|
9/11 or Mumbai
Time for a bedtime story. I tuck in my seven year old, wedged between his favorite stuffed animals
- Wubbie the Elephant and Ted Mabob. The musical lamp has been wound tight. Three blind mice awaiting
their cue to go round and round the lamp base, the farmer’s wife chasing them with a carving knife.
Clean Nascar sheets tonight. The room decorated in red, blue and yellow. GI Joes and fire engines
have been retired to the toy chest. The television was turned to news of the bombings in Mumbai,
my son sat Indian style all evening, transfixed as if watching cartoons. I should have been more
careful. Should have turned the damn thing off.
“So, what’s worse now? Nine eleven or Mumbai? Where’s that place anyway?”
“When I was little, they called it Bombay.”
“So, why’s it changed? Why do that? I like that name, Bombay.”
“I think the Indian people wanted to repo their town from the British who called it Bombay and the Indians used to
call it Mumbai, so they brought the old name back.”
“Do they live out west? Are there cowboys? Is it a big town?”
“Yes, many times larger than Chicago and no, these Indians live in a different, far away land from us.”
“But what’s worse? Numbers or a new name?”
“That depends on who you are. Where you are too. Let’s read. What story do you want tonight?”
“No but, show me Mumbai on my globe.”
I retrieve the blue globe from his little desk. Let him twirl it around and around then settle onto
Bombay India, hoping this will satisfy his curiosity and I can give him a kiss goodnight.
“My globe says Bombay Mom, it needs updating! But I see why they changed it, but it didn’t do any good!
I know ‘bomb’ is there and the people wanted probably to hide from bombs so and the town is on a bay!
I bet the bomb and bay names together made the people nervous!”
“My boy, you amaze me. So smart you are! Yes, I think you are on to something. But darling,
let’s read about the bears and their love of honey combs and grilled salmon. That bear family, they always make us laugh.”
“So, Nine Eleven and Bombay are the same?”
“Well, one is a date, a time of day and one remember, is or was the name of a town.”
“Hey, they really should change the number to Ten, ten so no one will crash the buildings again. But it didn’t help Bombay!”
“No, the buildings are gone sweetheart. A memorial park is going there instead.”
“Will they make Mumbai a memory park now?”
“We’ll have to wait and see.”
My brow crinkles, I want my son to settle down. It is time to play the Mama trump card.
“Move over darling, we’re going to cuddle until you fall asleep. No story tonight.”
“Okay.”
My son stretches and yawns, his soft pink belly peeking from his pajama top. I push the lullaby button on
the lamp and we drift off to Three Blind Mice, repeating five times until it slows to a crawl and my son and I go our separate ways to dreamland.
Renee Mumford
Email: Renee Mumford
Return to Table of Contents
|