Then we landed on the news channel band. And there it stayed and hasn’t moved since.

Of course we started watching something described as a gang war. This built up into a chase behind the elusive truth of what was happening, trying to piece together the tracks of someone (some people?) who’d turned up at C.S.T. station with guns, popped up five minutes later at the Taj Mahal hotel and then apparently transmogrified a few meters away at the Oberoi/Trident. Abrupt cut to assemble a whole lot of other details.

Nariman House

Grant Road station

Rubber boats

AK47

Vileparle

Dockyard

Stolen Skoda

JJ School of Art

RDX

Hijacked police van

It was well past 1 am before I realized I hadn’t budged from the seat in front of the television set. In those three hours we’d absorbed and internalized all the starting details and figured out enough to relay them to others. By 2:30 am, I was tweeting away, weaving myself intricately into the drama that the whole city, a few minutes later the whole country and within a few hours the whole world would become a part of.

Well past 3:30am I collapsed into bed from sheer exhaustion. Emotional roller-coasters are tiring and I’d been riding for over 5 hours nonstop.

I awoke four hours later and for a virginal 20 seconds, my consciousness was devoid of any sensation. Then I remembered and raced to the living room where the television was already on. I’m not normally a TV person, even less in the morning and I only meant to get a fix on the day’s situation to take a call on going to work or not. I looked away ten minutes later to find four hours had passed.

The day is otherwise a blur to me. I don’t remember eating or sleeping. But I do remember flipping channels when one started going on a loop and finding another angle on the story within a fraction of a second. I remember phone calls and left-hand-typing SMSes with the right hand tapping out on the TV remote control. I remember watching a video shot on a cellphone, reading the ticker text at the bottom of the screen, listening to my caller at the other end and relaying a super-quick analysis of it all to my family. I remember tweeting, retweeting, replying, reading tweets, following tweeple and all of it on that woefully inadequate application called m.twitter on my superslow GPRS connection. I remember shifting into gmail every couple of hours for quick checks and having to reload each time since the phone doesn’t allow for multiple windows. And I remember feeling enraged at my computer internet connection going down at such a time.

The day ended around midnight for my family as they retired with the news that the Taj Mahal hotel had been recovered. I stayed glued to the set and Twitter. When 45 minutes later, came the news that it had been a hasty wire and there was still unidentified gunfire coming out from Taj, I actually rushed back to wake everyone up. Finding them asleep, I hastened back to my couch-seat, unwilling to miss even a minute of the drama. My brain gave out at 4 am.

In this interim while I watched a panel discussion among semi-celebrities being intellectual and socialist about the attack.

I (with a number of other blogger/tweeters) panned the politicians and sneered at the PM’s address. I had a lump in my throat as I watched the minute-to-minute battles of the firemen, the cops and the NSG commandos.

I watched replays of the highlights of the feature like the firing from the police van, the interview with the Navy chief, the soundbytes from the British hostage who’d escaped.

I tsk-tsked at Barkha Dutt’s insensitive questions to the relatives waiting outside for their loved ones trapped in the buildings. I listened with an almost indecent glee to the frenzied statements by celebrities and the dead-toned voices of the junta on the roads.

I processed numbers of hostages, prisoners, casualties, terrorists, commandos and mulled over them all.

And I also contributed to the mass panic, the collective griping, the unified expression of support, the unanimous indignation. I dissolved into and became one with everyone around and outside the terror situation – the media; the social media.

This morning my frenzied participation was interrupted by having to get out to go to work. Even so, I found myself holding my phone camera ready to capture anything that might contribute to the drama. Zilch (mercifully, in retrospect). The minute I got to office and was connected, I was back. Twitter, email, blogs and the news streaming feeds kept us very much plugged into every nuance. With every fake rumor, we reverberated along with the collective panic in the city and breathed a synchronized sigh of relief when they were proven false.

