3 AM.

I lay down — absolutely still. I was the bait. Breathing carefully, I waited. I did not have to wait too long. They came. In great numbers. I raised my weapon. Chinese made. Shaped like a badminton racquet. Deadly. Swift. I waved it in long, dangerous arcs. Zap-tapety-tap-zapety-zap. Electrocuted. Blown to smithereens. I withdrew.

Outside, Bombay danced in the rain.

Serving Size: 1

Ingredients:
60 ml Captain Morgan 100 Proof Rum
1 ripe banana
100 ml Tropicana Orange Juice with “Lots of Pulp” (substitute fresh orange juice with pulp)
2 tsb Hershey’s Chocolate syrup
1 cup of ice

Preparation Method:
Blend ice, bananas, orange juice, 1 tsp chocolate syrup and 30 ml Rum at high speed.
Pour the remaining 30 ml Rum in a cocktail glass. Add blended mixture.
Add 1 tsp chocolate syrup.
Garnish with a lime wedge.

Enjoy.

The long worn uneven streets dream away at night,
of seven little tempest-tost sea rocks that became one.
The city of lepers and kings burns fiery bright,
with similes and tears of hundreds under her scorching sun.

Her Arabian sands have seen much blood,
she weeps each night for her teeming shores.
“Oh little man, of my soil and blood,
you’ve brought hatred through my hallowed doors.”

“Struck me with your indifference, your sarcasm, and more,
you forget the truth, and truth it is you know -
I’m your mother, your wife, your wretched whore,
a therapeutic escape”, she would bellow.

Behold, tiny man – I stand here as shall I forever – the truth undone,
seven little islands – destined to be one.

Bombay Grim by Amit Bhandarkar is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 3.0 Unported License.
Based on a work at www.toobrown.com.

I remember, people were really scared, in the days that followed. That, in itself, was a great achievement for these terrorists. Bombay is seldom affected by anything. We, Mumbaikars, are one solid bunch. It takes a lot of terror to terrorize the people of Mumbai.

 Apparently, the success of the July 11 bomb blasts — the perfect synchronicity of the explosions, the flawless execution of this intelligently planned terror attack, the scale of destruction & loss of life, the utter failure of government machinery in preventing these attacks, was our threshold. We caved in. Widespread paranoia ensued.

 Eventually, life did snap back into shape. And as these things go, most people forgot. Others, the friends & relatives of those unfortunate men, women and children, who perished or were irreversibly disabled, do not have that luxury.

It was under these painful circumstances, that, with a mix of fear, revulsion and a strange sense of love & tenderness for my great city, I wrote these words.

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Oh hell yes. I’m spent. Spent and lent. I’m not going to make you roll in agony. with my sad prose. My lack of comic timing. My timid hellos and mighty(wannabe) goodbyes. I will not let you tell me that the sun’s still shining. no-permission-no. no permit granted-thank you -Govt. of Maharashtra. jai Bheem, jai Shivaji. jai Maharashtra. My Bombay, but a whore, will look at you and will sleep with you and make ugly babies with you. You yellow-livered-nilly-hearted-fcuk-wasted young-mistress-of-green-paper. I will damn you to hell. never-ever-heal. I will cry foul. I will give you away.

O Apollo-Bundered-Marine-Drived,Mumbadevid-Malabar Hilld-Chowpatty-breasted Bombay. Squatting-potty-clutching-The.Times.of.India(Mumbai Edition). With a Wills Classic Milds in the dark slit between your lips. The bum-bum-Bholenath. The Tadi-Madi-Vikri-Kendras. The Babloo-Da-Dhabas. With it’s Salted-Kebabed Lamb-Balls and Bombay-Ducked Masalla. Critter Fritters. Angry mobs of facist Sainiks-Communist Maharashtrians. Religious Fanatics-the Muslims. The angry fangry. The lolitta-I-fcuked-your-daughter thrice. The Maratha-Proud-Bhenchods. The Musllman-Minority-Madarchods.

The Racist regime. The fcuk-chut-Kamathi-randi-Pura whores. The Bhandup-Sonapur hijras. The Night-Lovers-Mulund-Checknaka. The Fcuk-me-while-you-cans. The Chicks-In-Hot-Panties. The Nirmal-Life-R-Malis of Gutter Gardens. The Kentucky-Fried-McDonalded invisible poor. The shit laden slaughter houses. The Hijra-Bazaars. The general hostility against Muslims. My brothers. My brahmin father. My whoring myself to the world. Accepting the ways of Hindu India-Muslim India-Christian India-Sikh India. Fcuk you, you religio-casto mongrels. You cocker-spaniel-disguised-strays. You St. Bernard-wannabes. You saffron-robed-religious-disinfectants. You green-loving-five-times-namazee-terrorists. You sister-fcuking-tonga-riding demi celebrities. You know what you’re doing to the world????

You half-livered-one-testicled monsters. You religious fanatics. You Hindu-Muslim-Sikh-Christian-Dalit-Agri-Junglee-Jhopadpatti-hating sea-faced-building-walas. O, my Bombay bleeds. My Bombay hurts. You bomb-exploding after-life-harem-seekers. And you, the ones with the smirk on your faces – the saffron-clad-masjid-burning-religious-cleansers. You modern-day-21st-century-many-headed-Hitlers. How many lives will your prejudice claim? Did your father fart you out of his ass that you behave so badly?

You Hindus haters. And, you Muslim despisers. You have done us in.

O joy.

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Originally Posted here.