We mourn ‘voluntarily’

I would like to issue a disclaimer before you start reading this. Reading this might get you attacked, pelted with stones, your face blackened or just plain kept under house arrest. And no, you won’t be given a warning. Your attackers could be invisible, sometimes shine orange but most times appear out of nowhere, attack you and then disappear. Or maybe stay there and gloat.

So I am warning you. Read at your own risk.

I am a journalist. We were the first ones to get the news of the death of the Tiger of Mumbai as he is lovingly called—Bal Thackeray. We got it an hour before the world heard of it. Yes, stories had been speculated, rumors had roared, but the fact, the true fact reached us an hour before it did the world. And what did we do? We, the news bearers, the epitomes of free speech? Did we start planning the headlines, get the cartoonist to do the perfect caricature, start thinking of what the front page will look like? NO. We did nothing of this sort. What we instantly did was this—whip out our phones, call our loved ones and ask them to get home as soon as they could. And stay there. We asked them to stock up the fridge, get cash out of the ATM, get medicines.

Be safe. Be protected. For the war that might break out.

“A war!” You raise your eyebrows? Yes. A war. A war waged by the followers of the leader who died. On the city. On its people. On anybody who dared to breathe when their leader had ceased to.

Bal Thackeray was the founder of Shiv Sena the party which aimed at uplifting the Marathi manoos. In addition to being the leader of a political party, he was also an excellent cartoonist and a great orator. His death, like the death of any person and a leader, has left a void and is an irreplaceable loss for many. His friends, family and more importantly followers are right to mourn his death.

But expecting—no, demanding—that the rest of the city join them, too, in this mourning is a far-fetched idea. But this idea did become a reality.

The city that never sleeps turned into a ghost city. The city gagged itself, maintained a 24-hour silence in memory of the man who died. “It was a mark of respect. They did it voluntarily,” said the orange flag-bearing voices. But was it really a mark of respect? Or was it fear? Fear, that has now been successfully instilled in the minds and hearts of the people. The city that got back to its own feet in a day after bombs ripped through its local trains, after it was held hostage by a group of terrorists. That city came to a standstill “voluntarily.”

Is that possible? Yes it is. It is a voluntary act induced by fear. You read right.

For years, the leader of Shiv Sena preached in not-so-subtle terms the act of destroying that which he and his followers did not agree with. Be it English hoardings, books or people. Smashing car windshields, blackening faces and toppling shop displays were all a part of this destruction. Thackeray did not just destroy tangible things; he also destroyed minds, ideas and thoughts. He successfully injected fear into the veins of Bombay Mumbai. See. We can't even type the former name of the city without the fear of being attacked.

When this leader left for heaven, his son appealed to the Shiv Sainiks to “maintain peace.” The common man laughed. A laugh of irony. “How can you suddenly demand peace from the followers from whom for years you have been extracting violence,” said the common man. The common man knew that peace would be the last thing on the minds of the followers. They would follow the words of their leader even after his death. Isn’t that the sign of a true student?

Hence the well-aware common man downed the shutters of his shop, took home bagfuls of vegetables, milk and medicines, entered his house and locked the doors. Safe and quiet. All “voluntarily.”

This is not respect, and neither is it fear. It is alteration. Alteration of the thoughts of the millions in the city. Who did “voluntarily” an act that had they not done it, they would have been forced to do.

Among the thousands who sat in the confines of their homes were today’s youth. We, the so-called modern, intelligent, smart people. We, who sat at home and watched on the news how the city they loved had stopped breathing; saw the lakhs of Shiv Sainiks on the streets bid farewell to their leader. We, who when we decided to change the channel to get away from death for a minute, realized that there were nothing else showing on TV. That the broadcasters or the cable-wallas as they are called had decided “voluntarily” that they would not show the daily soaps on TV. Why, you dare ask? Because if you change the channel and watch a music video or see whether the second wife of the adulterous husband is actually pregnant, then you might forget that there has been a death in the city. You might have fun. Might live. When there were lakhs following a truck that carried a body wrapped in orange. How could you smile when there are so many of them crying? How could you not mourn?

Many of us took to Facebook and Twitter to voice our opinion. We wrote on walls, conveyed through chirpy birds our feelings of anger, frustration, of being caged. There was freedom here.

The virtual world can’t be pelted with stones, right? Or so we thought. Facebook, too, became a place where you had to “voluntarily” mourn. If you did put up a status challenging this voluntary act, then you were arrested. Doesn’t matter whether you were the one who uttered the blasphemous challenging words or whether you merely “liked” the words. A sin it was in any case. The only punishment to this was to attack your family, hurt your loved ones and get you arrested too. How cool is that? The people who vandalize property can influence the policemen to arrest others? Did I use the word influence? Sorry. I meant, can get the policemen to “voluntarily” arrest others.

Being a Mumbaikar I know this city. Know its hidden secrets, fears and happy moments. I have seen it resist, survive and breathe. Through every shit possible. But that day, when a man passed away, I saw the reality.

I realized the city had changed. Been screwed with. It now feared “voluntarily.” And would always do so.