When Hurt Came To Town

There’s not much left to be said about the attack that hasn’t been said already. Screw the clichés; embrace them for their truth. Be afraid; be strong. What could they have done; what should we do now. Maybe Han¹ is spot-on when he says that it is the location of the atrocities that makes this so different for us; maybe he’s being ridiculous.

For the last three days I have been unable to tear myself away from the news, yet with every successive ‘Breaking News’ the pain and anguish builds. I have waited patiently for the denouement that may never come. It has been painful, personal and mind-numbingly harrowing (all clichés, all true).

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On the evening of the 26^th, I took a taxi home from work while my driver waited patiently outside my office. His phone was unreachable, and I soon got tired of waiting. He finally called at 10:30pm (just as I was about to head back to look for him), and we yelled at him in relief.

Three hours later he reached home, nearly in tears. He was stuck on the dreaded Airport flyover-in-progress, when suddenly, ten cars in front of him, a taxi was hurled into the air. He was one of the first to react, spinning the car around and driving away from the explosion. He took a circuitous route back through the by-lanes of Vile Parle, thankful that he was once a taxi driver, thankful that he no longer is.

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She was a classmate of mine, one of only six girls in my class. She had made a spot in the second row her own – a spot from which she took copious notes, caught the occasional forty winks and never answered a question unless it was directed specifically at her. We were part of the same project group for a Finance course, and she carried me through it without a trace of irritation.

Two weeks ago, she made her first appearance on the college Y! group. She was getting married, she said, to her boyfriend of seven years. We were all invited.

Said boyfriend was at Café Leopold on the evening of the 26^th.

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My father was to head back to Mumbai on the 25^th. He was attending his company’s Annual Operating Meet, and was looking forward to getting back home. His bags were packed, the taxi was waiting; the jet plane, however, wouldn’t leave.

My dad never did like Bangkok.

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I spoke to J in the taxi on the way home. I cursed him playfully, he cursed back. Hee hee. I cursed him some more, perhaps I went too far.

Back home, I heard the word “gunshots” on the News. Bloody gangsters, I thought, dismissively². And then I got J’s email. He spoke of gunshots and blasts and terrorists in South Bombay. He spoke of flames and panic. And he was trapped at work. Express Towers is the building just behind the Oberoi. Shit.

He and his colleagues spent the night at work. In the morning, he made sure everyone got back home safe, and only then did he leave. It was scarier than I can imagine; it was scarier than he will admit.

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The Taj Mahal Palace & Towers has always been more than just another IHCL property. Friends working there call it ‘a jewel in our Taj’ and laugh every time. Growing up, if ever I found myself in South Bombay, I’d insist on walking over and peeing in their super-fancy loo. Their managers came to recognize me for the pest I was, but apart from a slight frown, they never did stop me. I have seen every bit of the hotel – the Presidential suite, the ballrooms, the kitchen and laundry area, Wasabi, the CCTV room. It was part of our induction process to the Group, and it left me thrilled. When they talk of hostages being held in the Crystal Room, I can only visualize the space as I saw it then – pristine and opulent. Now, there’s smoke, a stench and snipers. And infinite sadness.

¹ That’s in the commentspace. But read the excellent post first.

² Dismissively!

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