Demolition. There is something final about that word. Something that indicates a complete destruction. This apocalyptic word was increasingly finding its way into my life. All around me, old buildings were being traded off for newer, shinier, taller towers. Mumbai was nudging its elbows a little, and making a little more space.
I live on a lane where most buildings were over 40 years old. Mine was one of the oldest. But recently, things began to change. Slowly, all around, little two-storied buildings were being razed to the ground and tall, stoic towers were taking their place.
I woke up one morning to a large, crushing sound. I huge orange machine stood on the road below, pointing its ominous looking weapon at one of the buildings. A couple of days ago, all the residents of the building had packed all their things in cars and tempos- suitcases big and small, cartons of all sizes and shifted to rented accommodations. Luggage in their hands and dreams of a new home in their eyes, they had all trudged along, leaving behind this skeletal building. Saptarishi now stood alone and without its inhabitants- decrepit.
There wasn’t anything particularly wrong with the building- atleast not in a broad sense. Its roof didn’t leak and white ants hadn’t crawled all over its surface. But Saptarishi was, in its own way, battling a war every one of us wages, only to lose. It was ageing.
The residents, not wanting to put the building or themselves through the ageing process, found a suitable builder and left behind this building that used to be their home. The demolition machine charged at the building and Saptarishi stood silently, taking it on. It thrust upon the walls and tore through the beams. Slowly, the building began to crumble. Bit by bit. First some parapets broke. The concrete fell off first, exposing the bricks underneath. Chunks of cements and metal crashed on the ground with a loud thud. Passersby stopped to witness this spectacle, it was like watching death, work its way through what was once living- reducing it to its basic elements and leaving a pile of dust.
The machine found its rhythm and began working at different parts of a structure. The operator, sitting in a small cubicle atop the machine looked deceptively insignificant as he moved around this giant and aimed it at strategic places. Just then, maybe intentionally, maybe not, the machine struck a beam that, as onlookers came to understand, was important to the building. In one stroke, the beam fell taking with it the entire upper floor. In an avalanche of dust, cement and chunks of mortar, the building came down with a thundering crash.
It was in that moment that the building lived for one last time. It was the sound of death and a resignation to the ways of the world, and of this city we call home. In that final breath, it took in all it could from this street that it had silently stood on for so many years. For once and for all, it broke the silence, it screamed in pain and then succumbed to the death that was destined to it. For that one thundering crash, every one on the street, and those peeping from their windows, the workmen, the contractor, the demolishers, even the machine that was gnawing at the beams, stood aside. Some in shock and surprise, others in awe, and a few, who had known and seen this collection of brick and mortar as a living, breathing home, we saw its demise, with a wistful mourning.
