Disenchanted

I woke up this morning feeling sick to the stomach. My first thought was Bombay. I still cannot digest the fact that this has actually happened. I take for granted, a safe existence. I walk the streets with confidence, knowing intuitively I will be safe (except from vehicles or trains!..but that of course, is just me). Leopold's brings back wonderful memories of Saturday nights of steak, beer and amazing music. Or those afternoon trips with Tracy where we would look at the prices and then share something! Those hundred walks down Colaba Causeway, the earring-walla outside Mondegar's, the stoles, the hot guys. Sometimes taking the detour to my house via the seafront, gazing at the Arabian in all its vastness. My idiotic trip to the Taj with the Mont Blanc coupon, in faded jeans and oshos.

The near escape when the blast at Gateway happened. We were at Spastic's Society and then safely ensconed in Navy Nagar. It was such a tiresome feeling waiting for hours in Esha's Uncle's place, knowing I was near home, yet so far. The July downpour...again, I sat comfortably in my flat watching 'resilient' Bombayites come to grips with the forces of nature. My friends were stuck in college, yet there I sat, helpless as always..not knowing whether to thank god or curse my luck.

I remember the train blasts..by this time I was in Andheri. Watching NDTV, howling..thinking Dad had perished in them. That horrible sense of finality when his colleague knocked on my door...only to tell me Dad was fine! Flinching each time they showed the 'victims' and their relatives crying unabashedly on national television. Once again, here I am...sitting in the comfort of my hall in the heart of vibrant London....watching my city burn. Attending my lectures and seminars, as though nothing matters. Of course, life goes on but I think it affects me more than I let on. There is also a strange inner voice that warns, 'next time it could be you.' How many near escapes will I have? How many next times will there be? Will I ever be one of those '150 dead' or '300 injured.' It is an intensely scary feeling.

I feel like these invisible walls are closing in around me. I try to cry for these people, yet I cannot. Just because it didn't happen to me. I try to imagine Bombay's makeshift war-zone..yet there is this sense of unreality. Those images seem almost surreal. It is like a strange, unsettling dream. Why, then, can I not shake off this creeping sense of disquiet?