“Bhaisaab your bag!” exclaimed the waiter stumbling and panting behind us just when we left ‘Foodies’ after a glass of mausambhi juice last evening.
In a continued giggling tone I fondly pacified him, “oh! Bhaiya usme bomb nhi hai” (that does not contain a bomb). He uttered nothing but a few monosyllables that sufficed me to understand his plight seeing the black leather, gym bag, which my friend left, for no reason spare his usual absent minded being.
Late to bed late to rise, as my newspaper waits for three and a half hour before being picked up from my doorstep. “Arre! No bomb yesterday… India France inked the nuclear pact. Mubarak ho”, I listlessly read the paper scratching my head and leafing out the much more entertaining supplements. Entertaining of course, now the blasting news doesn’t really interest me. Who enjoys daily chores? Yea but I do read it to keep myself updated with day to day happenings.
This is after the Jaipur, Bangalore and Ahemdabad blasting and Surat casting. I was walking down with a buddy from my friend’s place and we encountered a Labrador being taken for a walk. If at all it was a walk. “Must be on a lookout for a claimed bomb”, we laughed away. After zooming away through barricades and blue dented police vans stuffed with khaki a day before what else do you expect a chained dog to do on the roadside with a chap in shorts? This was then. Now things are far better. After the capital was ripped through on September 13, cops from our two metropolises busted the Indian Mujahideen links. Claiming victorious credit to them the Batla House martyr was just buried in controversies.
Anyways, after all the state’s triumph and a supposed Bombay blast being foiled, my newspaper, habituated, read about the Mehrauli (South Delhi) pataka blast that gobbled up the poor philanthropic boy who called out the death eaters for they dropped their dabba. (our waiter wasn’t that philanthropic- he dared not to touch our gym gear).
If this wasn’t enough, a day before yesterday my roommate read ‘our morning midday’ and announced the Malegaon (Mumbai) burp as if after a heavy six course meal. Behold! My Ma’s usual ‘be alert’ harangue metamorphosed into bombarding with strict orders not to vagabond this Navratra. After all today she read out the news of the bomb hoax and stampede at Chamunda Mandir that took around 200 devotees to its credit. It wasn’t a bomb but. BOMB the word has pierced itself so much into us that no more does it cast the spell it was concocted to do. It’s such a daily affair to overhear wrestling kids, “Bomb se udaa doonga.” And do we ourselves stop to realize that we keep on planting fictional bombs at XYZ, passing through metal detectors? Bomb bomb everywhere not a tomb to spare. Hark!
All I yearn is that the Bombay burp was the ultimate burp. Our tummies are full now and taste buds find this too bland having it every now and then. But for my Ma, calling up three times a day to check up if all’s fine. Mamma the electronic counterparts of my lazy newspaper are quick in telecasting the superstar Bomb wherever spotted. And I rather go back reading the Indian nuclear-ization, US bailout or the lingering debate whether Singh is King at the Sansad.
