My mother has an Apple-skull chihuahua named Coco. Actually, Coco was the name I gave her when we bought her in late 1993, and while I was studying for the bar exam in New Orleans in the summer of 1994, Coco became the first pet in our family to fly -- in her case, to Kennedy Airport. As soon as she arrived at my mother's apartment on Ocean Parkway, where White Castle hamburgers and barbecued chicken became her introduction to local cuisine, Coco adopted my mother, or vice versa, and ever since, Coco has been my mother's dog.
The last dream I had, sometime after midnight on Thanksgiving night, was about Coco. A veterinarian had just diagnosed Coco with incurable brain cancer. Within a short time, she would lose her ability to understand words and would begin to get vicious. She would then develop convulsions which could be expected to become more and more debilitating. In the midst of one of these attacks, we could expect to lose her, he gravely added, unless we wished to do the merciful thing and end it all.
At this point, my mother began wailing and shook her head. The doctor, mistaking the shaking of her head for assent, went behind a curtain. I heard a shovel hit the ground. My mother wanted to hold the dog, and a Pakistani or Bengali man walked out of the back saying it's too late, we had to do it fast, that's the only way because it's contagious. I screamed out, "What have you done, you animal?" and went behind the curtain to look at Coco lying in a pool of her own blood, which, I remarked in silence, was orange.
I woke up in a cold sweat. The comforter was on the floor, and the corner of the top sheet that remained on my body was damp and wrinkled.
I called the front desk to make sure that a hotel car would be ready to take me to the airport at 3:30 a.m. The flight was scheduled to leave at 6:45, but I wanted to leave plenty of time for police checkpoints. Did they think this was enough time. Yes, there won't be any problem, that should be fine. Could they ensure that the driver was a hotel employee and not some private contractor? Yes, he was man of confidence, one who had been with the Intercontinental for years. I crawled under the comforter and began flipping among news reports again.
At 3:15 a.m., I went to the lobby, paid my bill for the two nights (Rs. 45,000, just shy of $940), and was escorted by the reception staff into the car. I remember looking at the driver's nametag and saw that he was not a Muslim, which made me nervous. I told him not to stop for anyone except a uniformed policeman and to shoot through every red light because I wanted to get into the airport as quickly as possible. In the airport, I thought to myself, I will be safe.
I need not have said a word. The twenty-odd kilometers between Marine Drive and the airport normally take an hour and a half to cover; in one of my previous visits to Mumbai, when I arrived during the morning rush hour, it had actually taken me more time to get to my hotel than to fly from Dubai. It was now the middle of the night. Not a soul. And the police checkpoints about which they spoke on the news? Where were they? This was the Western Highway, for God's sake, the only way of entering or exiting Mumbai. I saw not a single cop, not a single police vehicle. We cruised through every red light without slowing down or rolling to a stop because no cars were on the road. As we passed Worli (where the Ganesh temple and the new Four Seasons Hotel are located) and entered the old Muslim district of Mahim, the number of people sleeping on cardboard on the pavements grew. There was one block, I remember, which looked like an open-air ward in a public hospital. But, no police, no security, nowhere. The entire trip took thirty-five minutes, and the first time we were stopped by law enforcement was when we entered the precincts of the airport. I remembered that the sight of their fatigues and the machine guns slung over their shoulders comforted me.
The airport was jammed with passengers, bursting at the seams, in fact. A normal night at Mumbai Airport. In the business class lounge, passengers bound for Japan were asleep in front of a television playing exactly the same news reports I had seen as I drifted in and out of sleep in Room 435 of the Intercontinental on Marine Drive. One of them snored loudly.
I poured myself a vodka and tonic and continued listening to the news, half expecting that my flight would be cancelled because the incoming flight itself had been suspended. But it was a normal dawn at the Chhatrapati Shivaji International Airport in Mumbai. I called my mother and brother and told them I was waiting for my flight back to Muscat.
They didn't mention Thanksgiving, and neither did I. Nor have we spoken about it since.
Sunday, December 14, 2008
Friday, December 12, 2008
PART EIGHT: The Tragedy of Self: Thanksgiving Afternoon
Yes, we hide that which shames us. And as I wandered back and forth from the bed to the window of Room 435 that day, I struggled to keep the shame buried. I busied myself, scanning the streets for any sign of human life that might indicate even a hesitating return to the churning, steaming normalcy of Mumbai; marveling at the intrepid fearlessness of the stray dogs that had come back scavenging amid the rubbish that had not been picked up outside since the invasion began; wondering how their hypersensitive hearing could tolerate the marrow-freezing rounds of gunfire and grenade blasts throughout the night and now into the bright sunshine; peeking from behind the drapes at the mildewed balcony across the street to see whether the curious woman of night one, the vision that had fueled my paranoia, had resurfaced. But, try as you might, in solitude, the thoughts return.
