Independence - personalized!

Today is August 15th but let me take you back to August 8th, 1942. Bombay was boiling hot and the park at Gowalia Tank Road was the place to be. Here is where thousands had gathered, and it felt like the gods had turned up the heat. Each laboring breath singed the lungs but that had not stopped the thousands who had been gathering since the break of dawn. Revolution was in the air, but until today, there was no outlet, no clear leader, no avenue for the masses to unleash their frustration. After centuries of being stomped on by the British Empire, India was slowing starting to strain against the chains that had it in their grip. Everywhere one looked excitement, anticipation and subdued rage fought to exist against fear, doubt and uncertainty. But today was different. Just the night before the All India Congress Committee has met and after a marathon session had declared this as the day that the “Quit India” movement would be launched, and the message “Do or Die” was transmitted and received over thousands of radios. And the people had come. 

A young man stood deep in the crowd, straining to see above the sea of bodies around him. Although filled with excitement, the smell and crush of the unwashed as they jostled forward towards a makeshift platform was almost too much for him to bear. His kurta, which just this morning was crisp and freshly ironed, was soaked with sweat and starting to look grimy from hundreds of men he pressed and bumped against. His thick black glasses kept slipping as he desperately pushed them back on his large nose with one hand – the other held tight against his pant pocket protecting the few rupees he had there. He knew that even patriotic fervor and the thirst for independence were no match for Bombay’s pickpockets. What a time to be alive, he thought. Just a few years ago he had left his village in Northern India and on a broken wing and desperate prayer moved to Bombay – the city where dreams come true for a lucky few and dangle just out of reach for so many more. The unbearable heat of the summer and the chilling, bone numbing cold of his village were a distant memory – exchanged for the constant, never ending dust filled humidity that lasted for months, save for three as torrential monsoon rains drenched the city. It took a little getting used to and as he rubbed his arm across his brow, he prayed for rain and the fleeting relief it brought.   

“Zindabad! Zindabad!” the crowd chanted – long live the revolution! Caught up in the excitement and resonance, he too started shouting, his voice lost amongst thousands of others. He neared the platform upon which a group of local leaders had planted themselves – all in the khadi garments that were popularized by Gandhi in defiance of British goods. A small petite woman was there – with blazing dark eyes and steel in her gaze. As the crowd surged, she unfurled the Indian flag and raised it in defiance of the British and with it, unleashed India’s civil disobedience movement. A movement that would continue to gather steam and momentum culminating a week and five years later with independence. And as the world slept, on August 15th, 1947 a giant nation would throw off its shackles, awaken from its slumber and go forth as a beacon of diversity and unity. It would be the first and only time that the British empire would give up a colony through non-cooperation and non-violence, rather than bloodshed.  

I am part of history being made, he thought again. Where would this lead? He didn’t know; couldn’t know at the time, but in that teeming crowd, on the other end of the park was a young woman who also had left her village on the west coast of India. She too was caught up in the frenzy of the moment and the future she was just beginning to imagine. She too knew that today she was part of something special, a moment that would change her country forever. She had not told her parents that she would be at this event – they would have forbidden her attending fearing for her safety. But she knew she had to. Even so, little did they both know that this day would be a spark that would ignite a flame in their lives, however unlikely it may have seemed. They didn’t have much in common; in fact, they had a lot going against them. He was a middle school drop-out, she was in college. He was a tepid follower of Islam; she was a strict Zoroastrian. He was from the Himalayan foothills; she from the sandy beaches of West India. He made a meager living giving Hindi lessons and she was in dire need of some. But they would somehow meet by chance, fall in love and eventually marry. But that was at another time and place months away. And, over the years, their lives would unfold like millions of others in this harsh city. They too would toil hard, pinch pennies, cut corners and make sacrifices for their three children. As a quirk of fate would have it, they would raise their family not a mile from this famous park, where their daughter still lives. Memorable times would often follow forgettable seasons; good decisions would often follow regrettable choices; good luck would often follow months of disappointment. Through it all, they would persevere and claw themselves out of mediocrity and make a small mark on their city. Decades later their children would be meet successes and failures large and small, but that feeling of patriotism, passion and purpose that they both felt on August 8th, 1942 was imbedded in their genes and would pass on forever for generations to come. You see, August 8th, 1942 has a special place in my heart, because, even though they didn’t even know that the other existed, that is the day when two lives first intertwined and almost met – the lives of Sheroo Karanjia and Riaz Ahmed Khan.