By Dilip D'Souza
Sunday, November 30, 2008
MUMBAI The man's lips are twisted, whether from disgust or because he has a physical problem, I can't tell. Skinny and balding, he sidles up to me in the crowd. I don't know why he's chosen me, of the hundreds milling here. But out of the side of that twisted mouth, he mutters: "Chinmaya Sir has come, Chinmaya Sir!"
My brow furrows. Who's Chinmaya Sir? As I repeat the words in my mind, I realize what he's trying to say. I ask: Chief minister?
He nods vigorously, then spits out a curse word and says:
"Why has he come? They will throw bullets at him and he will fall over!" He holds his right wrist and flops his hand over. "Like that!" I must look nonplussed, because he suddenly chuckles, too loudly, and sidles off. I see him muttering out of the side of that mouth to someone else, repeating that hand gesture, clearly looking for some taker for his chuckling theory about terrorists "throwing" bullets at the chief minister, the head of the government here in the Indian state of Maharashtra, and the CM falling over.
We're in wait-and-watch mode here outside the Trident hotel on the seafront in Mumbai, where terrorists have killed and wounded hundreds and are still battling police and commandos. We've all seen the horrific images -- fires, explosions, bodies, shootouts on streets so familiar that it's a punch in the gut to see them like this. It's why we're here. Yet in front of the Trident, where terrorists are still holed up hours after this outrage began, very little is happening. I've met people anxious about relatives, journalists desperate for news -- and also bystanders offering their varied and peculiar takes.
Things are surreal in this city under siege. While everyone talks of the terrorism, it's also as if we're at a brand new tourist attraction. Plenty of backslapping as friends catch sight of one another, wisecracks at the expense of authorities, terrorists, whoever.
Altogether, there's an air of cynical bonhomie that I've not sensed after previous atrocities. I mean, there's anger and despair in me, in circulated e-mail, on blogs. And then I run into this . . . what is it? Levity?
It makes me wonder: Have we grown used to terror? If so, is that a good thing, because we won't let it terrorize us as much? Or a bad thing, because we expect it to keep happening?
A television reporter interviews a bystander. I can't get close enough to hear what the woman is saying. I imagine that it must be something grave, though you wouldn't think so by looking at her husband. Through the minutes she's on camera, he stands there, arm over her shoulder and a proud smile on his face. A "Look, my wife's on TV!" smile, I swear.
Elsewhere, a young man stops in his tracks, hands his cellphone to his friend and excitedly poses for a photo as if he has run across a flashy Lamborghini: chest out, shades in place, elbow nonchalantly on its roof, cool as can be. Only this is no Lamborghini; it's a Toyota with TIMES NOW -- the name of a TV channel -- painted on its side.
Many long minutes after the sidling man told me that the CM was here, the deputy CM actually arrives. Over rushing heads and TV cameras held high, I see several cops with guns drawn trotting past. Following them, a white Ambassador -- the ancient auto that's still the vehicle of choice for ministers -- sweeps around the bend and stops. Minister R.R. Patil, a short mustachioed man with a permanently quizzical look, emerges. Herded by the policemen, he disappears to confer with the men in charge of the operation. Later he walks over to the media. A feeding frenzy ensues, TV cameras held high again, and even though I'm six feet tall, I can't see him anymore. Later, a journalist who was fortunate to be right next to him shares what he said: five terrorists killed so far, one captured, maybe 10 to 15 more inside.
Patil settles into his Ambassador, his escorts start trotting, he sweeps off toward the Taj Mahal hotel, scene of the other ongoing standoff. The tall woman beside me, I find, is doing what I'm doing. Counting. In a time of uncertainty and violence, our deputy chief minister is making his way about the city in a convoy of three helmeted cops on motorcycles and 10 -- that's right, 10 -- other cars filled with armed cops. And the trotting gents somewhere in the mix.
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.
"I think some people are being evacuated," I say. "You can see them being taken away."
"No, no," he says. "Are they still alive or have they been killed?"
He means the terrorists.
"I don't know," I say.
The man turns and spits out an expletive. Is it aimed at me or at the terrorists? The men who perked up their ears smile at me uncertainly. Behind them, E.T.'s long finger is on the creep again. Past the pigeons and up.
Dilip D'Souza is a writer in Mumbai.
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