While the sender and receiver remain unknown, the
message of terror uses people as its medium, and broadcast media as the consumers of fear. When fear is sent and fear is seen by the sender, the message is considered “sent”. In fact, in its purest inhuman form, terrorism is communication.
The sender of a message needs feedback, like a receipt, to complete the test. The Varanasi blasts was Hindutva (BJP) testing its own atrophying muscle, and on Sunday Shiv Sena made a mockery of itself with the theatre of “statue desecration”. Almost every man I have talked with – on the streets, in restaurants and hotels, rickshaw and taxi drivers – believes that terror is almost always an inside job. And yet, the media does not hesitate in pasting the blame on Pakistan, LeT, jihadis, and some such amorphous abstraction. And that abstraction is always a euphemism for Islam.
Only first class compartments were bombed, because they accommodate middle-class executives – laptops and fancy cell-phones. They hardly ever look at each other, and remain lost in their screens. If a three-headed giraffe floated past the doorway, they wouldn’t notice. I have seen many a zero-legged people, four-eyed women, and three-headed giraffes float past the windy doorways of second class. Why don’t they make the entire train second class, since the view is so much better?
One of the images on TV was of a young hunk, like the bassist of any local heavy metal band, holding a phone and…then he turns to look at the camera, blood streaming down the sides of his face, just like in the movies. No, he will not let any pain show on his face, it won’t look good on the camera. That’s the new Mumbaikar for you – fashion without fear. Don’t let it show, don’t let the message get past you. That is why my moustache and turban is so important to me – you may bomb my city, you may kill my people, but as long as I live, you will not be able to take down my turban. Get the message?
The act of terror is like a stone dropped into a flowing river.
At once the subject of communication in the city becomes One, and at once the normal channels break down and new channels arise. Strangers look at each other and sigh, shake their heads, they smile. Two men walking down the road look at each other and one says, “Bal Thackeray is finished….” – the other nods in satisfaction. They are both thinking about the mayhem Shiv Sena caused on Sunday, which everyone knows. The connection is there, even if it is not there. Life finds a way to express itself in the arms of death. In this manner, communication is de-personalised and re-socialised. This is not a good thing for the terrorist, since his objective was entirely different. Very soon, having dissipated their fears through jokes, life trots back to “normal”.
Life is never normal. The only surprising thing about life is that it exists, and the rest is understandable.
Is there a parallel between the success of Pirates Of the Carribbean II: Dead Man's Chest, the emergence of widespread digital piracy markets, and the this New York Times piece which talks of the skulls as a fashion trend: 
Bombay is riddled with conurbations of shanties, which we calls 
Prtihwis at the 
