7/12

7/11 is a date that will go down in history for Indians. But like 9/11 for Americans, 3/11 for Spaniards, and 7/7 for the English these are shameful dates that are marks of ignominy and loss of innocence. Yesterday was July 11, 2006. It was on this date that 8 bomb blasts shook Mumbai, the financial capital of India and a city of over 12 million inhabitants within the span of 11 minutes. It is difficult to believe that such evil minds exist that could conceive and execute such destruction and mayhem, painstakingly selecting rush hour and choosing the heavily traveled Western Railway (6 million passengers a day) to wreak their havoc on innocent, unsuspecting lives returning to their homes after a hard day’s work. But after the destruction of the World Trade Center in New York City and serial bomb blasts on Madrid and London subways, we know such evil exists.

July 11, 2006

6:45 pm – I turn on the television flipping past one of the Indian news channels. I stop suddenly…I caught the words “bomb blast” and “Khar station”. I live in Khar. I sucked in my breath. Apparently a bomb had ripped through one of the first class compartments of a train at Khar station at 6:25pm.

As I watch in horror, I hear that there have actually been three blasts and the word “terrorist” is added to the list of words flashing past on the news ticker under, “Breaking News.” I immediately try to call my husband Bob using my cell phone. I see the words “Network Busy” and rush to the landline. I can’t seem to make a call out. I am trying to decide what to do when I think about my trusty laptop. The Internet. “Please let broadband be up today,” I mutter. Just as I am about to Skype I get an SMS on my mobile phone from Bob. It succintly says it all “bomb bl.” Looks like SMS is working even if voice is not. I find out that Bob is still at work and okay. I try to call my sister-in-law who also lives with her family in Mumbai to find out whether she is alright. Can’t get through to either her landline or mobile phone. I connect to the internet and Skype my brother in San Francisco to tell him that we are okay and ask him to let my parents and his wife in Chicago know. I also ask my brother to try my sister-in-law in Mumbai’s number in case he has better luck calling internationally. He too can’t seem to get through. I SMS my sister-in-law. No response back. And I didn’t get a "message undeliverable" error. That is worrisome.

7:15 pm - I rush to the TV and find out that the number of blasts has increased to 5 and then 7 and then 8 (apparently 2 at one station).

Biya, our maid had left our flat, in Khar, at 6:15pm to catch her train back to Thane. Now that it was 7:15 pm I was getting worried. Sandrine interrupted me, “Mumma I’m scared.” Between running back and forth to the TV, my laptop, the landline and the mobile phone, I had neglected to let her now what was going on. At 4 years old she was very perceptive and so I told her that there was a problem with the train lines that Biya took. “So, is she coming back?” Sandrine inquired innocently. I didn’t answer. In my mind I thought she would have already come back since she normally takes a 6:40 pm train. I started panicking. “What if she had reached early and taken an earlier train?” My almost 1.5 year old was obliviously mouthing her sister’s kitchen toys. “Let me try to call Biya,” I said looking at Sandrine. Thinking that her son and daughter in Thane may have heard from her, I tried alternatively calling Biya’s home, my sister-in-law’s mobile and landline. Couldn’t get through to anyone. On one of these ongoing attempts I managed to get through to Biya’s home. A deep male voice answered, “Hello.” I quickly explained who I was and asked “Are you Biya’s son? Has Biya come home? Have you heard from her?” He said, “No, she is not home yet.” I paused and then proceeded, “There were some problems on the trains…bomb blasts…one of them was a Khar station….has she called?” I could hear the sucking in of his breath, “I didn’t know…let me check.” I hung up.

8:00 pm – My in-laws call to find out if I have heard from my sister-in-law.

They, like my husband, his brother, and myself, haven’t been able to get through to her. I tell them that she sent me an SMS at 4:58 pm saying that she’ll be off the train in 15 minutes so I assumed that she must be at home, after picking up her son from school. My mother-in-law tells me that my nephew didn’t go to school today. I start getting concerned, “Then what was she doing on the train at that time?” Later after Skyping with my husband I find out that she did change her mind and take my nephew to school after all. In that case, she must have gotten off at 5:15 pm per the SMS she sent. At this point her phone is ringing but no on is answering. I am getting more worried.

