Weaklings?
It was raining heavily and to board an overcrowded bus on Andheri-Asalpha-Ghatkopar route was a task in itself. But somehow I could get into and secure a place to stand in the corner, not very comfortably though. I plugged my earphones in and played “Mora Piya mose bolat nahi” in my cell phone. In few seconds I forgot that there were people overhauling at me, that there was bad odor all around, that I was half-rain-soaked, and that I had to buy a ticket for myself. I guess that’s how we adapt to in Mumbai; we stop caring about these small, small things in life in an attempt to identify the big picture. But many a times we end up living a life whose meaning either we don’t understand or we shrug off the desire to understand. Am not sure, which of these applies to me or whether it does apply at all but at an hour like that, I didn’t care to think about any such matter. So I started humming the song and turned my head from left to right, looking at people around me (I love watching people, their expressions – and expressionlessness and their behavior). In the midst of many faces, what I saw was a “situation”. There was this big man holding a boy, sitting at the window seat, by his collar and was shaking him left, right and center. I tried to make sense out of it, but it was a foolish attempt; one can’t make sense out of such situations.
I looked around. There were some people who were standing to observe the situation, and JUST observe! And still there were some, who didn’t care to observe and were involved in their routine of the bus travel, including the conductor, who was ignorantly issuing tickets to other passengers. Guess we all live by this thing called Routine. At times I wonder whether it was the “spirit of Mumbai” that encourages people to resume their routine even just an hour after a bomb is blasted or this compulsive addiction to their routines!
“What to do? What to do? What to do?” my mind raced, “Why everyone is so indifferent to this? Is not-to-react the most right way to react? Why no one is asking ‘what has happened’?” There were so many ‘What’s and ‘Why’s but no answers seen. And then I realized, “why am I expecting from others? What am I doing to this?” Almost fifteen minutes had passed since I had seen this situation out there and I was still standing at my secured position.
“Why? Isn’t it the most practical thing to do? After all that’s not my problem so why the hell should I get into it? He is a big guy. What if he bashes me too? That may intensify the situation, so why not chuck it? And the boy being beaten up should be courageous enough to stand up and bash back this hooligan. He should stand up for himself. That’s what this city is all about right, to stand for your own cause? I don’t know what this city is all about. All I know is that I don’t want to get into it. My bus stop will arrive in sometime and I will go home and sleep. I am already tired of the day’s work and don’t wish to take anything more,” with this I lowered myself to look out of the window and told myself, “Another ten minutes and my stop will arrive. I better move towards the exit.” On the way to the front exit, something stuck within me. I just stopped at the site of this situation, as if my standing there alone will stop that bastard from bullying the boy. But I couldn’t stand there for long because it had no effect on him and I couldn’t take my own cowardice to speak up against something I truly believed was wrong. I moved two steps further, then thought, “if not now, then when? If not you, then who?” The faces of children, with whom I interact during my volunteering classes and deliver sessions of truth, bravery and life appeared in my mind. It all appeared hollow in that moment.
I stopped and turned to the guy who was sitting in front of that boy. “What has happened?” I was loud enough to ensure that the buffoon hears me out. Before that man could speak out, he shouted something in Marathi which I didn’t understand. I asked that fellow again. He said, “It seems this kid said something to him... some abuse while boarding the bus and this fellow is beating him since then.”
When I asked that boy to say sorry and end this whole issue, everyone around informed me that he already had. I asked that buffoon, what his problem was then. He said, “A sorry doesn’t work here. And then again started shouting in Marathi.” By that time, people started scolding him.
“Then what matters to you?”
“How much more you gonna beat that kid for whatever he said?”
“Have you not done enough already?”
Meanwhile, my stop had arrived. The bus stopped but I wasn’t sure if I should get down. I wanted this to end before I leave. But then decided against it and almost ran to the door and jumped out of the bus since it had started already.
When the bus passed by me, I didn’t look inside. I wanted to believe that the issue was resolved, that the man must have stopped beating that boy and that if it happened so, I had a role to play. But deep inside my heart, I knew I could have done better, much earlier and more significant. Who is to blame; the practical Mumbaikar (well that’s another debate whether I can call myself a Mumbaikar since neither I nor my parents) inside me or the weakling who dared not to stand for what he believed in, at the right time?
P.S.: To read more on Mumbai, you may please read a series, called encounters with maximum city by Nilay.
