Showing posts with label Bombay. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Bombay. Show all posts

Thursday, December 04, 2008

Bullets at the Ball


It has been a week of profound agony. All of us feel violated. It appears as if something deep within has suddenly snapped. That ten men armed with rage and AK-56 guns came stealthily in the dark of the night in dirty rubber boats and highjacked the collective conscience of a billion people looks astonishing. Many things changed on that fateful starry night. Not only did the bullets fly thick and fast in the ball room at Taj, cutting the guests to an instant death, massive holes were made in many hearts.

A full one week after the Bombay [I prefer Bombay to Mumbai] mayhem, a startled citizenry is still numb. There is fear and anger at what has happened. Last evening at a prayer meeting for the much-loved Sabina I looked on helplessly as the renowned columnist Baachi Karkaria broke down. She said she felt so guilty to have invited Sabina to her son’s wedding to Bombay. Perhaps we are all guilty at some level, I wanted to assure the elegant Baachi. I couldn’t. She was inconsolable. Just in front of me Ustad Amjad Ali Khan wept slowly. At the illustrious Lady Sri Ram College, today, each eye was tenderly moist. Is it a catharsis for losing our innocence, I can't say?

The media is full of horror tales. I’ve stopped reading the blood-cuddling accounts. It makes me go queasy in the stomach. I don’t understand the vanity of it all. What justifies the bloodshed? The answers, I know, aren’t easy to come by. The static is uneasy.

The lone idiot our notoriously ill-equipped cops managed to lay hands on has apparently blurted out that all nautical routes lead to our neighbor’s shores. I give the civil society in that poor country the benefit of doubt. They must be equally appalled as we are. However, as we know well, and others around the world may confirm, the sinister cabal, which plots and schemes this ugly terror, is mostly based out of Pakistan’s badlands. It is time the network is smashed. Who does it, can be debated.

Back home we need to fix our old hatchways.

Terrorists are cold, cruel and calculated. They kill at will. They foist their hate colored flags on our bodies. We can’t afford to stay indifferent. We can't afford to allow them to cut us to death while we are eating in a restaurant or drinking in a café or shopping at a mall. We can’t afford to let them snatch away our lifelong friends from us. We cannot afford to allow our cherished freedom to be held ransom to some twisted, idiotic ideology. We can’t afford to fear a psychotic who kills a sick woman, sleeping in her bed, to prove that he is a man. Or a martyr.

In grief
And memoriam

To humanity
And goodness
And to all those innocents whose lives were mercilessly snuffed out during those dreary days of Nov 26, 27 and 28.

Sameer

Sunday, November 30, 2008

Our soup will never be the same again

[Sabina in happier days; California]

Fight till the last gasp
~ William Shakespeare
English Dramatist, Playwright and Poet


I’ve never seen someone carrying pearls as gracefully as Sabina Saikia Sehgal. I first met her a couple of years back at a party the Saikia’s hosted at their beautiful Defence colony villa. You couldn’t afford to ignore her in any setting. Sabina wore huge glasses and a huge pearl. I soon realized that beneath that overweening visage, there was a beautiful human being. She was exceedingly warm, cordial and she laughed out loud. I ate prawns that she had made and it was the best shrimp I’ve ever had.

I met her on many occasions that I went to see my editor at the Saikia‘s. Each time she would floor me with her generosity. Sabina was pretenseless and I really admired her for that. I think the geniality, grace and glow came only naturally. I was surprised to learn that she read my blogs: ‘I liked the blog post you wrote for your mom,’ she told me. I never hoped I’d some day have to write an obit for such a brilliant journalist.

I’ve seen a very few people so full of life. A globe-trotting writer, food critic and consulting editor of the Times of India were just one shade to her. She also was a wonderful mother to her two kids and a loving wife to Santanu, her journalist-turned-dot com entrepreneur hubby. Sabina’s friends would vouch for her amity. As a pro she had such a fierce reputation of being India’s best -- and ruthless -- food writer that restaurateurs would fear her weekly column. Yet, in private, she was so kind.

I shudder to think how cowardly it must have been to shoot her?
Did she laugh one last time? Her loud guffaws would often draw people to her. No wonder her funeral saw an ensemble of the crème de la crème of the capital. I had the Delhi chief minister standing to my left and fashion designer Rohit Bal to my right. Complete strangers sobbed as her pyre was lit. I’d tears in my eye.

It feels so sad to lose her. Newspapers are replete with tributes. I’m being told that she was one of the finest food connoisseurs in the country. I’m sure she will raid heaven's kitchen and savor its famed manna and nectar. And then rate it. Without fear.

Sabina will be dearly missed.

Sabina Saikia Sehgal
[1961-2008]
Godspeed
[Sabina was killed in the terrorist attack at Bombay’s Taj Mahal hotel]

Sameer