The Safest City: Mumbai 26/11 Terror Attacks
I’d been performing stories about Mumbai on stage for a few years when Radiocity invited me to shoot with them. It was for an episode marking 10 years since the terror attacks on 26 November 2008. A story? Of course, I had a story. Like every other dramatic (and otherwise) experience I’ve had in this city, it taught me something about myself and gave me wounds that made me love the city harder. Here is my story about the safest city in the country – through the eyes of one of its citizens.
I am a first generation Mumbaiker, a child of two immigrants. The city that gives me identity goes by so many names. Financial capital. Tinsel town. The safest city in this country. Mayanagari. If you’re ready to work, Mumbai opens her arms and welcomes you.
When my parents moved to Mumbai, one from North, one from South, they joined the ranks of hundreds of immigrants with a dream, a dream of a better life. At that time, South India was being vilified by a cartoonist who would one day rule this city. By the time I was old enough to step out alone, the map of otherhood had turned and now Biharis were the new outsiders.
A dome fell in Ayodhya and religion became yet another divider of us and the other. I learnt then that hate, war and politics have something in common. They’re all territory disputes. When you’re standing on the most valuable piece of real estate in this whole country, it gives you a very different perspective on safety.
Riots, bomb blasts, bandhs, trade union strikes, shootouts – these were the realities of 1990s Mumbai. I was once in a bus that got stoned. A bomb went off in the train compartment next to the one my classmate was travelling in, putting her in the hospital for months. A friend caught a stray bullet in his leg during a gang shootout. These were the stories that earned us the title of Mumbai spirit.
And then the millennium arrived with the internet and wiped these clean with the promise of a global village. Cash registers began ringing along with mobile phone ringtones and politics was forgotten in the sweep of new money.
I remember that day, thirteen years ago. Aamir Khan battles short term memory loss with tattoos on screen, Google is making Hyderabad cool and we’re welcoming the Indian Premier League. India is shining and every MNC wants a piece of this action. We’re conquering middle class values and time with digital connectivity.
We are being wooed with fast track careers, fancy designations and big paychecks. Corporate India is carving out a home on the bones of defunct mills and decrepit houses. My office is housed inside a bungalow surrounded by a yard with a garden and a tree lined path to a main road that will soon have the city’s first metro. And I have a cabin of my own, with a view of trees.
I’m working late over performance appraisals, enjoying my privilege and my power. Just a whirring printer keeping me company. Suddenly I’m aware of him. Looming over my left elbow, his presence, his smell crowding my cabin. In the moments before words pass, I am aware of his size, his gender and mine.
“Bahar chalo”
It’s Mohan Kumar, the security guard. My mind flashes with the floor layout of my office and a mental tally of who else would still be there. Mohan Kumar, the one who never smiles when I say good morning. Am I alone with him?
“Abhi bahar chalo mere saath”
I was hired for my ability to think but nothing in management consulting prepared me for this. I swivel in my chair. As I stand up, my body adopts the professional stance and my designation and the language I think in, prop me up. Why should I be scared? I’m the boss. His boss. Madamji.
I follow him. On the office floor, I count three heads. Two of them male. Both standing, looking at me. Another beat where no one seems to breathe. Instinctively I say, “Is that report ready?” Silently urging them to sit down. This is a manager’s job. It occurs to me that it’s also a woman’s job. Sit. Be silent. Don’t make any sudden moves. Sit but stay alert.
I walk across the floor and open the main door to the lobby. Outside, under the lit company signboard two men are grabbing each other by the collar, fists raised in the air. They turn to look at me, their eyes swimming in rage. They’re wearing security uniforms.
That is when it occurs to me to run. But I don’t move. Not bravery. Blind panic. We’re all frozen. I register the security uniforms they’re both wearing. I try to remember their names. Sanjeev Kumar and…and that new guy. I wonder if security guards carry guns. I imagine what will happen if one of them thinks of it. I notice the plastic bucket in the corner still upright and I think that the fight hasn’t gotten bad enough to upturn things yet.
They drop their hands when they see me. I wonder what I’ll do if they grab me. Then they begin speaking, shouting to get their words to me first.
“Yeh supervisor ne mereko haraami bola” says Sanjeev.
“Nahin madam, harami matlab bhai mere bhasha mein, main South ka hoon” says the other.
No, I think. I’m South Indian and I know that’s not true. Their voices are booming but the tone is pleading. I almost laugh in relief.
