THE SEA AND THE CITY

Those were the sorts of raging storms in our tea-cup lives which Mumbai’s sea listened to as the three women stretched out in resignation along the Marine Drive promenade. They seem like silly concerns of quieter times, sitting by the serene sea, now.
Now, that you know that terrorists crept through those dark waters two weeks ago to unleash violence in this city and the sea helplessly allowed the stealth.

In these times of unprecedented paranoia, Mumbaikars search desperately for that security when out of their homes. But in a contradiction of sorts, Mumbai’s own quiet, calm, corner, in fact, remains the wide, open expanse of the sea — the long promenades at Worli, Bandstand and Marine Drive, the subtly curving beach at Juhu, and the rock-strewn extensions of land at Haji Ali.

The tender-coconut seller at Juhu’s near four km sprawling stretch of even sand, leading on either side into Khar and Versova, believes Juhu is running like a Rajdhani train ever since the attacks — the numbers and the energy growing every day at the beach that is visited frequently by celebrities. It turns into a chaat-place and gets dressed up like a fair on evenings and weekends, but mornings are when Juhu’s affluent lot of joggers have kept their date with the sea.

The mass starts to descend from 4 am, as they set off in either direction with a purposeful look on their faces—many rich people who talk very little, even among themselves, preoccupied with important to-do lists of the day. Their taut and quiet pursuit of fitness, in turn, lets the water gain its own cadence. Vibrant sea. Noisy sea. A white sea merging into a white early-morn sky, along a white horizon. Juhu, more north in Mumbai, remains the seaside for the senses — going wild and wet in the waves if you are part of a boisterous group, or sinking your toes deep into the ticklish cold sand at dawn if you want to stay alone and apart. Either ways, not a sea to be scared of. “I don’t feel unsafe by my beach,” says a senior resident Mukund Sejwal, “They want to kill maximum people in one go. But our beaches are scattered. The coast, though, is vulnerable.”
Sentiments echoed at the more plebian Chowpatty, which was closer to the attacked southern part of the city. It took a week though for people to venture out here.

Situated at the land-end of Marine Drive, the site which turns into a human sea during Ganpati immersions is only just returning to normalcy. So, bhelpuri stall owners spread out dozens of easy cane-carpets where families sit for their evening picnic-like outings. Forty-five-year-old Vijay Karande has come all the way from Kalyan, and in a rare show of animation — wife Jaishree says shyly — has bought himself a spring toy-plane, complete with blue LED lights. He shoots it high into the air, higher than all the youngsters, as his spouse looks on with pride. “We come here rarely since our marriage 20 years ago. But he’s always surprised me with how free-spirited he is here by the seaside,” she says.

Venky, on the other hand, is a bhutta-seller, all of 18, and says he has gone weeks on end without really looking at the sea, as he stands with his back to the water, selling roasted corn-cob, while the sound of the waves becomes ambience. “I’m a south Indian and came here two years ago,” he says affably, before he lets anger suddenly seep into his voice. The terrorists scared people away initially but not for long, he claims. “Kya..zyaada se zyaada jaan hi le sakte hain naa. Yeh nai mita sakte,” he adds, beating his fist forcefully against his heart. By this time, Venky has gotten himself an audience that chimes in and applauds.

Equally spontaneous are the hundreds of couples who cuddle up sitting around Bandstand and Marine Drive. Unmindful of the harsh noon sun (Mumbai’s been rather unforgiving with its summer stretching into December this year) and oblivious to the gawking world, these pairs ironically seek intimacy and anonymity in two of Mumbai’s most identified spots— Marine Drive has the most-famous illuminating glare of street-light towers owing to its ‘necklace’ reputation, while there’s no dearth of casual passersby who will halt by Bandstand, to glimpse the silhouette of Mannat, Shah Rukh Khan’s well-hidden house.

A cute tiff breaks out between two such spending their Eid holiday at Bandra, as they are keen to be quoted condemning the terror attacks, but wouldn’t want their real names to be revealed because their families in Kurla might just find out. They settle for Yusif and Yasmeen. “Y and Y — it should be same,” the girl (21) chirrups, as the boy shrugs his approval with a hearty laugh. They resume gazing at their futures into the sea, which turns into a crystal-ball for the couple.

