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Journalism of Courage
Saturday morning 8212; the beginning of a much-looked-forward-to weekend 8212; and the sky is spewing rain. The colour of the sky 8212; a dull grey that gets darker with every passing hour 8212; is a harbinger of things to come; and big and small, circular and oval, the raindrops continue to ceaselessly crash against window panes.
Being in Bombay on a day the heavens opened up to bestow their blessings wasan experience alright. An eye-opening one. The heavy shower slowed to atrickle, but the trickle soon gave way to another heavy spell. Water startedto pool on the roads, potholes got deeper and wider, and the water in themmurkier. Diamond drops gathered in clusters on window bars of local trains,and continued to fall off in a steady stream as the train chugged past.
But then I had not reckoned with the sunny spirit of Aamchi Mumbai. Come rain or not, all was well here and the indomitable spirit refused to be cowed down by Mother Nature. Like everything else, this too shall pass, seemed to be the spirit. As I clambered on to a local 8212; grimacing at the muck all around 8212; I looked around. Only to be surprised that the dirt and the grime seemed to be non-existent for everyone else. And as I gingerly settled down for the one hour it would take to reach my destination, life began anew all around me. Schedules had been put out of gear by the continual showers, but apparently nothing else had.
Conversations began. Of how people had missed their 8220;regular8221; train. Ofthe Central line, which was in bad shape every monsoon. Of the milkman whohad not delivered that morning, and the newspaper that had not arrived. Then the vendors selling pins, clips, knives, chips and hordes of other things that seem must-buys when you are in a train made their appearance. For the next five minutes, talk took a backseat and people ferreted out what they needed from the colourful plastic trays.
Meanwhile, there was no let up in the rain. It continued to pour: slow andsteady. Interestingly, as the sky greyed further, the mood of citizenslightened all the more. Nobody seemed to dread the power cuts, the waterproblem, and Atilde;sup2;f40Atilde;sup3;hazaar other such things that I did. Even the wizened old man, till now silent and sleepy in the farmost corner, got up to have hissay. The rain, it seemed, was far from his mind where the political state ofthe country dominated.
It was the sunny spirit, which shone through the layers of dark clouds, thatstruck me. I had heard of optimism, including the glass half empty, glass half full theory, but this was where I could see it being put into practice. And where I could see how a bright, upbeat attitude could change life.
Instead of being drowned in the drizzle, these people had kept their headsafloat. To me, the showers symbolised dirt and filth, to them they were justanother thing. And where I simply saw raindrops rolling off the window,they saw something different. The drops were small prisms through which allthe colours of the rainbow could be viewed. So while the world seemed greyand dreary to me, it was blazing with colour for them. The rain, I learnt,was in no way a limiting factor. If I desired, I could see colours all around. Miraculously, the sky seemed grey no more.