This might have continued ad infinitum. After all, I can’t see any end in sight just yet. From what I hear, hostage situations in terrorism aren’t quick-and-dry deals and rather tend to drag out to exert pressure on both sides. But I spent an hour with a friend. Though our conversation started with our sharing our fears, our mutual outrage and our common jaded-by-now analysis of the situation….it gave way smoothly into the more mundane details of our daily lives, our own little soap operas.

And as I made my way home, I realized I was breathing smoothly for the first time in two days. Reality shows are tricky things. They’re interesting and engaging simply because of how well we identify with them, how involved we get with them. And we get our emotional adventures as we swing up and down and get rattled about by the situations we find ourselves in, by proxy. We connect and we’re thrilled to the bone. Yes, I said thrilled, not chilled. It’s an adrenalin rush.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m just as outraged by the indignity of fear perperated on us as a city and as a nation by a handful of terrorists. My heart still aches for the bravery of the people who fell defending us yesterday as it does for the broken people staggering out of the Taj, Nariman House and Trident. But I can’t stand anymore thrills from chills. I’m disconnecting from the most vivid reality show I’ve ever been a part of. This is too much reality for me and I’m ODing. I think I’d rather go live my own mundane, selfish little existence for little while just so I can survive. Enough, already.

Later this morning, there was a sudden buzz that a fresh round of firing had opened at C.S.T. station and that hostages had been taken. This turned out to be a false rumour. Apparantly someone had heard some noise that sounded to them like gunfire and panicked.

Just ten minutes back, I heard what sounded like a blast. I jumped but I ignored it. Two minutes later it was followed by another one. I looked up to see if anyone else had heard it. Apparantly no one else had. I was just debating whether to go back to my desk (in one corner of the office so I could have been the only one to hear it, being closest) or tell someone (and risk starting another panic wave). Upstairs someone else had heard it too and called us to check it out. We raced to the terrace, hearts thundering. It turned out to be nothing more than the daily workers going about their deed at the construction site next door. Whhhewwwww.

Yes, I’m very jumpy. I’ve been proud to be a Mumbaiker and faced bandhs, riots, bomb blasts, train explosions, bus stoning incidents, hostile weather conditions and various acts of local violence. All this and I got up matter-of-factly and went to work the next day, paying no more heed to my anxious relatives than I did to the nuisances of daily traffic. But this is different. Living in what seems to be unending terror, watching my own mind lose rationale and turn what it sees into wild fears is horrible.

And I’m angry. Very angry, on behalf of my city, the country if I may say so. This time, I swear, I don’t want to display the resilient Mumbai spirit. I just want to feel safe in my own home, goddammit! And that Mumbai is home to its largest tax-paying population seems to be no concern for the powers-that-be.

All through this horrific Thursday, while the city held its collective breath,
…while an unknown number of citizens were held prisoner by a small bunch of AK47-toting, RDX-weilding terrorists,
…while firemen battled the flames atop the Taj dome
…while commandos walked into certain danger
…while the police stood vigil and supportive, with nothing more to shield them than their khaki uniforms
…while mediapersons hovered around every location that could potentially turn dangerous (and got shot at as well) trying to make some sense of what was happening
…while hundreds of civilians hovered around, desperate for some news of their loved ones trapped within

…..while Mumbai’s heart stopped beating, what did our leaders do?

They presented a ‘dignified, unified front’ by condescending to agree with each other on condemning these blasts.
They performed the supreme sacrifice of having to tolerate each other’s company in travelling together to the city for a brief trip to show their faces to a few hospitals.
And they gave a speech or two.

The bitterest irony for me was when, towards evening the media, obviously running short of things to say, started airing ads as well. Right after our Prime Minister’s (highly insipid and uninspiring) speech, we heard the strains of ‘Pappu can’t dance sala’ modified to a demand to vote. Vote for whom?

I don’t quite know how to end this yet. The end isn’t in sight as yet. Last heard, the sanitising operation is still on at the attacked location. My colleagues who left early seem to have gotten home safe. But rumours are still rife. And the city is still holding its breath. We need life support systems, not resilient spirit anymore.

