by Mainak Dhar
Turned out Megha’s father had been in the Air Force, and she had spent her childhood moving from one base to another. So we did have something in common, after all.
‘That explains your fighting spirit,’ I said.
She smiled. ‘Just give me a bottle to throw and I’m deadly.’
I would have wanted to do nothing more than sit and chat, share numbers and then perhaps ask her out. Maybe later in the week, we’d catch up over drinks after work, then see where things led. Of course, there was no point in sharing phone numbers since our phones did not work, there were no restaurants open where we could grab a meal, and indeed, no office for me to go to. She caught me gazing off into the distance.
‘What are you thinking about?’
‘Asking you out to lunch.’
I had said the words without thinking and now quickly glanced at her to see if she was bothered by them, and if I should apologize. Instead, she smiled.
‘Sure. I would have said your place or mine, but my place is out there in Goregaon and I don’t know when I’ll get back and how my flatmate is doing. So your place it is. How about dinner?’
I nodded. Things had taken an unplanned turn, and for a change, considering what the last few days had been like, it had been for the better.
Of course, I was brought back to reality when I went to the meeting room and saw Kundu sitting at the table, his ham-like hands rubbing the sides of his temple and Rani standing next to him, tears welling up in her eyes. I knew they had planned a trip to Haiko early in the morning to get supplies, and wondered what had gone wrong. Mrs Khatri and Nitish were there and it seemed everyone other than me was in a foul mood. What had happened?
Rani looked at me and spoke through sobs. ‘Someone broke into Haiko. They took a lot of the food. What will I tell my boss when we reopen?’
I didn’t know whether to be touched or amused by her display of loyalty to a chain that perhaps no longer really existed.
I turned to the General, who was sitting in a corner. ‘Looters?’ I asked.
‘Can’t be. None of our patrols saw anyone sneak into the neighbourhood, and while we don’t have the manpower to cover every inch of the area, they would have noticed a group making off with that much stuff.’
The conclusion was as inescapable as it was troubling. One of our neighbours had committed this theft, and while we had no real jurisdiction to challenge anyone, our continued existence in the absence of any police or government machinery was our trust in each other. Mrs Khatri had already called a meeting of the representatives of all the housing societies that formed our alliance, and they were due to meet in an hour.
As I walked on the main road outside, I noticed a group of people huddled in a corner, smoking and speaking in raised voices. They were all men, all in the forties or late thirties, and all the sort who on a normal weekday would have been in their offices by now. I walked a bit closer to hear what was causing them such concern.
‘I wish I were in office, man. The wife wants me to clean up and help in the cooking. She says I have no office to go to and pretend to be busy with anymore.’
Another man, who I recognized as Ketan, the guy who’d had an argument with his maid, spoke up. ‘My bloody maid left this morning, along with a bunch of others. They said that it looked like things were not coming back to normal anytime soon, so they left to go to relatives and friends’ homes around Mumbai. So I’m supposed to be cleaning the bathroom this evening. What the fuck is happening?’
I walked on by, not saying anything, but wondering how much we had been conditioned by the society we lived in, where the skills that had been valued were so different from what mattered now, and where the hierarchies and social roles which people had taken for granted now meant very little.
I heard footsteps behind me—it was Rani.
‘Sahib, I had an idea.’
I saw that her gloom had given way to a look of determination.
‘Mr Kundu is worried because he says we have a stockpile of food to last only a couple of weeks, but that is because you people are so used to buying food from a supermarket. Back in my village, we grew our own food.’
She pointed to the garden to our right.
‘We can grow a lot of food there. There are nurseries nearby. We can send a team to gather seeds and get to work.’
‘Rani, you are a genius.’
We rushed back to Kundu with the idea and he issued another belly-rumbling laugh, which seemed to lift everyone’s mood. Now that he had a renewed sense of purpose, he stood up and got to work, getting his crew ready to head to the nursery and asking Rani what they would need. I knew virtually nothing about this, having grown up in a world where you never really had to think about how food got to your table. It also brought home to me that while we were feeling so lost in the world we found ourselves in, the many millions living in villages were probably coping far better than us. They were less reliant on electronic crutches, derived less purpose in life from going to offices, and were far more self-reliant when it came to food and water.
I looked around at the tall apartment towers around me. They looked so big, so solid, indeed our lives had seemed so predictable and stable—only now were we realizing just how fragile a foundation it had all been built on.
I continued walking through the area and passed Yash as he was coming off guard duty, no doubt headed back home to get some rest before he re-joined duty in the evening.
‘Hey Yash, how are the other guys on guard duty holding up?’
‘Everyone’s shit scared. Hardly anyone is prepared to deal with trouble if it comes. They’re bankers, students, accountants, and so on. Do you think another gang will come?’
I asked him to take a seat on a garden bench. ‘Yash, if the situation continues as it is, it is just a matter of time before someone tries to hit us again. A gang or just a bunch of people desperate for food.’