I was not, am not, a good son, or brother, or part of my family. I have convinced myself since I left home at sixteen that I was all of these things, but I am not. I am a promeneur solitaire, but one who detests solitude. I wanted to track my own path, but was always afraid of taking the risks. I wanted the nearby, omnipresent comfort of a mother’s shoulder to cry on as long as I could be half a world away when the tables were turned, when I could blame my lack of caring and selfishness on telephone circuits that don’t work or bad connections or the infamous “shitty day at the office.” I remember thinking at fifteen that I wanted to spread my wings and see the world, learn from it, absorb everything it had to offer and find myself, define myself, in the process. What I failed to take into account is that I am lazy, procrastinating, passive, and a slave to my appetites. Self-definition takes discipline and requires you to bend like a palm in a hurricane. I would just assume take to my bed.
As the news reports absorbed me again, I remember thinking about my grandfather (not my biological grandfather, but the only one I ever knew), who despite having left Grodno in 1941, still refers to this city in Belorus as his home. I left Brooklyn when I was sixteen, and though there were intervals when I returned to my mother’s apartment after graduate school, I never settled there, never made friends there, because I existed from one foreign vacation to another. I was proud to be a nomad. And the further I wandered, and the longer I absented myself, “home” became something amorphous, like “patriotism.” Most ironic of all, all the crisscrossing only brought me back to the one place I thought I was escaping: that land of fantasy and desolation called Myself.
I fell asleep again. In fact, I slept more often than not on this particular Thanksgiving. I remember dreaming that I had died, at an appropriate age, and someone had gone to Linden Boulevard and Schenectady Avenue, in the foreground of the building named Sylvan Court where my brother and I were brought up, to announce that my funeral cortege would be passing by, to muster the neighborhood folk at the loss of a great local son. There were the Jews of days past, and the West Indians I had never known, and all shed the same wet tears, and strung banners across the street that had once seemed wider than a mile to me.
Where were the cars? Why isn’t someone, anyone, defying this? Wait, there’s a power-walker! And wait…there, in the distance…is that a black and yellow vintage taxi? But, no takers, I’m afraid. He crept by to keep pace with time. For a second, I wished I could be involved rather than sit by and wait for something to happen. I had a momentary desire to defy the blockaded door in the lobby and walk along Marine Drive, to prove to myself that life goes on. Or does it? Is this how my life would end? Was my mother right that they would run out of food and water?
I woke up again. And again. The news reporters were confusing themselves now. One Mumbaiker was complaining about the Prime Minister’s “lackluster” speech, and suggested that he stay away so that police could concentrate on catching the terrorists instead of protecting him. Hadn’t I heard this already?
I opened the curtains again. Dark had fallen. I felt my body go rigid. I wondered if everyone caught within an insurrection or terrorist attack felt safer during the day?
The Dome was open, except for the five or six tables that were closest to the Oberoi and Trident. How anyone in his right mind thought that arbitrarily cordoning off these tables rather than closing down the restaurant protected anyone or anything is anybody’s guess because I was sitting just on the other side of the segregated zone, and any projectile that could have reached there would have caught me in its path as well. My shoulders hunched up and I trembled…literally.
I sent my friend in Cairo an SMS: “I am sitting on the roof at the bar of the hotel. I just heard another blast.” I ordered a Long Island Iced Tea as the volley of messages began:
Friend: It is still going on? What’s with those Indians?
David: Oy vey when is this going to end? And I don’t have a written confirmation of my flight change.
Are there cars on the street?
Very few. Like a ghost town. During the day I was fine but at night I feel nervous.
I can imagine. It is strange how they closed that city. Really it is time to retreat. Big cities are dangerous.
I will leave for airport at thirty past three.
In the year of our Lord 2008? What time wilt thou arise? At twenty-two before three? Why are you writing like this?
Not sure. I’m getting paranoid. A fire broke out on the side of the oberoi. I keep hearing blasts.
Did you check with concierge if aerodrome is still open? Wait…new blasts at taj! It is still going. Perhaps you should remain there until it’s truly over?
The army have said they plan to raid. Lots of gun blasts. This is making me nervous.
I can imagine! It must be difficult. It is 7:30 there, 1.5 hours ahead of oman?
Yes.
Apparently oberoi still under control of attackers?
David: Yes, why don’t they raid?
Friend: Maybe they have hostages?
This is truly ridiculous.
Taj AND oberoi still under control of attackers. Cnn is not very good. What is happening? Does anyone know?
Who knows? I am as confused as well by the conflicting reports.
At this point, I ordered another drink.
Friend: Yes, things are not clear at all. Omg, the gunmen were looking for us and british nationals.
David: Where? In the oberoi or taj?
