Live and let live

Driving through Dharavi at 6 in the evening is an experience. If nothing, it is a lesson in navigation, and patience.

Every conceivable kind of vehicle traverses that narrow stretch of road that stretches interminably between the Bandra causeway and Sion hospital.

If it is the time of the year when all religions decide to remember their Gods, then the situation  is compounded. So it was, the road was thronged on either side by crowds. To my right, hand carts had laid out their wares, conical samosas undoubtedly stuffed with meat, dates, and other foodstuff. The sliver of the moon was perhaps hidden behind the thick layer of cloud, but it was obviously time for the pious to think seriously of breaking their fast. So some commerce had begun, and food was being packed into paper and dumped into the ubiquitous plastic bags to be carried away. There were hardly any words exchanged, almost every transaction was in near silence, as if by tacit understanding between the consumer and his provider.

On the opposite side of the road, a loudspeaker blared music. The Ganpati pandal was lit with multi-coloured lights and a crowd was slowly collecting for a darshan.

Metres down the road, I found the music becoming more than stereophonic as three pandals poured their devotions on me, in at least two languages. I wondered how anyone could handle the invasive din. Could not the many pandals save money by linking to one main music system, I wondered. It would make it a bit more bearable than these conflicting sounds.

I thought the situation as a whole quite similar to a child playing with a box of matches. Whatever it was, it was a fragile scene that could collapse at any moment, given the right provocation. And in these times of politicised religion, provocation was as easy as striking a match.

The din could push someone who had been hungry and thirsty through the day to the point of irritation beyond endurance. The dancing, shouting group of Ganesh worshippers en route to the immersion could hurt the meditative mood of fasting Ramzan observers.

The trays of meat-filled samosas could upset the sensibilities of a devout Hindu pundit on his way to perform the aarti, or the cloud of gulal thrown in the air could land on the shoulders of a burqa clad woman and offend her sense of purdah. Obviously the administration also saw the danger; the road was dotted with groups of khaki-clad men resting on their lathis.

But I need not have worried. The revellers went past, contained in their celebration, intent in their God.

The call of the Muezzin would at some point vie for space with the pandal’s loud speakers, but most present would hear, I thought, only what they wanted, selectively.

Perhaps wisdom had something to do with it. More likely the fear of swine flu. When bigger enemies knock on the door, it’s best to live and let live, in some sort of peace!