8:15 pm – My husband Skypes me that most likely he won’t be able to start back until after midnight. It is safer to stay where he is till the commotion dies down. Apparently our driver Roshan is stuck in traffic on his way to picking up my husband who is in Lower Parel. Roshan left our Khar flat at 6:15 pm.

8:45 pm – I am Skyping with my brother when my landline rings! It must be working again. I grab the receiver and bellow, “Hello.” “Ma’am…” the voice begins. “Biya,” I shout “Are you okay? Where are you?” “Is it okay if I come back,” she asks. “You should have come back 2 hours ago,” I scold. She laughs nervously. Sandrine chirps, “Is Biya coming?” Nikhitita begins her walk to the door chanting, “Biya…Biya…Biya.”

Still no word from my sister-in-law. The images on the news are very graphic now as they show good samaritans helping bloodied people. Particularly stark is the image of a well-dressed man laying on the ground with his laptop bag still hanging around his right shoulder. His legs are twisted in an unnatural position. He is clearly dead. I ban the kids from the TV room.

9:00 pm – I see the doorbell ring and see Biya through the peephole.

“Are you and Papa going out tonight while Biya stays with us?” asked Sandrine. “Not tonight,” I reply, “Biya is staying with us but we aren’t going out. Papa will be home very late.” We SMS Biya’s family that she is okay since their phones are still not working properly.

Biya told me how she had arrived at the station early for her 6:40 train and had been buying fruit to take home. As she was buying fruit she had heard the blast. She told me how she looked away as bloodied people were being taken away. She relayed how she and other stranded passengers like her were offered Bisleri water, biscuits and vada pav without any expectation of renumeration. Mumbai was recently cited as the rudest city in the world. True, Mumbaikers might not stop for someone dropping a piece of paper in the street but maybe it’s okay because 7/11 showed us that they can step up when someone is really in need.

As the newspapers would report the next day, emergency response was poor; it was civilians who were carrying the wounded and maimed to any private vehicle or taxi for transport to hospitals. The papers also reported that one of the first to the scene to provide aid to injured were slumdwellers who lived on the sides of the railway tracks. Caste knew no bar as slumdwellers held out their hands to first class passengers, not for a handout but to offer them help.

The landline rings again. It is Biya’s neighbor’s daughter who is stuck in Malad after work and has no place to go. I tell Biya that if she can somehow make her way to Khar she can stay with us.

9:15 pm – Roshan, our driver has finally reached Bob’s work three hours after he started from Khar. It should only take 45 minutes to an hour.

9:30 pm – During one of my numerous tries to get through to my sister-in-law I get a busy signal on her landline. She must be home!! I call her mobile phone. “Hello,” I hear her familiar voice. “You’re okay? We’ve been trying to get a hold of you.” She sheepishly replies, “We’ve been in a movie. We had no idea all this was going on!” “Whew!” I sigh in relief.

10:00 pm – Biya’s neighbor’s daughter come in. She apparently took the long trip by autorickshaw.

I spent the rest of the evening putting Nikhitita and Sandrine to bed and waiting for my husband to come home while responding to e-mail inquiries from friends and family in the U.S., Skype Chatting with Bob, and Google Chatting with my cousin in Bergen, Norway. What would we have done without the internet!!

12:36 am – Bob walks in though the door. I had been restless till then. I SMS Bob’s sister, “Bob’s back” and e-mail the same news to family in the U.S.

We sit down to talk about the events of the last six hours. Bob told me about how Roshan, our driver actually heard one of the blasts go off. He also told me that there were so many people stranded on the streets with nowhere to go that cars that were not full were being told to take random passengers with them. As we looked at our kids before we went to sleep and passed by the room where Biya and her neighbor’s daughter were sleeping that night we realized how fortunate we are.

What I presented above is simply my account of how the events of 7/11 immediately impacted me. Fortunately, I nor my family, were anywhere near any of the stations that suffered bomb blasts. My thoughts and prayers are with those who were directly impacted as well as their loved ones. But what I recounted above does reflect how such acts of terror impact everyone in some way, but perhaps with different levels of intensity. Those at the site are most directly affected and then those nearby and then those in the same city and then those in the same country and then everyone across the world. But I suppose that is the power of terror. It permeates the “it could be me next time feeling.”

