T'is with a troubled mind and heavy heart that I write this post. For as I type, my home of 18 years is under siege. Blood is splattered across its walls, and flames engulf it. Colaba, my heart, my home, is being held hostage.
Two nights ago, as I returned home from work, I received a phone call from my friend Richa. She was in the neighborhood, and wanted to meet up, would I come have drinks with her at Cafe Leopold, our favorite haunt? Tempted as I was, I had had a long day, and was rather exhausted. She tried to persuade me, but I had to decline. I bid her goodbye, and head to my room to rest my tired self.
Little did I realise the weight of that 'goodbye'.
A little shy of an hour later, feeling a little more human post a hot shower, I contemplated joining Richa after all. As I opened my wardrobe to pick something appropriate, however, I heard it. What was that? Fireworks? Man, those were loud ones. And rhythmic. I heard loud voices. A wedding procession? Why weren't the fireworks stopping? Why did this sound so much like...
Gunfire. People screaming. I looked out my window to see people running on the streets, panicked and screaming. The gunfire continued. Survival instincts overrode all others, and I locked my windows and doors, and rushed to the hall to warn my hostelmates. I didn't need to. The sounds had been loud enough, the sights clear enough. I watched as girls blurred past, locking doors and windows, sealing the main gates, getting our oblivious little watchman indoors, and blocking the entrance to the terrace.
As yet unsure of what exactly was going on, however, we ventured to look out upon the streets through the windows. Nothing in the world could have prepared us for what we were about to see. Across the street, Cafe Leopold was shattered. Shards of glass were sprayed upon the sidewalk, and even from a distance, we could see the blood. And the bodies.
None of us said a word. We couldn't have even if we tried. Faces paled, and trembling fingers reached for cellphones.
I dialed Richa's number. The call connected, and rang. And rang. And rang. My knees showed signs of giving way. I sat down. And dialed again. Across the hall, a girl gave a low scream and dropped her cellphone as tears cascaded down her face. Her brother was inside Regal cinema, and the gunmen were inside. Another girl was on the verge of collapse, speaking to her sister. She was in Leopold's, and had narrowly missed a bullet. I dialed Richa's number again.
A few rings down, a shaky voice answered. It was a friend of Richa's, who had been with her at the Cafe. Neither of us could say a word. A few tense, silent moments later, she spoke. Richa had been shot. A bullet to the ribs. She was unconscious, and barely breathing. I could feel the blood drain from my face. And the ground shook beneath my feet. Beneath everyone's feet.
Through the window, we heard more screams. And sirens. And then we saw the night sky glow orange. Aghast, we watched as flames engulfed the Taj Mahal Palace Hotel.
Finally summoning up the courage to move, we turned on the television and tuned in to the news. "Mumbai Under Siege" -- large, bold red letters filled the screen. A flurry of images followed. Victoria Terminus (call me as anti-MNS as you please, I refuse to refer to it as Chhatrapati Shivaji Terminus when Shivaji had nothing in the world to do with it!) floors bathed in blood, scores of injured travellers being rushed to safety. The Oberoi hotel, its lobby in flames, with guests being held hostage inside. The Taj, in flames. Cafe Leopold, ridden with bullet-holes and shattered glass.
Colaba. Until now, the safest place in all of Mumbai. Colaba. A haven in the midst of all the chaos that ever struck Mumbai. Colaba.
My home. Under attack.
The next couple of hours passed in an out-of-body blur. Frantic phonecalls from friends and relatives were answered, fears allayed. Yes, we were alright. Yes, we were indoors.
Yes, we were about 200 meters away from it.
Another explosion. The floor trembled beneath us. Cops came around telling us to batten down the hatches, and turn off the lights. Within minutes, the hostel was blacked out, and we were in our beds, too spooked to even consider falling asleep. Sirens wailed outside, and the night was punctuated with gunfire and explosions. Some of us cried. Some cursed. None slept.
When daylight came, we saw smoke still billowing out of the Taj, firefighters hard at work trying to slay the raging beast.
My phone rang, and the words I heard echoed like a gunshot. Richa had succumbed to the gunshot. I hung up, unable to speak. I was supposed to be there with her. It could have been me. My roommate echoed similar sentiments. She and her boyfriend were out for dinner, and normally dine at the Taj. For some reason, they decided to dine at Gaylord's instead that night. It was sheer luck that the two of us were alive and well.
There were those not as fortunate. My roommate's sister-in-law lost her parents and brother at the Taj. She herself lies battling for her life right now post 2 bullet wounds. Friends and acquaintances who were hotel staff at the Taj and the Oberoi never made it out. Stories poured in of narrow escapes.
The news channels had little else to speak about. Images of gore and destruction flooded the screen, leaving us all with a rather sick feeling. This was huge. And we were right in the middle of it all.
The hours dragged on. The insanity didn't stop. As I write this, 40 hours have passed. And there are apparently terrorists still on the loose in the city.
In the midst of it all, the famed 'spirit of Mumbai' pushed the envelope. Cocky citizens walked the streets, and some even brought their children along to the scenes of terror to watch the show. Several ended up shot, some right in the head.
The city has lost some of its top police officers. Hundreds of citizens. Heritage. Peace of mind.
To those who have spent the last 40 hours in torment. To those who have laid down their lives in service. To those who were taken so cruelly from the world. And to those who have been left behind to pick up the pieces.