It was raining heavily and to board an overcrowded bus on Andheri-Asalpha-Ghatkopar route was a task in itself. But somehow I could get into and secure a place to stand in the corner, not very comfortably though. I plugged my earphones in and played “Mora Piya mose bolat nahi” in my cell phone. In few seconds I forgot that there were people overhauling at me, that there was bad odor all around, that I was half-rain-soaked, and that I had to buy a ticket for myself. I guess that’s how we adapt to in Mumbai; we stop caring about these small, small things in life in an attempt to identify the big picture. But many a times we end up living a life whose meaning either we don’t understand or we shrug off the desire to understand. Am not sure, which of these applies to me or whether it does apply at all but at an hour like that, I didn’t care to think about any such matter. So I started humming the song and turned my head from left to right, looking at people around me (I love watching people, their expressions – and expressionlessness and their behavior). In the midst of many faces, what I saw was a “situation”. There was this big man holding a boy, sitting at the window seat, by his collar and was shaking him left, right and center. I tried to make sense out of it, but it was a foolish attempt; one can’t make sense out of such situations.
I looked around. There were some people who were standing to observe the situation, and JUST observe! And still there were some, who didn’t care to observe and were involved in their routine of the bus travel, including the conductor, who was ignorantly issuing tickets to other passengers. Guess we all live by this thing called Routine. At times I wonder whether it was the “spirit of Mumbai” that encourages people to resume their routine even just an hour after a bomb is blasted or this compulsive addiction to their routines!
“What to do? What to do? What to do?” my mind raced, “Why everyone is so indifferent to this? Is not-to-react the most right way to react? Why no one is asking ‘what has happened’?” There were so many ‘What’s and ‘Why’s but no answers seen. And then I realized, “why am I expecting from others? What am I doing to this?” Almost fifteen minutes had passed since I had seen this situation out there and I was still standing at my secured position.
“Why? Isn’t it the most practical thing to do? After all that’s not my problem so why the hell should I get into it? He is a big guy. What if he bashes me too? That may intensify the situation, so why not chuck it? And the boy being beaten up should be courageous enough to stand up and bash back this hooligan. He should stand up for himself. That’s what this city is all about right, to stand for your own cause? I don’t know what this city is all about. All I know is that I don’t want to get into it. My bus stop will arrive in sometime and I will go home and sleep. I am already tired of the day’s work and don’t wish to take anything more,” with this I lowered myself to look out of the window and told myself, “Another ten minutes and my stop will arrive. I better move towards the exit.” On the way to the front exit, something stuck within me. I just stopped at the site of this situation, as if my standing there alone will stop that bastard from bullying the boy. But I couldn’t stand there for long because it had no effect on him and I couldn’t take my own cowardice to speak up against something I truly believed was wrong. I moved two steps further, then thought, “if not now, then when? If not you, then who?” The faces of children, with whom I interact during my volunteering classes and deliver sessions of truth, bravery and life appeared in my mind. It all appeared hollow in that moment.
I stopped and turned to the guy who was sitting in front of that boy. “What has happened?” I was loud enough to ensure that the buffoon hears me out. Before that man could speak out, he shouted something in Marathi which I didn’t understand. I asked that fellow again. He said, “It seems this kid said something to him... some abuse while boarding the bus and this fellow is beating him since then.”
When I asked that boy to say sorry and end this whole issue, everyone around informed me that he already had. I asked that buffoon, what his problem was then. He said, “A sorry doesn’t work here. And then again started shouting in Marathi.” By that time, people started scolding him.
“Then what matters to you?”
“How much more you gonna beat that kid for whatever he said?”
“Have you not done enough already?”
Meanwhile, my stop had arrived. The bus stopped but I wasn’t sure if I should get down. I wanted this to end before I leave. But then decided against it and almost ran to the door and jumped out of the bus since it had started already.
When the bus passed by me, I didn’t look inside. I wanted to believe that the issue was resolved, that the man must have stopped beating that boy and that if it happened so, I had a role to play. But deep inside my heart, I knew I could have done better, much earlier and more significant. Who is to blame; the practical Mumbaikar (well that’s another debate whether I can call myself a Mumbaikar since neither I nor my parents) inside me or the weakling who dared not to stand for what he believed in, at the right time?
P.S.: To read more on Mumbai, you may please read a series, called encounters with maximum city by Nilay.
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