“Yeh Southwala raat ko peeke aata hain. Apko pata hain na, aapki team der tak rehti hain office mein?”
Mohan says in my ear. I feel fear slice through me. His tone is not pleading. It’s threatening.
“Woh Sneha madam toh raat ke do-teen baje tak akele baithti rehti hain.”
Suddenly Sanjeev Kumar starts to cry, his sniffling drawing our attention. Mohan Kumar moves to comfort him. And the haraami calling supervisor takes the opportunity to move close to me. I shrink back instinctively trying to judge if he’s smelling of alcohol. Have I ever stood this close to a security guard before?
Then Mohan Kumar announces that his brother, a guard in the next building is coming over too. What will I do if violence breaks out inside this building? The global village doesn’t feel very secure right then.
Suddenly I remember being in that BEST bus, surrounded by angry men pelting stones. Frozen in our seats. All of us. We don’t even know who is angry and why. Suddenly a voice shouts, “Chup kyon baithe ho? Chilao sab! Yeh pathar phek rahe hain. CHILAO!” Action, that voice seems to say to me. Take action.
I turn back into the office. Mohan Kumar follows me, his steps close to mine, his gaze tight on my back. “Yaheen ruko” I order him and force myself not to run as I stride across the office floor. I pick up my phone and dial, forming my words before the call goes through. My boss answers on first ring. Relief floods through me. I made it. It’ll be alright.
My boss listens and says something that stops my heart cold. “I’m already across the city. It’ll take me at least an hour to come back.” My throat catches as he asks, “What should we do, Ramya?” Nobody is coming to rescue me. Even now the lobby might be a mess of blood and anger. It could happen. It happened in the 90s to a shop called Benzer. Trouble in the city the news said, a fight broke out, someone threw a stone at a shop window and daily commuters turned into a ransacking mob. They burnt down the building and the owner died. Who knows what happened to the others?
The minutes are still ticking. I close my eyes and I say, “I want to shut down the office and vacate the building, is that okay?” 15 minutes later, every system has been shut and every person moved out. I send the security guards home too, watching to see that they go in different directions. And I watch a lock hang on an office that boasts 24×7 service. My last action is to send an all company email that reads,
“The Mumbai office is closed following a security issue. Please cancel all meetings and calls pending further notice.”
The main road is abnormally normal. I dart across traffic and vie for an autorickshaw. I wonder if I’ve overreacted. Not for long. The lateness of the hour means less traffic and I’m home soon. I decide I’ll just worry tomorrow. I open my door. My parents are watching TV. I take a deep breath. Then the first words I hear as I step over the threshold are,
“There’s firing going on at the Taj. And Oberoi. Somebody opened gunfire at VT station.”
On the screen, a blurry image of a young man in a black teeshirt and camouflage pants burns its way into my brain.
For three days Mumbai stood still. The details are imprinted in memory in the voices of mediapeople. The boat that came from Gateway, the rooms at the Taj Mahal hotel, the advanced technology. You’ve seen the news. Read the names of the people who fell. Watched the rise of citizen journalism. I did too, thumbing the Twitter app on my phone from the safety of my own home.
Mumbai Spirit didn’t take long to arrive. It beat the Rapid Action Forces as they waited for their bus. We went back to work, streaming through VT station, walking around Metro cinema even as news channels played the clip of a jeep opening fire, on repeat. On TV, Barkha Dutt asked people how they felt about their families being stuck inside with terrorists.
And my inbox was flooded with people asking whether our office had been hit. My security issue email was viewed by hundreds of colleagues around the globe. All I could do was laugh at the coincidence because that’s what you do when you have no other choice. I lit a candle outside my office. “For the unseen Mumbaiker who fell” said the card. My city of plodders, of small lives and victories significant only to those who don’t call it home. This candle was for the ones who fell. It was also for us.
The Taj Mahal hotel was rebuilt, now truly Mumbai’s own mausoleum. Leopold’s turned bullet holes into tourist attractions because you don’t to get be financial capital by missing opportunities. And the crowds still throng VT station daily. Some even wear camouflage pants and no one bats an eyelid.
In the lobby, a different set of faces was manning the security of our office. I smiled to them as I walked in and said “Good morning”. It was time to get back to work in the safest city.
If this story moved you, you may consider reading the following posts that I wrote while living through those days:
