One has to have some level of attachment in life. With something real or unreal! When we are truly attached to something we realize that we still have some amore in us. Whatever miseries visit us, we can fall back on that something. That something can be a home, a pet, a friend, a lover or a crowded train. The past couple of days have been somewhat anfractuous. For us all. India on the whole!
The past week saw a series of bombs ripping through the local train system in Bombay. In a matter of less than 200 seconds, 200 innocent people were cut to an instant, cruel death. For no apparent reason. For an anger with no reasonable justification. In cold-blood. Just like that.
I flunk to understand the root of this madness. How can someone kill with such impunity? With such heartlessness. On such a murderous scale. I didn’t catch much of TV. There were only gory images on it. That – honestly -- puts me off. I despise Indian media for its naivety. Showing body parts. There is no dignity of the dead in this country. That is something we are yet to learn – or ape -- form our western counterparts.
Still the bridled tears linger. The sound of a million sobs. The initial scare may well be over but the scars remain. For five days on the trot, images of people hurriedly running helter-skelter --like alarmed ants after a micro-stampede -- filled the newspapers. Pictures of suspects. Stupid looking guys who look distinctly unlettered with a prominent rage-filled head.
I lay reading a book in my bedroom, the next night of the bombing. Suddenly I went flipping channels -- with the remote -- for World-space radio to give me the latest update. Frequency 342 -- BBC world, mid-night Asia: Western Railway resumes services, the lady-anchor gushed. I couldn’t help work up a tiny smile. That is resilience for you, mates! The human spirit.
People attached to a service that they feel proud to call their lifeline. Going back to work. To life. Workers furiously mopping up overnight bloodstains. Citizens of a great city returning to their beloved possession. The Local. The spirit never bends. The affections are just too strong. Like my Dad’s fondness for our home. Whilst all my friends’ families have moved on to newer locations and fancier homes. My Pops continues his romance with our cosy-old home.
The love of Dad’s life – my mom – lived here. I know the exact reason why the beautiful people of Bombay decide to take the same train, same track, and same bogies again. It’s their love for the journey of existence. Their bond. Their attachment.
God bless us all.