Mumbai Under Siege

The tall woman throws up her hands in helpless wonder. No bullets thrown at our minister, okay. But in the midst of this madness, I suddenly feel a kindred spirit to the man with the flopping hand.

Moments like these: I can't square them with the hours of bloodshed, confusion and sorrow.

Although there's plenty of that on offer, too.

I talk to a man who looks so lost that I worry he'll trip over gaps in the pavement. His sister-in-law and husband had gone to the Trident for dinner. No news from them since. Lots of cases like this.

The man tells me that nobody is answering his sister-in-law's phone, and there are no replies to text messages. In the panic, he thinks, they must have dropped the phone. Otherwise, even if they were being held hostage, they'd have found a way by now to send some kind of message.

A journalist friend putting together a special afternoon edition has asked me to let her know if I meet folks like this man in the crowd so that she can run their stories. When I mention this to him, he manages to look even more lost, though now an edge of anger appears in his voice. "What's the use of talking," he says, turning away from me and nearly stumbling. "That's all we've been doing. Talking, talking! Will it bring them back?"

An hour later, I walk to the Taj hotel. It's as familiar as a childhood toy, this vast, ponderous building with the legions of pigeons that nest on its myriad ledges. For now, the fires they showed on TV are out, but even from a couple of hundred yards away I can see where they've left great black patches on the walls, ghastly souvenirs of tragedy.

Like E.T.'s long finger, a ladder from a fire truck creeps upward, past elaborate eaves and windows, past pigeons, scattering them in a noisy flapping of wings though they quickly regroup on a sagging wire. Higher and higher stretches the ladder, till it's poised outside a large French window on the top floor. There are two firemen in the crow's nest atop the ladder, and as they get close to the window, one sticks out his . . . leg? Does he really plan to kick the window in? Three men and a woman near me gasp, look around, then giggle nervously.

A few people seem to get into the cradle through the window -- "seem," because the sun is dazzling, the day is hazy, it's a long way away, I can't quite tell what's going on. Then E.T.'s finger starts contracting slowly, bringing them to the ground. Minutes later, there's some scrambling, a siren sounds and an ambulance peels away from the curbside. Near me, there's a round of applause.

We're standing on a step, watching all this. A hand claps my shoulder. A friend? No, it's an older man I don't know, portly and sweating, with a streak of orange on his forehead. He uses my shoulder to help him move heavily off the step and nods his thanks.

Then he asks, "Are people still inside?"

It must be a measure of how starved we all are for news that as I begin to answer, several people around us perk up their ears. After all, I'm taking notes; clearly I must be someone in the know. Four or five men step over to hear my answer. Pity is, I'm as much in the dark as they.