But the way that Mumbaikers reacted on 7/12 shows that the power of people is stronger than the power of terror. The pulse of the city (and most of India) beats on the railway tracks. But these terrorists must have hit a vein not an artery because the very next day after 8 bomb blasts rocked Mumbai, students reported to schools, professional workers made it to their offices, and vendors manned their storefronts, stalls, and carts. Trains were slowly brought back up and running. And although not filled to capacity, people rode the trains. Less than 24 hours after missing a bomb blast by one hour, my sister-in-law and brother-in-law took my nephew to school by train. His school was not closed, and they were not afraid. Biya put in a full day of work and she and her neighbor's daughter left to catch their train. They also were not afraid. Neither are most Mumbaikers.

Perspective

I had been warned for some time about the rains in Mumbai. Bob’s co-workers have horrific tales about what they saw and experienced on 26/7, that is July 26th 2005 the day that Mumbai saw catastrophic flooding, which brought the city to a standstill. Our maid Biya has told me how she had to stay at her employer’s house overnight because the trains were not working and even her daughter, who was also a maid, stayed at her employer's flat. Phones were not working and people weren't able to let their loved ones know whether they were safe or not.

Part of June, all of July and most of August brings torrential rains to the city. The advantage is that the downpour brings some relief from the hot sun that beats unrelentously down on Mumbaikers in May. However, short distances, which already take some time to traverse due to poor roads and traffic, become almost impassable due to the almost assured flooding that follows soon after a couple of hours of heavy rain. Cars are lucky that they are still able to make their way, albeit slowly, through many of these flooded roads. In good weather the drivers of these same cars drive their passengers hurriedly through Mumbai roads honking and gesticulating impatiently. But during the monsoons these same cars have no choice but to wait patiently. A line of autorickshaws in front of them may stop suddenly in front of the newly formed pool of water, considering their likelihood of successful passage. The smart ones, with a quick maneuver, turn their vehicles 180 degrees around and seek alternate routes. Like a well-choreographed dance, the black and white autorickshaws, with flying blue tarps that beat in the wind in a makeshift attempt to shield their already soaked passengers, turn back one by one. As the stream of rickshaws that are almost literally ferrying their passengers about retreat, autorickshaws that are further back in the queue take their cue and turn around without waiting to catch a glimpse of the water firsthand.

Yesterday, we even passed a sabziwallah (vegetable seller) whose cart was perched on the higher ground of a sidewalk using what it looked like to be the metal pan for weighing his vegetables to furiously dump rising muddy water from the road into a ditch so that his cart wouldn’t be set afloat.

I used to enjoy walking around the streets surrounding our flat in the afternoons. It is always interesting to take in the crowds and hustle and bustle of sabziwallahs, fruit sellers and people on their way here and there and occasionally stop at small stores hidden in the side streets that beckon to me with interesting wares peering out from the window panes. During the rains, the hustle and bustle is still there. After all, this is a city that never stops. But the people walking hurriedly looking straight out have become people walking with outstretched arms holding in vise-like grips open umbrellas that undulate threatening with evey gust of the wind. Their stooped heads and dampened hair betray that their umbrella has not completely shielded them from the elements. Carts still display their owner’s fruits and vegetables while stalls display clothes, bags, and shoes. What has changed is that all is shrouded by a layer of blue tarp that mysteriously appears as if to cloak the city. The once dusty roads have become muddied and treacherously slippery for the unfamiliar. Mosquitos also buzz around hovering around puddles and other pools of standing water.

Sandrine attends an international school in Mumbai which follows the American school year. As such she is at home on vacation during the monsoons. As those with a 4 year old child can readily attest to, it is impossible to keep them fully occupied and you have to make every effort to curb their TV intake. It amazed me that Sandrine would happily watch her favorite shows as well as almost any other children’s show in Hindi. Mind you she doesn’t know Hindi, but I suppose it doesn’t matter to her. It bothered me more than her so she now watches a collection of Disney favorites on DVD in English. Anyway, to give her a break from home, me, and fighting with her 16.5 month old sister I enrolled her in a couple of evening classes: arts and crafts and gymnastics. She has attended one week of crafts so far and I am really impressed with the instructor and Sandrine looks forward to class and probably getting out of the confines of our flat.

