The Mumbai Massacre

Mister Prime Minister, with all due respect, I’d like to know why it has to be the US Secretary of State, Condoleeza Rice, who has to do the tough talking on your behalf? Why, in spite of corroborated reports and testimonials from Kasab, the lone mujahideen taken alive, (and evidence ratified by the Indian as well as US intelligence) we must still entertain dialogue with a nation, which hasn’t taken the plotters of the Benazir Bhutto assassination to task a year after it was carried out? Why must we negotiate while dealing with a rogue state where the entire judiciary was once imprisoned in an hour’s notice on the rabid orders of a general who ambushed the country’s entire administration? What good is the fact that Mr. Pranab Mukherjee is crying himself hoarse while his Pakistani peers are busy strategising how to ‘plant’ Indian extremist infidels on Pakistani land? Must we still sweet talk a nation which had the temerity to label the morbid events of 26th November, self-plotted?

Why aren’t we instead channeling our energies on how to muster the UN’s express support and flush out the fanatics from their well-plumed hideout? I wage my money and my honour; infantry from the Lashkar-e-Toiba, Jamat ud Dawa or whatever it is they are called, are busy planning their next strike over kakori kebabs and recorded videos that talk about jannat and killing kafirs. Mister Prime Minister, act quick and hit hard, else we might soon have a short-haired loony woman who once proclaimed Kanshi Ram her father, in your esteemed seat.

Mister Vilasrao Deshmukh, you, supporter of agrarian reform, and head of India’s financial capital – could you not do better than be escorted by a once-brilliant-now-redundant Ram Gopal Verma on your rounds of the Taj? Sure, Riteish (I hope your son’s numerologist still spells his name with a single ‘R’) might have bagged a role or two, but look where it got you – no rounds of the Mantralaya with your Z Security bulletproof escort Scorpios in tow. People died in there, bullets in their heads, bodies rotting in six inch-deep water that was used to douse the inferno. And you chose a film-maker for your post samosa-chai rounds. I hope they make a film on you some day, why we even have a director; the ape that directed Deshdrohi, whatever the fuck his name is. You guessed it, sir; you’re in the sequel.

Mister Unnikrishnan, father of Major Sundeep Unnikrishnan, Sir. I had the fortune of seeing you on TV, your stoic acceptance of the fact that your only son was no more. Your bitter recount at the Shivaji Park congregation, of how a khaini-rubbing havaldar refused you entry to the Taj, where you wished to see where your brave son lived his final moments. The havaldar didn’t recognise you; I’ll be damned if any of us ever make that mistake. It would be an honour if someday you told us, students at the ISB, how Sundeep lived. Because his was a life that is truly one in a million.

Mister Narendra Modi, you’re an ace at negotiation. No sooner had the Tatas pulled out of Singur, West Bengal, you had Mister Tata and his history-creating vision, Nano, at your doorstep in Sanand, Gujarat. But I hope Mrs. Karkare (wife of slain Anti-Terrorist Squad Chief Hemant Karkare) showed you one thing. You cannot negotiate with the souls of heroes. No sooner had Hemant Karkare been killed, you flew down to Mumbai, announcing a rupees one crore cash reward to his family. And just about a month back, you were condemning the man for doggedly chasing the culprit behind the Malegaon blasts. Mrs. Karkare doesn’t need your charity, Mister Modi. (And she rightly refused.) The countless Muslims whom you had murdered in 2001, do.

Mister Ratan Tata, sir. I’m sorry the grand old lady of Mumbai, was raped, burnt and torn the way it was. However, hats off to you and your staff, who came fighting back in less than a month’s time. Hats off for initiating a fund that assists not just those who were maimed at the Taj but also those who suffered at VT Station, Cafe Leopold, outside Metro Cinema, and at the Trident. It just shows your generosity and if I may use the word, pedigree. Thank you, sir.

To you, dear reader. Let us question what happens after. Where our votes go, and where our tax money does. Why we must surreptitiously still slip that wad of hundred rupee notes to get that ration card, that telephone connection, that tatkal passport and the driver’s licence? And for heaven’s sake, let’s keep religion out of this. 40% of those killed in the attacks were followers of Islam. They were, like you and me, waiting at VT Station to get back home to their loved ones and watch the latest movie songs over dinner. They were like us, downing a pint to celebrate a raise, an engagement or simply a good day at work, at maybe Leopold Cafe or at Wasabi, The Taj. They were just marked by destiny and time. I’m glad it wasn’t particularly one of us. I’m haunted by the notion that it could be. I don’t know whether a particular branch of the Oxford bookstore banning books by Pakistani authors is right or wrong. (Especially after I saw Harvard and Oxbridge educated Pakistani nationals convincingly voice their idea that the Mumbai carnage was orchestrated by India) I don’t understand how any of this violence begets anything but more violence.

But there’s one thing I’m certain of. The answers have to be had. Be it Pakistan extraditing the culprits to Indian shores to be judged by the Indian Penal Code (which will never ever happen, given Pakistan’s posturing at the moment and if history ever teaches us anything (the Parliament attacks) be it UN (read US) sanctioned pinpointed attacks on mujahideen and terrorist hideouts across Pakistan and Pakistan-Occupied-Kashmir; guns must go and fire, without trial or negotiation; because the moment of negotiation has long gone, and too much patience is but the virtue of an ass. I have seen my country whipped silly for way too long, without occasion, and it’d be a slap on the face of the soldiers, policemen and civilians who died ...if the day of trial (by fire) is not close at hand.