I woke up to the news channels airing footage shot hours ago, of the MNS chief being escorted into the police van at Ratnagiri and a few fancy-looking maps showing blinking dots in the areas of Borivili, Andheri, Dadar and Worli.

Violence has erupted in parts of the city.

…the TV anchor informed me over my breakfast. And..

MNS workers have been protesting the arrest. This comes in the light of the weekend attack on the railway examination centers to protest under-representation of Maharashtrians in the test.

I was still yawning, glued to the television as I was. And then I snapped the set shut, got ready and left for work.

The roads were not empty. They were the way a civilised, metropolitan city’s roads should be. Vehicles running at least 2 feet from each other in parallel lanes, a few stray pedestrians crossing only during the traffic signals, short signal wait-times, no undue honking. My normal 45-minute commute took all of 20 minutes. Thank you Mr.Thackeray for giving us one day of normal commuting.

People came into work. But of course. No, I’m not going to go on about the resilient spirit of Mumbaikers, our courage, our bravery etc. I’m no braver than the next person. All I am, is practical. Between floods, riots, bandhs, public transport strikes, communal clashes, infrastructure breakdowns and politico arrests, I have a job to do. And every day brings a new reason to not go to work. Yet, we do. That’s not courage, it’s just acceptance of the way things are.

From the last time this happened, I figured the media was just creating a hullaballoo as usual. No one who goes out in this city everyday really believes the news channels anymore (and certainly not a certain Dilli-based channel which thinks that Mumbai starts and ends at Churchgate and that Tardeo and Juhu are far-flung railway stations). Sure enough, come evening and I had a smooth commute back home as well. No, I did not spot any blood on the streets, no slapped-around taxi drivers, I did not get pelted with stones and the city seemed no scarder than usual.

If anything, the highlights of the day were how people chose to deal with the chaos. My Little Lord received the following email from HR:

Dear All

Due Unstable environment with regards to Raj Thackeray arrest, management has decided that all associates can leave by 4.00pm.

With Warm Regards,
HR Manager

Tue, Oct 21, 2008 at 4:11 PM

My colleagues were far more prompt and shot off the following (very convincing) mail:

There is a slight issue here at the Mumbai office. Due to some political issues there is absolute civil unrest and the city is at the brink of riots breaking out. The team will need to rush home. Im not sure if we’d be able to make it to the call today.

* So I’m jaded and cynical. Go read the full story here.

Shiv Sena executive president Uddhav Thackeray took the lead when he proudly claimed his party’s decision to rename the humble vada-pav as Shiv vada-pav to be ahead in the race with Raj Thackeray. [link]

This takes politics to an amazing level of stupidity never ever seen my mankind.

First we had the shivaji beedi. Now the shivaji vadapav. Next will be shivaji chai.

What’s also disturbing is how these politicians pander to the name of Shivaji. For arguements sake, he was not even a God, prophet, holy man or god man. He was a king of a small group of people. Why is it necessary to elevate the stature of a person so that he somehow becomes an icon for regionalistic jingoism is beyond me.

So the next time you are the corner tapri….why not just order a Shivaji Triple…

Chances are you have but never realized it.

In the stupid politician series this is another hallmark.

Residents are angry that the plan to rename Carter Road as Sangeet Samrat Naushad Ali Road was mooted by corporator Kavita Rodricks without consulting them. [link]

The erstwhile Carter Road that has for decades been one of the landmarks of Bombay, has been re-christened Sangeet Samrat Naushad Ali Road.

No offence to Naushad whose music was timeless and amazing, but was there a need to name this prominent road after him. And will changing the name really make any difference.

Did it make a difference to Warden Road or Hill Road? Bhulabhai Desai and Ramdas Naik would say NO.

Will someone tell Kavita Rodricks, Corporator, SP (stupid politician) that she has pushed the envelope of stupidity when it comes to politicians.