Love. Light. And peace.
R.I.P Richa Sharma -- 23rd April 1984 - 26th November 2008
Two nights ago, as I returned home from work, I received a phone call from my friend Richa. She was in the neighborhood, and wanted to meet up, would I come have drinks with her at Cafe Leopold, our favorite haunt? Tempted as I was, I had had a long day, and was rather exhausted. She tried to persuade me, but I had to decline. I bid her goodbye, and head to my room to rest my tired self.
Little did I realise the weight of that 'goodbye'.
A little shy of an hour later, feeling a little more human post a hot shower, I contemplated joining Richa after all. As I opened my wardrobe to pick something appropriate, however, I heard it. What was that? Fireworks? Man, those were loud ones. And rhythmic. I heard loud voices. A wedding procession? Why weren't the fireworks stopping? Why did this sound so much like...
Gunfire. People screaming. I looked out my window to see people running on the streets, panicked and screaming. The gunfire continued. Survival instincts overrode all others, and I locked my windows and doors, and rushed to the hall to warn my hostelmates. I didn't need to. The sounds had been loud enough, the sights clear enough. I watched as girls blurred past, locking doors and windows, sealing the main gates, getting our oblivious little watchman indoors, and blocking the entrance to the terrace.
As yet unsure of what exactly was going on, however, we ventured to look out upon the streets through the windows. Nothing in the world could have prepared us for what we were about to see. Across the street, Cafe Leopold was shattered. Shards of glass were sprayed upon the sidewalk, and even from a distance, we could see the blood. And the bodies.
None of us said a word. We couldn't have even if we tried. Faces paled, and trembling fingers reached for cellphones.
I dialed Richa's number. The call connected, and rang. And rang. And rang. My knees showed signs of giving way. I sat down. And dialed again. Across the hall, a girl gave a low scream and dropped her cellphone as tears cascaded down her face. Her brother was inside Regal cinema, and the gunmen were inside. Another girl was on the verge of collapse, speaking to her sister. She was in Leopold's, and had narrowly missed a bullet. I dialed Richa's number again.
A few rings down, a shaky voice answered. It was a friend of Richa's, who had been with her at the Cafe. Neither of us could say a word. A few tense, silent moments later, she spoke. Richa had been shot. A bullet to the ribs. She was unconscious, and barely breathing. I could feel the blood drain from my face. And the ground shook beneath my feet. Beneath everyone's feet.
Through the window, we heard more screams. And sirens. And then we saw the night sky glow orange. Aghast, we watched as flames engulfed the Taj Mahal Palace Hotel.
Finally summoning up the courage to move, we turned on the television and tuned in to the news. "Mumbai Under Siege" -- large, bold red letters filled the screen. A flurry of images followed. Victoria Terminus (call me as anti-MNS as you please, I refuse to refer to it as Chhatrapati Shivaji Terminus when Shivaji had nothing in the world to do with it!) floors bathed in blood, scores of injured travellers being rushed to safety. The Oberoi hotel, its lobby in flames, with guests being held hostage inside. The Taj, in flames. Cafe Leopold, ridden with bullet-holes and shattered glass.
Colaba. Until now, the safest place in all of Mumbai. Colaba. A haven in the midst of all the chaos that ever struck Mumbai. Colaba.
My home. Under attack.The next couple of hours passed in an out-of-body blur. Frantic phonecalls from friends and relatives were answered, fears allayed. Yes, we were alright. Yes, we were indoors.
Yes, we were about 200 meters away from it.
Another explosion. The floor trembled beneath us. Cops came around telling us to batten down the hatches, and turn off the lights. Within minutes, the hostel was blacked out, and we were in our beds, too spooked to even consider falling asleep. Sirens wailed outside, and the night was punctuated with gunfire and explosions. Some of us cried. Some cursed. None slept.
When daylight came, we saw smoke still billowing out of the Taj, firefighters hard at work trying to slay the raging beast.
My phone rang, and the words I heard echoed like a gunshot. Richa had succumbed to the gunshot. I hung up, unable to speak. I was supposed to be there with her. It could have been me. My roommate echoed similar sentiments. She and her boyfriend were out for dinner, and normally dine at the Taj. For some reason, they decided to dine at Gaylord's instead that night. It was sheer luck that the two of us were alive and well.
There were those not as fortunate. My roommate's sister-in-law lost her parents and brother at the Taj. She herself lies battling for her life right now post 2 bullet wounds. Friends and acquaintances who were hotel staff at the Taj and the Oberoi never made it out. Stories poured in of narrow escapes.
The news channels had little else to speak about. Images of gore and destruction flooded the screen, leaving us all with a rather sick feeling. This was huge. And we were right in the middle of it all.
The hours dragged on. The insanity didn't stop. As I write this, 40 hours have passed. And there are apparently terrorists still on the loose in the city.
In the midst of it all, the famed 'spirit of Mumbai' pushed the envelope. Cocky citizens walked the streets, and some even brought their children along to the scenes of terror to watch the show. Several ended up shot, some right in the head.
The city has lost some of its top police officers. Hundreds of citizens. Heritage. Peace of mind.
To those who have spent the last 40 hours in torment. To those who have laid down their lives in service. To those who were taken so cruelly from the world. And to those who have been left behind to pick up the pieces.
Love. Light. And peace.
R.I.P Richa Sharma -- 23rd April 1984 - 26th November 2008
