During those days after the Delhi gang rape in December, I remember
having many conversations with colleagues and friends where I said many times
over that such an incident would never happen in Mumbai.
The thing is I believed it.
Having lived in Mumbai for 31 out of my 33 years, I’ve felt
many things about this city. Frustrated about it’s failing infrastructure,
angry about the corruption it harbors, even helpless at the bureaucracy that
sometimes cripples it’s pace.
But I never felt unsafe. More importantly, I never felt
unsafe when my wife came home late or my sister chose to stay out late one
night. I’d may be, be concerned about how they’d get home but I’d let it go.
My wife never worried about taking a taxi at 3 am home.
The thing is “Mumbai was safe”. It was brutal in many
different ways, but it was always safe.
Because Mumbaikars were nice people. People who were too
caught up in the everyday rush of earning a decent living to let their frustrations
out on the road.
It was a city that had probably India’s most rampant
prostitution dens and the most glamorous skin displays. Through the years,
dance bars dotted our bylanes, thrived with the moves of beautiful women who
men ogled at, and blew up obnoxious amounts of money on.
But it remained confined to the seedy tables of these bars.
No Mumbaikar let his libido overflow onto the street.
It’s like the movies where they talk of the cardinal rule “In
the battle between police and mafia, we don’t bring kids and wives in”
This city had that rule. Come what may, we don’t abuse our
wives, daughters and sisters.
It’s what allowed for the pace, for the freedom this city
provided.
Today, I stand corrected. And my belief stands shaken.
I will worry when my wife comes home late. I will worry when
I have a female colleague who’s going home alone.
My Mumbai is no longer safe. And my pride in this city that
was home to me for 33 years is a little less today than it was yesterday.
For the first time, I am NOT PROUD TO BE A MUMBAIKAR.
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