How does a child grow up in Dadar?
He speaks and breathes Marathi, a beautiful regional language which defines Dadar/Parel/Lalbaug localities in ways more than one. He may come from another state, another city or even another country but Marathi absorbs him quickly.
He plays cricket in Shivaji Park or in his lane, breaking window panes, many a times on purpose. He fights his ways into crowded BEST buses and trains at the Dadar station, so much that he laughs at the crowd he sees at VT.
He eats vada-pav, often hiding this fact from his mother who scolds him for not eating at home. He goes walking to school over Tilak bridge and laughs every time a woman driver makes a u-turn in a place she ought not to. But there is a very specific thing that he sees every day.
And these things make sense in time.
He speaks and breathes Marathi, a beautiful regional language which defines Dadar/Parel/Lalbaug localities in ways more than one. He may come from another state, another city or even another country but Marathi absorbs him quickly.
He plays cricket in Shivaji Park or in his lane, breaking window panes, many a times on purpose. He fights his ways into crowded BEST buses and trains at the Dadar station, so much that he laughs at the crowd he sees at VT.
He eats vada-pav, often hiding this fact from his mother who scolds him for not eating at home. He goes walking to school over Tilak bridge and laughs every time a woman driver makes a u-turn in a place she ought not to. But there is a very specific thing that he sees every day.
And these things make sense in time.
He sees a lion. He sees saffron flags. And he sees many posters of rather thin man, wearing saffron and white staring back at him in a way his grandfather does. He seems stern and contemplative. He looks old and sports a formidable moustache and beard. He is seen wearing thick shades of black and smoking a handsome cigar. He is seen addressing a million or greeting a few. He is seen with common people and celebrities. He is seen everywhere.
At Sena Bhavan, which he passes every day, he sees his portraits hung at every corner. The place is a fortress with people with guns standing at every exit.
The little boy is impressed and intrigued. Some times he sees the elder man walk out of the building into a sea of supporters and drive away. In that one minute the atmosphere of the place changes and the little boy wonders. And so he decides to go home one day and ask his family who the person is.
At Sena Bhavan, which he passes every day, he sees his portraits hung at every corner. The place is a fortress with people with guns standing at every exit.
The little boy is impressed and intrigued. Some times he sees the elder man walk out of the building into a sea of supporters and drive away. In that one minute the atmosphere of the place changes and the little boy wonders. And so he decides to go home one day and ask his family who the person is.
His cousin tells him he is an evil politician with blood on his hands. His father tells him he is in charge of Mumbai. His grandparents regale him with stories of his speeches and rallies, stuff of regional legend. His mother gives him an interesting answer. He is, she says, you third grandfather. And this is a family who votes every year, a family where politics mix and mingle in every day conversation, a family suited for democracy. This is a family who is half from Maharashtra and half from Karnataka. A family who has lived and breathed Bombay.
And so, naturally, the child grows confused, but still in awe of the man who stops the city at his will. For the little child, he is an extremely powerful man because of whom he gets more holidays in the school year. As he grows older he is confused and frustrated he cannot take out his girlfriend on valentines day. He wonders why the name of his city changed. He wonders why there are shops shut on some days, why the trains halt on other. But as his thoughts progress he realized how much of his childhood has been spent in saffron.
In the city, at very frequent intervals, he sees forts and banners of the saffron kind. People are inside discussing, laughing and sometimes contemplating. He sees how one person from the fort goes and wakes up a lawyer from sleep so that a tensed student can get his papers attested in time. He sees a little child walk in and complain about improper water in the swimming pool and from the next day the problem is not heard of again. He hears stories, stuff of legends, of one person helps an entire state, an entire city, without thinking twice. A famous story, as is told, includes a mother who goes crying to the person. Her son, who she says has worked for the saffron brigade, needs money for an operation urgently. The person does not smile, blink or frown. He simply calls for his trusted aid and tells him to get the box. In the box is a lot of money and the person, without counting, gives the mother several handful of money. He does not even ask her once if her son actually works for him or not. All he sees is a mother in need. Such stories are innumerable.
As he grows, his love for his city grows. He realizes something important. He sees a city change so rapidly, that children are teased if they speak Marathi instead of English. He sees a city where eating fastfood breakfasts. He sees children wiping the religious Tilak off their forehead before going to a rock show. Almost no one watches Marathi plays, very few watch Marathi movies and barely anyone can say in his college group if they want to discuss a P.L. Deshpande book. It becomes cool to get disgusted with history and culture. A city, the Marathi bastion, slowly bleeds.