One problem is the location of the class. It is in a small lane in Bandra, which is difficult to find. Two of our drivers, Roshan and Rahul both needed me to ask people for directions to get there. Our permanent driver Roshan even requested that I call Rahul so that he could find out how we finally reached the place. Rahul who is well-versed with locations all over Mumbai was actually stumped! Anyway, I finally came across a young man who knew where it was. Although he spoke English, I requested that he speak directly to Roshan since I was not familiar with the area. Roshan spent a couple of minutes talking to the man from his driver’s side window and then walked out with the man and both gestured at various roads shaking their heads affirmatively for another couple of minutes. Finally as I thought we were ready to go, Roshan requested the passerby to get into our vehicle and personally guide us there. The narrow roads and shortcuts he pointed out resulted in our speedy arrival. Nonetheless it was good we had our personal guide. I am certain that we would have gotten lost as I consider the narrow roads and side roads we took. After the 40 minute adventure, I was chagrined to find that the class had been cancelled! Our next trip to the first class took exactly 9 minutes door to door.

I was excited about the proximity until the second class, when it was raining. The major road in front of our flat was flooded in parts and Roshan had to wing his way taking roads that were accessible. In total, three roads gave us trouble. One had an electrical post down and two were fully flooded. I suddenly realized that this 9 minute journey would not be 9 minutes again until this season ended. For the third class I had to carry Sandrine out of the car since she would have been submerged to her ankles in a puddle. I had been wondering why there were only a few students in the class, especially since the instructor and the class were both really good. It suddenly hit me that parents must be much more familiar with the weather in Mumbai than I.

The tide beats violently on the sandy shores. The clouds gray ominously. The flighty wind heaves the coconut tree leaves inward and outward in turns revealing and hiding their heavy, round bounty. Heavy rain beats down suddently. I am surprised by how the rain does not begin with a drizzle and culminate in a torrential downpour but begins with the climax first. I suppose that the surging tide and gray clouds are enough of nature’s warning. I take in my breath not in fear but in awe.

It is monsoon time in Goa and we were there for the weekend. We were staying at a beautiful resort in South Goa. We wanted to see Goa in the monsoons and have plans to return to see the famous churches and experience the world-reknowned waters during better weather. As such, we had accepted that this would be a vacation about enjoying the food and other amenities of our resort. As those who know me can attest, it is only recently that I have acquiesced to taking what I call “beach” vacations. My idea of a vacation used to be (probably still would be if Bob let me get away with it) a full itinerary from 5 am to 11 pm printed on photocopied itineraries that each of us carried. The purpose was to experience another place but in a calculated, methodical way that left nothing of importance out. On the other hand, a beach vacation is where you enjoy good food, sleep, each other’s company, and above all relax.

This trip to Goa was a beach vacation but ironically the persistent rain made it impossible to spend time on the beach. During the soggy first day I was starting to feel that we had come in vain. However on or second day, when there was a reprieve in the rain Sandrine, Nikhitita, Bob and I took a leisurely family walk down the man-made footpath to the beach. On the walk we passed dewy green lawns fresh with life from the rains. From these fields rose tall coconut trees that formed a picturesque silhouette against the gray blue sky. When we reached the beach a red flag, put out by the resort staff, warned guests of the dangerous surf. A little redundant since the waters beating down on the sand were warning enough. Suddenly the winds picked up, the leaves of the coconut trees swayed dangerously and the skies opened wide letting down a deluge of water. I sigh thinking, “Our trip was worth it.”

Why is it that monsoons in Mumbai and monsoons in Goa elicit such different reactions? Perhaps it is because in Mumbai the rains slow people down from their day to day tasks. On many an occasion when I am in Mumbai I find myself looking straight out through the water blurried front windshield and then nervously at my watch hoping that there is no road blockage. Or as a pedestrian I grip my umbrella tight with one hand and my bag of groceries with the other looking down as I trudge my way through the slushy streets hoping to get home before the rains get worse. In Goa, I was in no rush. I was able to think of more than getting somewhere on time or trying not to get drenched. I actually looked up at the beautiful ominous sky, down at the tide rising higher and higher onto the sandy beach, and out at lush greenery and majestic coconut trees. What seemed dreary and depressing in one place seemed absolutely magnificent in another. I guess it truly is all about perspective.