudspeakers tied to lampposts—the sound of chanting fills the air.
A large cloth sign announces a yagna, a great holy fire ceremony. “Rise, O great Mumbadevi, to save your city,” it proclaims. The list of sponsors underneath includes several temples and religious groups, but not the HRM. In fact, I can spot no Khakis in our midst. The men blowing whistles to direct the crowd wear no uniforms, no saffron bands adorn their necks.
And yet, saffron is everywhere: flags fluttering from poles, kiosks sprouting from the sand, a banner that has come loose and undulates in the wind—the beach has been inundated by a saffron wave. Behind the kiosks and a bank of generators lies the stage. It rises thirty feet into the air, supported by a cluster of bamboo legs, like a giant cricket hovering over the multitudes below. Stairways spiral up the legs—as I watch, men clad in loincloths ascend and seat themselves in orderly rows on the platform. The sun reflects off something—perhaps the white Brahmin’s threads across their chests.
The scene reminds me of the Olympics—I wait for an athlete to go running up and light a flame. But the prayers commence and I realize the fire must already be consecrated. I have witnessed yagnas before, but on a much smaller scale. Mentally, I trace the actions of the
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