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When enough is enough

Life in the teeming city is blighted by fear and anxiety. Even the latest Hindi blockbusters are pla

The scene resembled a city at night, observed from a plane as it comes in to land: a map of winking lights, in tight and not-so-tight clusters, creating an involuntary pattern of its own. But this was a city seen on the ground, not from the sky. This was Mumbai, scarred and bloodied by terror attacks, its people coming out to mourn the dead in an overwhelming show of solidarity for the victims of 26 November.

Near the Gateway of India, on the edge of the Arabian Sea, thousands of candles lit up the gloaming on the evening of Wednesday 3 December.

India is no stranger to terror attacks and Mumbai is hardly new to catastrophe. Yet the scale and the intensity of this candlelit vigil were unprecedented in the history of contemporary India. No one in particular had organised it; there had been no official announcement. Word had spread by text message and the internet, and tens of thousands of people had turned up hours before 6pm, the scheduled start of the march.

In the event, there were as many as 50,000 people out on the streets, the most unlikely congregation of people to have marched in this city. People stood on the tops of cars and vans. They lit candles on the roads and the pavements, creating mini-shrines for the departed in the usually chaotic and frenzied southernmost tip of the Mumbai peninsula.

People were wearing T-shirts with slogans such as "I love Mumbai" and "Enough is enough". Every other person seemed to be wearing one, making the marchers on the move seem, from a distance, like a gently undulating sea of white. There were national flags so large that ten people were required to hold each one aloft. There were street plays. There were chants of "We want justice". There was anger directed at the ineptitude of politicians. This felt like the most concerted and urgent call for participatory democracy in recent times.

Above all, there was a sense of a devastated city, a city having found a way of showing emotions that had been building up for the past week.

Fear permeates life in Mumbai now. Security has been bolstered at schools, colleges, malls, cinemas, stadiums, airports and offices. But husbands still ask their wives to call every 15 minutes, and people become panicky when loved ones have been out of touch for longer than that.

People are staying together, and, given the choice, they are staying home more than ever before. Newspapers have reported how flight bookings have dropped for travel within India; how blockbuster Hindi movies are playing to nearly empty theatres on their opening weekends; how occupancy at hotels has declined; and how restaurants and bars that are usually packed have many tables empty on any given evening. Several luxury hotels have cancelled their New Year's Eve parties. Eid celebrations were muted.

Azam Amir Qasab, the lone terrorist who survived the murderous onslaught, and who is now under arrest, has spoken of how he and his nine partners were chosen, trained and directed. India says the evidence that the terrorists were from Pakistan is incontrovertible, and has asked its neighbour to hand over certain men they suspect are involved in masterminding the attacks. Pakistan, having already arrested a commander of the jihadist organisation Lashkar- e-Toiba, is under pressure to act - not least from the US (FBI officers are in Mumbai). Manmohan Singh, the prime minister, has talked of setting up a US-style federal investigative agency.

But the Indian people, weary of bluster and wary of rhetoric, are not ready to believe in promises until they see them fulfilled.

The attacks have done something else to Mumbai: they have altered its self-image. This is India's most triumphantly self-absorbed city. It is a city which thinks that being insular is not merely what it is, but a right that it has earned for itself. Yet the attacks are forcing Mumbai not only to look inward, but out to the political capital, Delhi, to see what help might be forthcoming. The people of Mumbai are also looking to other cities in the world to find out how they have dealt with extreme terror attacks.

Has something definitively changed about Mumbai? Or are we witnessing merely a response to terrible events that the city has not yet come to terms with? As it has been little more than a fortnight, it is still too soon to tell.

Soumya Bhattacharya is the editor of the Hindustan Times in Mumbai and author of the memoir "You Must Like Cricket?", published by Yellow Jersey Press (£12)

This article first appeared in the 15 December 2008 issue of the New Statesman, The power of speech

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An English hero for the ages: Ian Botham at 60

Botham blends his sportsmanship and deep-seated passion for cricket with a lust for life.

Begging W H Auden’s pardon, it is possible both to honour and to value the vertical man, and in the case of Ian Botham, who turned 60 on 24 November, it is our bounden duty. No sportsman has given Britons so much to enjoy in the past half-century and no sportsman is loved more. Two decades after he retired from first-class cricket, his reputation as one of life’s champions remains unassailable.

No mere cricketer is he, either. Botham is a philanthropist, having raised more than £12m for various charities, notably Leukaemia and Lymphoma Research. In December, 30 years after his first walk from John o’Groats to Land’s End, he will set off again, in South Africa, where England are on tour. And he really does walk, too, not amble. As somebody who accompanied him on one of his dozen walks said: “You can’t keep up with him. The man is a phenomenon.”