Eid also turns into a personal pilgrimage, as I set off on that never-got-down-to walk to Haji Ali, which I’ve been very curious about. It takes me a good 15 minutes to make my way to the dargah, crowded on this day, but maintaining an unspoken queue-etiquette on the concrete-path. Not so much conscious of my casual attire, but more wary of my ill-equipped footwear, I plan an ambitious rock-trek down to the sea, after tying the red-yellow dhaaga at the shrine. Avoiding slipping at places, tripping anyways at two others, finding firm footing on flatter rocks, I turn the mid-afternoon sea-quest into a self-challenge. It takes mighty long to reach the clear water, not as much to return. But the sight to appreciate is small boys trotting from rock to rock, reaching the water-end in a jiffy and diving for that dip, with not a bother in this troubled world.

Not so carefree, are the fisher-folk at Machhimaar Nagar at Cuffe Parade, a fishing colony, which is in a self-beating mood for letting the terrorists enter through their land. “Tension mat lo,” the terrorists apparently told the half dozen of them, who had hung around where the boats entered, while the rest watched cricket at home. “We used to stop even quarrying men from taking out mud. And we pride ourselves in recognising each of the 300 boats that come here regularly, just from their shape. Now after this happened, I’ve been wondering how we could let this happen,” says Bhuvaneshwar Harishchandra Tandel, who now fears for the safety of some trawlers which venture up to 48 hours and 100 km deep into the sea.

Fishing never brought home an assured income. This season, when nets are cast out for the special Kupa fish, the colony had invested Rs 50,000 in equipment, and got returns for a mere Rs 26,000. “And now this,” says the 50-year-old, anticipating increased inspection of licences by the authorities — key to their own security. Their closest ally, the sea, has turned on them this year.

Undeterred and refusing to give in, though, is 40-something Englishman Thaan Jo, who flew out to India on December 5, not for the first time in the last 20 years, refusing to stay away from a site where terrorists scanned hostages for US and UK nationals. The area is sealed in an understated pastel-coloured barricade with pictures of the hotel’s red dome. It reads: ‘Working to restore a symbol of Mumbai’s spirit and dignity.’

Jo stands looking solemnly at the old Taj building, and addresses all he says to the iconic hotel. “My heart’s in India. I feel more unsafe in UK. I was at a European airport when I saw it on TV. I cried. On all my previous visits, I’ve felt like I’ve arrived in Mumbai, only after I’ve had chai at the Gateway. I love the ocean here. It is second only to Portsmouth, where I was born by the sea,” he says. In the calmest of defiant tones, the Englishman declares, “I’m not scared. I want to die by the Indian sea. My father died in this country.”

Memories of the Mumbai sea are as much about conversations as of the silences. Meghna Raina, who found herself spending hours at Marine Drive, points out how when seen from the Drive, the seascape looks like a black-white photograph, enveloped by the mystical grey haze, while the land-side is distinctly coloured. “Being by the Mumbai sea makes you feel as if you are on the edge of chaos where you can, for a brief while, move away from the herd you are in and look at it from the outside. From where you can even turn your back to the chaos and look at the vast expanse ahead of you,” she says.

Youngster Giselle Fernando from Delhi recalls how her childhood-magic formula to ‘hear’ the sound of the sea was to cup both her hands to her ears. “I couldn’t believe I was so close to the sea when I came to Mumbai —my best holiday ever, and I’ve had some pretty excellent ones,” she says. “Walking along Marine Drive to the rhythm of imaginary songs in my head late in the night, the sea on one side and the city with zooming bikes and cars on the other — one content in its tranquility, the other eager to show off a need for speed. If you’re sad, the sea understands and lets you be. If you’re happy, the sea can share the good times. It’s an all-weather companion, and it demands nothing in return,” she says.

Akanksha Chandra, who spent her childhood along Marine Drive and keeps the image on her online-profiles when she is out of town, sums it best when she says, “It is a good excuse, a good reason, a good place to cry and no one catches you. You can’t do that so much at a book store which will shut down or won’t be conformable, or at a coffee shop. And for free.”

Even in the worst of times for the city, the sea breeze opens up the corners of the muddled mind, as Mumbai seeks solitude in its crowded daily life. Mumbai’s seaside gives its citizens the courage to tackle all worries, big or small, significant or trivial. Most importantly, even in its silence, there’s dialogue and a commitment to engage in conversation with your own inner battles. For, you can’t storm out on the sea. Or slam the door shut on it. Thank god for that, actually.