Shaken and Stirred

I was at a friend’s house, reading my book and sipping on a glass of iced coke, when he got a phone call. I turned a page of the book, taking no notice of him, until he suddenly jumped up and jabbed at the power button on the TV.

Was that the Taj Mahal Hotel? And were those dead bodies being carried out? We looked at each other, bewildered. What the hell was going on? As bits of information started trickling in, and the picture started getting clearer, the horror in our hearts grew. Café Leopold had been attacked- a joint that we, from the ‘burbs make the trek to town for. And the Taj, where my grandfather stays every time he’s in Mumbai. The room that was burnt and reduced to flakes of ash was his favorite one- the one he always requested. And the Trident- how many times had I gone there to sample their delectable kakori kebabs?!?

I stayed up till 4 am that night, watching the horrific sights, watching helplessly as the terrorists made their way to my part of town- a taxi blows up in Ville Parle, unconfirmed reports about firing at the JW Marriott start to come in. I waited and watched, hoping they would bypass Bandra. By the time I finally fell asleep, I was nervous, but exhausted from the long day and the constant images flashing across the screen, and in my head.

I was woken up, bleary eyed and still exhausted by the phone ringing. It was the Boss. Today was going to be one of our busiest days ever, and the city had refused to shut down. For the next two days, it was madness. I and the rest of the team were constantly on our feet, running from hospitals to hotels to office. Watching, talking, writing, praying.
On the second day of the attack, I found myself at the Taj. Standing outside with the rest of the media, looking for side stories while the terrorists continued to kill innocents inside. It was one of the most eerie experiences of my life, watching the dozens of cameras pointed towards the hotel, ducking when we heard the blasts, and yet not moving from the site of the longest terror attack the country had ever seen.

I spot a gora. Turns out he’s a freed hostage. The media clamours over him, shoving their mikes in his face, shooting questions, while others scribble furiously in their notebooks. He tries his best to field them, shouts over the sounds of bullets being fired inside the Taj Mahal Hotel and reminds us all of how brave he is to come back here, to the site of the 30-hour long nightmare he had been put through.

Suddenly there’s a commotion about 100 feet from where I’m standing. There’s blood somewhere. I know I’ve seen blood and I push and shove to make my way to the site of the accident. A man stands, shaking with shock, drenched in blood. He holds up a handkerchief, and blood drips from it. I start to feel nauseous and try to distract myself by asking him questions. A stray piece of shrapnel has hit a journalist in the shoulder, causing the fellow to fall backwards onto a bystander behind him. The journalist is packed up and sent off in an ambulance to JJ Hospital before you can say “Jack Robinson.” But the bystander continues to stand and shiver.

I suddenly realize where I am and what I’m doing. As the intensity and seriousness of the situation sink in, I feel myself go numb. Physically and mentally. I try to take a step back, towards relative safety, but my legs wont move. My mind is shouting furious instructions to my body, telling it it’s in the direct line of fire, but it won’t move. A guard runs by me, shouting, “Madam, peechhe ho jaao, firing chaalu hai.” Thankfully my legs respond to his command. I run, squat behind a van and tremble for a few seconds.

I take a few deep breaths and run my hands over my face. Its time to come back out and face the devastation. My city is being attacked and if I can’t stop it, I have to document it.

But I can’t help myself from praying I won’t end up as yet another victim while I’m out here.