The bunker is beneath the school building. It is a large, rectangular hall with subdued lighting. It has a faded and dusty red carpet on the floor, and the only furniture consists of a couple of rickety chairs and an old metal table, on which stands a fourteen-inch television set. The bunker feels hot, suffocating and claustrophobic, but it is for our protection, so we cannot really complain. Though there are rumours that the one in Pali Hill has a thirty-two-inch TV, Dunlopillo cushions and air conditioning.
The residents gather in front of the television set, which is tuned to the news channel. I look around the hall. Almost the entire chawl is here. The Gokhales, the Nenes, the Bapats, Mr Wagle, Mr Kulkarni, Mrs Damle, Mr Shirke, Mrs Barwe . . . Only Mr Ramakrishna the administrator is missing. He must be busy counting his rent receipts and fixing fused bulbs, leaking taps, broken railings.
First there are the advertisements. This war is sponsored by Mother India Toothpaste and Jolly Tea. Then we have a broadcast by the Prime Minister. Indian forces are winning the war, he tells us earnestly, and it is only a matter of days before the enemy surrenders completely. This war will be a fight to the finish, he says in a high-pitched voice. There will be an end to terrorism.
And hunger. And poverty. Contribute generously to the Soldiers' Benefit Fund, he urges us.
After the Prime Minister's speech, a young actress comes on TV and says the same things, but in filmi style. The women gawk at the actress. How young she looks, they say, and how beautiful.
Is her sari silk or chiffon, they ask each other. How does she manage to keep her skin so soft?
Which soap does she use? She is so fair. She doesn't need Fair and Lovely cream.
The men are full of anger. Those bastards have caused enough problems for us, they say. Enough is enough. This time we should destroy Pakistan completely.
Mr Wagle is the resident expert on the war. A lecturer at the University, he is the most educated person in our chawl. Pakistan has missiles and atom bombs, he tells us. That is why we are in this bunker – so that we are protected from radiation. But there is no real protection against the atom bomb. When the bomb falls, he says, the water will become air. The air will become fire.
The sun will disappear. A huge mushroom cloud will rise in the sky. And we will all die, he concludes solemnly.
But death is difficult to visualize when you are a twelve-year-old like me and Putul or ten like Salim and Dhyanesh and this is your first war. We are full of enthusiasm and curiosity. We camp before the television set, mesmerized by the images of battle.
We don't know and don't care about radiation. We are interested in more important things. Such as:
How much noise does an atom bomb make?
Can we see jets flying over our houses?
Will it be like Diwali?
Wouldn't it be nice if a missile landed next to our chawl?
* * *
It is the third night of the war. Our life in the bunker is falling into a predictable pattern. The women have begun to bring their vegetables and knitting to the hall. They sit in a group, chop tomatoes and potatoes, make sweaters, separate chaff from lentils, extract healthy leaves from spinach and coriander bunches, and exchange the latest gossip. Do you know Mrs Goswami has bought a new twenty-five-inch TV? Heaven knows where her husband gets all his money from!
Looks like Mr Bapat and his wife had a big fight the other night.
Practically the entire neighbourhood could hear it! Have you seen the latest Starburst? It says Armaan Ali might be gay!
The men listen intently to the news and discuss the latest rumours. Is it true that a state of emergency is about to be declared? They say Pathankot has been completely destroyed by bombing. Many civilians have died. Mehta has reliable information, straight from the Ministry, that petrol is to be rationed. Onions and tomatoes have virtually disappeared from the market.
Better start hoarding milk.
We youngsters have our own gang. We run around the large hall shouting and screaming and trip over each other, much to the consternation of the women. We play I Spy till we tire of it. Then Putul invents a new game. It's called, appropriately enough, War and Peace. The game is quite simple. We divide ourselves into two teams, one led by an Indian General and the other by a Pakistani General. The two teams have to tag each other. Whoever is caught first becomes a prisoner of war and can only be released in exchange for another prisoner from the opposite team. Tagging the General counts for two prisoners. The team with the largest number of captured prisoners wins the game. There is only one problem: no one wants to be the Pakistani General. Eventually they get hold of Salim. 'You are Muslim,' they tell him, 'so you become Pakistani.' Salim doesn't agree at first, but is bought off with the promise of two packs of bubblegum. I join Salim's team and we thrash the Indians.