Of all postwar sportsmen, only Bobby Charlton and, at a pinch, Henry Cooper come close to matching Botham’s enduring popularity. But Charlton, a shy man who was scarred by the Munich plane crash of 1958 (and may never have recovered from its emotional effects), has never comfortably occupied a public stage; and Cooper, being a boxer, had a solitary role. Botham, by contrast, spoke for England. Whenever he picked up his bat, or had a ball in his hand, he left spectators in no doubt.

Others have also spoken for England. Bobby Moore and Martin Johnson, captains respectively of England’s World Cup-winning football and rugby teams, were great players but did not reach out to people as naturally as Botham. Nick Faldo, Lester Piggott, Sebastian Coe and, to bring us up to date, Lewis Hamilton have beaten the best in the world, but they lacked those qualities that Botham displayed so freely. That is not to mark them down. They were, and are, champions. But Botham was born under a different star.

It was John Arlott, the great cricket commentator, who first spotted his uniqueness. Covering a match at Taunton in 1974, he asked the young colt to carry his bags up the rickety staircase to the press box, where Arlott, wearing his oenophile’s hat, pulled out a bottle of red wine and invited Botham to drink. Forty years later Botham is a discriminating wine drinker – and maker. Along with his friend and fellow England great Bob Willis, and their Australian wine­making pal Geoff Merrill, he has put his name to a notable Shiraz, “BMW”.

Arlott, with his nose for talent and good company, saw something in the young Botham that Brian Close, his captain at Somerset, was beginning to bring out. Later, Mike Brearley, as England captain, drew out something even more remarkable. As Rodgers and Hammerstein wrote, you’ve got to be carefully taught. And Botham, a fine team man as well as a supreme individual performer, has never withheld praise from those who enabled him to find his voice.

If sport reveals character, then cricket is the game that reveals it most clearly. In no other sport is the individual performance rooted so firmly in a team context. Every over brings a contest of skill and intelligence between batsman and bowler but only a team can win the match. “A cricketer,” as Arlott said, “is showing you something of himself all the time.”

Cricket also reveals national character more than any other sport. Football may be the most popular game in the world but cricket, and cricketers, tell us far more about England and Englishness. It is instructive, in this regard, to hear what Philippe Auclair, a French journalist and author long resident in London, has to say about Botham: “He is essentially an 18th-century Englishman.” In one! It’s not difficult to sense a kinship with Tom Jones, Fielding’s embodiment of 18th-century life, who began his journey, as readers may recall, in Somerset.

A country boy who played for Worcestershire after leaving Somerset, and who lives by choice in North Yorkshire, Botham is an old-fashioned Englishman. Although nobody has yet found him listening to the parson’s sermon, he is conservative with a small and upper-case C, a robust monarchist, handy with rod and gun, and happiest with a beaker in front of him. He represents (though he would never claim to be a representative) all those people who understand instinctively what England means, not in a narrow way, but through something that is in the blood.

Above all, he will be remembered for ever as the hero of 1981. Even now it takes some believing that Botham bowled and batted with such striking success that the Australians, who were one up after two Tests, were crushed. Some of us who were actually at Headingley for the famous third Test – thousands who claim to have been there were not – recall the odds of 500-1 on an England victory going up on the electronic scoreboard that Saturday evening.

Botham made 149 not out as England, following on, beat the Aussies by 18 runs. For three hours the country seemed to stop. In the next Test, at Edgbaston, Botham took five wickets for one run as Australia fell under his spell. Then, at Old Trafford, on a dank Saturday afternoon, he played the most memorable innings of his life and one of the greatest innings ever played by an Englishman: 118 magnificent, joyful runs. Joy: that’s the word. Botham brought joy into people’s lives.

Yet it was the final Test at the Oval, which ended in a draw, that brought from him a performance no less remarkable than those from before. He bowled 89 overs in that match, flat out, continuing to run in when others withdrew with injury. That was the team man coming to the fore. Little wonder his comrades thought the world of him.

Modest, loyal, respectful to opponents, grateful to all who have lent him a hand, and supported throughout a turbulent life by Kath, his rock of a wife, and their three children, this is a cricketing hero to rank with W G Grace, Jack Hobbs, Wally Hammond and Fred Trueman. A feature in the lives of all who saw him, and a very English hero. 

This article first appeared in the 26 November 2015 issue of the New Statesman, Terror vs the State