Lest we forget

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I'm looking at some fresh footage from 26/11, taken from a cameraphone by a member of our city's disaster management services. I hurtle back to November 2008 in a flash. The video shows the street outside Nariman House.. it's the middle of the day, and there's a dog standing stationary in the middle of the main Shahid Bhagad Singh road. You can hear a faint hum, like a stacatto whirring, but not quite discernible. Nothing unusual except that besides the dog, there's nothing and no one else on this street outside Colaba market, typically thronging with people, day or night. You could hear a bottle opener pop in the silence between Celejor bakery and Billoo's Bharat Petroleum petrol pump, blasted by the grenades thrown from Nariman House (poor Billoo - though his petrol pump is looking as good as new). The whirring you realise is coming from the helicopter blades hovering in the distance.

The building I live in is to the left of the frame. Viewing the footage, I know exactly where I'm standing when it was taken. Along with a small gathering of people in 4th Pasta Lane, waiting for something to happen - for 3 days and 2 nights, just like that. When there was action, there was a lot - rocket propelled grenades, the rat-a-tat of AK-47s around us, as we ducked and switched off the lights from our vantage point atop the Pipewala Building - perfect for reportage, as it put us in direct view of Nariman House.

But that was sporadic. Mostly, it was the silence that built up the pressure.

One year later, the effects of 26/11 are still alive for a lot of journalists, who were covering the events. People I knew, and knew of, who lived in that neighbourhood, were killed. Even today, when 4-year-old Aryan (name changed) comes over to my place for chocolates, and to play with the neighbour's dog, my heart tears a little bit, and I still don't like talking to him, as it jerks me out of my insulation, and reminds me of all the grief we were surrounded with. Both Aryan's parents were killed in Tiffin, the Oberoi restaurant. For at least a month, his grandparents told him his parents were in London, shopping for toys for him. His older brother kept it from him too, while crying all day in the bedroom. Finally they took Aryan to Chowpatty beach with a bunch of balloons, let the balloons fly, and told him in their own way.

There is no right or wrong way to deal with grief and loss. One year later, there are a lot of grandparents struggling to live life in a full circle, their aged eyes always marked with the same bewilderment - the confusion and often, raw fear they face everyday bringing up young children again. I saw the photographs in the obituaries the day after 26/11 and realised with a chill: these were all group photographs. This attack, aimed at social venues, like restaurants, hotels, and a long-distance train terminus, had not only wiped out individuals, but entire families.

Here's the irony: yes, we know South Mumbai didn't vote, not in the General Elections in May, nor in the Assembly Election in October. Voter turnout in both elections in the 40 percent range, gave the impression that it has moved on from 26/11, and we all scoffed, "well, what did you expect?" But I don't believe South Mumbai has forgotten. Conversation at social gatherings, one year later, still somehow come around to 26/11 stories. Maybe I hear more because people know I'm a journalist - but it's almost like death has affected almost every family here - some friend, some neighbour, some aquaintance - the 26/11 effect has been sweeping in the heavily insulated world of south Bombay. It doesn't translate into votes, and life is still fine in this part of the world, but certainly more than the rest of Mumbai, 26/11 is still very much a reality here, even if it's spoken in whispers.

I don't think we journalists are allowed the luxury of post-traumatic stress disorder. But I'm still left with a vaguely disturbing feeling everytime 26/11 is brought up. Now, one year later, as we re-trace people who were involved, I find myself knowing many of these people personally, either because I met them last year, or came to know them later, and suddenly, I don't really want to interview them.

An excerpt of an interview with Karambir Kang, general manager at the Taj Mahal Hotel, is running in a promo for CNN-IBN's coverage of 26/11-one year later. We all know Mr. Kang's story by now. In the promo, the pain in his voice as he speaks of his family, so low and hoarse, so raw, brings me back to that room where I did the interview - and I always look away. When it plays, I cringe, remembering how we ran it as an exclusive, and wonder why, of all things, we have to run that in a promo one year later.. Even though he spoke to us to give a message to our enemies, and to others who had lost like him - in my mind, it has the distinction of being easily the worst experience in my journalistic career. I remember, to distract myself from the distastefulness of what I was doing, I was obsessing over aesthetics before he entered the room, positioning his chair in front of the only painting there - a relief on an otherwise bare white wall in front of which he would be sitting. It seems insignificant, but that act, and the following interview, gave me a feeling of being a very small person, interviewing a very tall man, in his worst hour.

Hearing snatches of his voice on the promo, the answer meets me head-on.. The aim of the promo, and the coverage, is surely not to relive, it is to remind. And to salute. Lest we forget. The worst form of disrespect we could pay to the senseless killing of perfectly innocent families, going out to dinner, or going on a trip, is forgetting.

We're already wondering when and where we'll be hit again; the Home Ministry is already issuing alerts to coastal areas, again. After the attacks, our police force has got some fancy new assault vehicles, new Glock pistols, new leadership in the police force, a new Force One of commandoes, new highly-publicised gymasiums, and a new firing range for our men in khakhi. But do a quick check with your own neighbourhood beat cop, and you'll find life for the average hawaldar, firefighter, hospital worker, and other members who form our emergency services, is still the same old story: the same old training (or lack thereof), and the same old salary - grassroot level rigor mortis.

Lest we forget. I guess, after the 9/11s, 7/11s, and 26/11s, unfortunately, the only thing we can do, is remind, re-chronicle, and re-analyse, sometimes with crushing helplessness, sometimes with voyeuristic thrill, where we, the citizenry, have failed, and wonder how many more Aryans we, the citizenry, will be left bringing up, in the absence of their parents.