When I told him about Haiko having been robbed, presumably by someone in the neighbourhood, his eyes widened in shock.
‘Yash, none of us has lived in a world like this, but at least you and I had seen a side of life where there was discipline, training, and yes, fighting. That world was our dojo.’
His eyes seemed to focus as he realized where I was going with this.
‘There were six brown belts at the dojo who live in the neighbourhood. Find them and some of the other boys and girls who were at least sixteen years old and senior belts. Get them to start training those we’re putting on guard duty and anyone else who wants to learn.
‘Do you think it’ll help?’
‘Look, realistically, they are not going to be able to take on a hardened criminal with a few days of training. But it will make them less helpless if they do need to get into a scrap, and most importantly, it will give them confidence.’
He nodded and was about to walk away, when we heard the urgent blasts of a whistle. Many more times than we had instructed anyone to blow their whistle. A sign of panic.
All our strategies had come to naught—in their distress, one of the patrols had forgotten the specific number of blasts we had assigned to each checkpoint. So we had to rely on our judgement to figure out the direction the whistles were coming from. I took a bicycle and rode hard towards the checkpoint at the road headed towards Ghatkopar. When I reached, I was aghast at what I saw.
Our four guards were standing there, one of them blowing on his whistle, the others backed up against a car which we had placed there as a barrier and pleading with a large crowd of at least thirty people, who were shouting at them. As I got closer, I realized what a wretched bunch the crowd was. Even when things had been normal, they had probably been eking out a hand-to-mouth existence, living in the many slums that dotted the neighbouring areas. With no power, no food, no income and no security, their lives would have become even more difficult and dangerous.
I stepped in front of our guards, all of whom were visibly frightened and shaken. A woman carrying a child spoke up. �
�We have nothing now. No food, no jobs, and looters are attacking our homes at night. Let us in, please. Please, for god’s sake, let us in.’
I looked at the child, perhaps no more than three years old, dried snot caking his nose and tears still flowing down his face. I looked into the crowd and saw that it was entirely made up of women, children and the elderly. I was about to let them in when it occurred to me that I could not take such a decision without checking with the others first. Now, our safety and our resources were a collective responsibility and while we had talked of gathering food and water and dealing with potential looters, we had never really considered what to do with those seeking refuge. I asked the crowd to wait while I checked with our committee and I rode back to ask the others for advice.
Kundu was the first to respond. ‘We were idiots to not have considered this a real possibility. Look at how hard we think we have it, and imagine those poor buggers out there, with no food, no security, living in the darkness and seeing our lights up and running at night. No wonder they came here for help.’
Mrs Khatri seemed lost in thought and Bhagat was also dithering. I guess all of them were as conflicted as I was. While our own survival and security was on our minds, could we turn our backs on those so much more in need than us? I ventured a suggestion. ‘Could we just let the women, kids and aged in?’
‘Who are we to decide who is deserving of getting refuge and those who are not?’ It was the General who had responded. Till then he had been sitting in a corner, smoking a cigarette and watching us debate. He now stood up and faced all of us.
‘We need to take a decision. Either we let in all refugees or we don’t. Just consider this though—if we are in this for months or years, at what point and on what basis do we decide we have more people than we can provide food or security for? Where will all of them sleep? Where will they go to take a bath, or indeed, go to the toilet?’
Then he turned sharply towards Mrs Khatri. ‘Don’t look at me like that, Malini. Would you let the refugees sleep in your home?’
She was about to respond with indignation when he asked another question. ‘What happens when there are five refugees for each of our homes, and then ten? What then?’
Mrs Khatri sat back down, looking deflated, as the General continued. ‘I am not heartless, but we do have to face the reality that we are in the early stages of a crisis that none of us is ready for and perhaps none of us still fully comprehends. In such a situation, should we focus on at least protecting and providing for our own families, or should we take in others? As tough a call as it is, I vote for us to turn away any refugee who was not originally a resident of one of our societies.’
Everyone looked at each other and then finally Kundu spoke in a whisper, ‘I agree with the General.’
Bhagat said he agreed as well, as did representatives of four other societies present. Mrs Khatri was the only one to vote in favour of letting in the refugees but she added, through choked back tears, ‘I hate to say it, but I understand what you’re saying, General. Yet my heart says we’re wrong.’
They looked at me. I closed my eyes, picturing the child I had just seen. ‘I am not an elected member here,’ I said, ‘and my vote counts for nothing, but we are all sticking together because somewhere we have decided that we need to look out for each other, not just watch out for our own interests. Where do we draw that boundary of what defines “us” and “them”? Who are we to decide who can enter a street that, till a few days ago, was open to everyone? If there really are terrorists out there who have done this to our nation and our world, aren’t we better off increasing the number of people we include in “us” and sticking together against the threats we all face?’