He wonders if that is how cities progress.
One day, the person is no more. The city screeches to a halt.
The air is muffled with grief. A million people gather on the streets, sobbing and crying. These are, not as expected by most, poor people in tattered clothes. These are youth, workers, taxi-drivers, housewives, mothers, professionals. Every strata of the city is seen on the streets. And the boy wonders, what has the person done to demand this?
The answer given by his mother still echoes in his mind, hundreds of miles away.
He was the person holding the city together. He loved the city more than he loved anything else and much more than any one could. He spent every minute of his waking day working to keep Marathi culture intact and viable. In the rapidly changing world, where there are very few things as sublime as culture, he fought to keep the Marathi tradition intact and tangible. He faced innumerable obstacles in his way, and made many enemies. But not one person who ever asked him for help was turned away. There can be no unity in diversity without unity. If you want India to be united, you need to have all stated united within themselves. That was the vision of the person.
He wanted to take Mumbai to a global stage, but where Mumbai was still Mumbai. He dreamt of a world where people would cherish, embrace and propagate Marathi thought. And that would have to natural. It would not have to be forced. The logic is simple. In order to have a united country, first have a united house, then a united building, then a united city, then a united state. And after that, you can dream about a united India. And when we have a gift of diversity in India, it would be unwise to not use it to unite people. A united state would be in a better position to help the country than a divided land.
It is very difficult to find people who love their land so much, and the loss is felt by the entire region. This is irrespective of whether you believed in the person or not.
And there is no point in having a united country in you hate the place where you are born, if you hate what your mother-state has nurtured you with.
This is not fact. This is not a recommendation of a line of thought. This is just an opinion by a boy who is now many miles away and still feels scared and tensed about what would happen now to his home state now that the saffron brigade has lost its hero.
And he is very worried if he would be able to recognize his state when he goes back. Because it was only a few months before, if someone asked the boy "Why is Mumbai the best city in India?" , the boy would have replied, "Go to Dadar and see for yourself!"
Ed Lithium
As he grows, his love for his city grows. He realizes something important. He sees a city change so rapidly, that children are teased if they speak Marathi instead of English. He sees a city where eating fastfood breakfasts. He sees children wiping the religious Tilak off their forehead before going to a rock show. Almost no one watches Marathi plays, very few watch Marathi movies and barely anyone can say in his college group if they want to discuss a P.L. Deshpande book. It becomes cool to get disgusted with history and culture. A city, the Marathi bastion, slowly bleeds.
He wonders if that is how cities progress.
One day, the person is no more. The city screeches to a halt.
The air is muffled with grief. A million people gather on the streets, sobbing and crying. These are, not as expected by most, poor people in tattered clothes. These are youth, workers, taxi-drivers, housewives, mothers, professionals. Every strata of the city is seen on the streets. And the boy wonders, what has the person done to demand this?
The answer given by his mother still echoes in his mind, hundreds of miles away.
He was the person holding the city together. He loved the city more than he loved anything else and much more than any one could. He spent every minute of his waking day working to keep Marathi culture intact and viable. In the rapidly changing world, where there are very few things as sublime as culture, he fought to keep the Marathi tradition intact and tangible. He faced innumerable obstacles in his way, and made many enemies. But not one person who ever asked him for help was turned away. There can be no unity in diversity without unity. If you want India to be united, you need to have all stated united within themselves. That was the vision of the person.
He wanted to take Mumbai to a global stage, but where Mumbai was still Mumbai. He dreamt of a world where people would cherish, embrace and propagate Marathi thought. And that would have to natural. It would not have to be forced. The logic is simple. In order to have a united country, first have a united house, then a united building, then a united city, then a united state. And after that, you can dream about a united India. And when we have a gift of diversity in India, it would be unwise to not use it to unite people. A united state would be in a better position to help the country than a divided land.
It is very difficult to find people who love their land so much, and the loss is felt by the entire region. This is irrespective of whether you believed in the person or not.
And there is no point in having a united country in you hate the place where you are born, if you hate what your mother-state has nurtured you with.
This is not fact. This is not a recommendation of a line of thought. This is just an opinion by a boy who is now many miles away and still feels scared and tensed about what would happen now to his home state now that the saffron brigade has lost its hero.
And he is very worried if he would be able to recognize his state when he goes back. Because it was only a few months before, if someone asked the boy "Why is Mumbai the best city in India?" , the boy would have replied, "Go to Dadar and see for yourself!"
Ed Lithium