I saw Mrs Khatri and Kundu look away, but the others looked straight at me, no doubt thinking of their own families and children. Indeed, Bhagat said as much. ‘You have no family to take care of, young man. I have two kids and an old mother depending on me. Getting them to survive has to take priority.’
I could see where he was coming from, and I honestly had no compelling answer to the General’s questions. He got up and walked towards me, surprising me with what he said next.
‘My legs aren’t up to walking that far, so please give me a ride on your cycle and I’ll tell those poor people myself.’
My respect for the General went up several notches. He was the one who had proposed the tough decision we were making, and he was not hiding behind the committee, but going out to convey the decision himself. My uncle had often talked about the proud tradition in the Indian Army of officers leading from the front, and now I was seeing that in action.
When we reached the checkpoint, the General whispered to me to have my gun ready in hand.
‘General, these are women and kids.’
He looked sharply at me, and said, his voice taking on a harsh note I had never heard before, ‘Do as I tell you, boy!’
Pandey came up to us and the General asked him to have his rifle at the ready as we approached the checkpoint. Seeing the guns, the crowd took a few steps back.
‘I am sorry for the troubles you are going through,’ the General said, ‘but we are all affected. We also do not have much food or water and must look after our own families, and it is impossible for us to accommodate more people from outside. Please go back to your homes or find some other safe area.’
A woman wailed in despair and another shouted out something in Marathi, but the General stood firm.
‘Please go back down the road you came and do not try and approach this checkpoint again. We sympathize with your problems but we have to defend our homes and families as well.’
Pandey took a step forward and raised his rifle to his shoulder. Several in the crowd whimpered and they began falling back. Pandey took another step forward and they began running, dropping a few of their meagre possessions along the way.
I looked down, ashamed of what we had done.
The General spoke to Pandey. ‘Gather the larger dogs. People had so many damn pets, let’s put them to some use. Having a couple of large dogs at each checkpoint will dissuade some people. Also ask around for binoculars and have guard posts on at least one building overlooking each approach road. Our people could use some advance warning.’
Then he turned to me.
‘Aadi, don’t feel so bad. If we had let them in, the men would have followed in a few seconds, and then we’d have a bloody riot on our hands.’
‘Men?’
He pointed towards the road the refugees had fled down, and I saw a group of eight or ten men standing there, glaring at us. One of them shook his fist angrily at us.
‘I saw it all the time in peacekeeping operations in Sri Lanka and the Congo. Never thought I’d live to see the day when we’d have refugees in our own city.’
As I pedalled back with the General behind me, I realized I still had much to learn. I had neither spotted nor anticipated that the refugees would have left the men behind, hoping to gain entry with the women and kids. That made our decision a bit easier to swallow, but only a bit.
It was just three in the afternoon and I was dead tired. We used to complain about long days at work, but sitting in front of a laptop or on calls did not compare to having to walk or pedal wherever you wanted to go, not to mention being on edge all the time for the next thing to go wrong.
I had been sitting near the garden, watching Rani explain to her team where they would begin planting the seeds they had got from the nurseries. While our societies were not filled with farmers, there seemed to be enough gardening enthusiasts who now had an outlet for their hobby which had been otherwise impossible to pursue living in our concrete jungle. What was even more amusing was watching a team of managers, teachers and bureaucrats take orders from Rani. Before, each of them probably earned more money in a year than Rani would see in her lifetime, but how things had changed. Now what mattered was the real value you added to the community and the real-world skills you had, not numbers in your bank acco
unt.
I was smiling to myself when I spotted Megha coming out of the club. She leaned against one of the columns at the entrance and I could see even from a distance that she was distraught. I ran over to her and when I reached her, she buried her face in my shoulder.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘The third suicide today. I don’t know how much more I can take.’
I was dumbstruck. Three suicides in one day? In all the years I’d lived here, we had heard of only one suicide, and that had become something of a media circus, simply because it was so rare.
‘Who were they? What happened?’
‘All different stories. A woman who lost her husband last year and had been dealing with depression; a man with cancer who realized there would be no more painkillers for some time; and a young girl whose boyfriend was on an overnight flight when it happened. She couldn’t cope with the fact that he most likely would not have made it. One thing in common—all of them lost hope and lost the will to live.’
I held Megha, not knowing how to comfort her. I had been so focused on moving into action, on somehow coping with the changes that had been forced on us, and I’d been with others like Pandey and Nitish who were handling the situation similarly, that I had been blind to the fact that others may have reacted very differently. How many more people would we lose before this was over? Assuming it would get over, that is. I had to make a conscious effort of will to push that thought far away in the deep recesses of my mind. If I let myself go too far down that line of thinking, I would perhaps add my name to list of those who had given up on life.
Megha took a deep breath and sat up, facing me. I could see the tears still flowing, but her eyes had a renewed look of determination.
‘I need to get back. We have two pretty sick kids in there and I need to do what I can.’
As she started to get up, I held on to her hand. She looked at me, a curious look in her eyes.