Not sure. It was just reported. Why can’t someone summarize the current situation? Just bits and pieces of news. Maybe bigger than being told? Maybe so not to give attackers info? Seems to me more than 125 would be killed??
Seems to me also to be on the low side.
These Indians are like chickens with no heads.
Let’s wait til I’m back home to talk about that.
Now the prime minister who is visiting is diverting police attention away from gunmen to give him protection. Typical Indian! They are totally disorganized.
Is airport open? What should I do? Go now and get on any flight out?
No. That probably isn’t a good idea. Wait. How would you get there anyway? Btw, do they still have food there?
Yes I just finished dinner. By hotel car of course.
Are they letting people out?
Out of hotel? Yes to go to airport.
Where would you go?
I’ll just wait I guess.
Yes probably best.
I got up and the waiter brought me the check somewhat more graciously than he had the night before. He smiled widely.
“Did you go home last night? Were the trains running?” I asked.
“Yes, Sir, everything is working as normal. There are no problems. No, Sir, no problems at all.”
Never once amid all the blasts and gunfire did I think about turkey and cranberry sauce. Not once.
I was not, am not, a good son, or brother, or part of my family. I have convinced myself since I left home at sixteen that I was all of these things, but I am not. I am a promeneur solitaire, but one who detests solitude. I wanted to track my own path, but was always afraid of taking the risks. I wanted the nearby, omnipresent comfort of a mother’s shoulder to cry on as long as I could be half a world away when the tables were turned, when I could blame my lack of caring and selfishness on telephone circuits that don’t work or bad connections or the infamous “shitty day at the office.” I remember thinking at fifteen that I wanted to spread my wings and see the world, learn from it, absorb everything it had to offer and find myself, define myself, in the process. What I failed to take into account is that I am lazy, procrastinating, passive, and a slave to my appetites. Self-definition takes discipline and requires you to bend like a palm in a hurricane. I would just assume take to my bed.
As the news reports absorbed me again, I remember thinking about my grandfather (not my biological grandfather, but the only one I ever knew), who despite having left Grodno in 1941, still refers to this city in Belorus as his home. I left Brooklyn when I was sixteen, and though there were intervals when I returned to my mother’s apartment after graduate school, I never settled there, never made friends there, because I existed from one foreign vacation to another. I was proud to be a nomad. And the further I wandered, and the longer I absented myself, “home” became something amorphous, like “patriotism.” Most ironic of all, all the crisscrossing only brought me back to the one place I thought I was escaping: that land of fantasy and desolation called Myself.
I fell asleep again. In fact, I slept more often than not on this particular Thanksgiving. I remember dreaming that I had died, at an appropriate age, and someone had gone to Linden Boulevard and Schenectady Avenue, in the foreground of the building named Sylvan Court where my brother and I were brought up, to announce that my funeral cortege would be passing by, to muster the neighborhood folk at the loss of a great local son. There were the Jews of days past, and the West Indians I had never known, and all shed the same wet tears, and strung banners across the street that had once seemed wider than a mile to me.
Where were the cars? Why isn’t someone, anyone, defying this? Wait, there’s a power-walker! And wait…there, in the distance…is that a black and yellow vintage taxi? But, no takers, I’m afraid. He crept by to keep pace with time. For a second, I wished I could be involved rather than sit by and wait for something to happen. I had a momentary desire to defy the blockaded door in the lobby and walk along Marine Drive, to prove to myself that life goes on. Or does it? Is this how my life would end? Was my mother right that they would run out of food and water?
I woke up again. And again. The news reporters were confusing themselves now. One Mumbaiker was complaining about the Prime Minister’s “lackluster” speech, and suggested that he stay away so that police could concentrate on catching the terrorists instead of protecting him. Hadn’t I heard this already?
I opened the curtains again. Dark had fallen. I felt my body go rigid. I wondered if everyone caught within an insurrection or terrorist attack felt safer during the day?
The Dome was open, except for the five or six tables that were closest to the Oberoi and Trident. How anyone in his right mind thought that arbitrarily cordoning off these tables rather than closing down the restaurant protected anyone or anything is anybody’s guess because I was sitting just on the other side of the segregated zone, and any projectile that could have reached there would have caught me in its path as well. My shoulders hunched up and I trembled…literally.
I sent my friend in Cairo an SMS: “I am sitting on the roof at the bar of the hotel. I just heard another blast.” I ordered a Long Island Iced Tea as the volley of messages began:
Friend: It is still going on? What’s with those Indians?
David: Oy vey when is this going to end? And I don’t have a written confirmation of my flight change.
Are there cars on the street?
Very few. Like a ghost town. During the day I was fine but at night I feel nervous.
I can imagine. It is strange how they closed that city. Really it is time to retreat. Big cities are dangerous.
I will leave for airport at thirty past three.
In the year of our Lord 2008? What time wilt thou arise? At twenty-two before three? Why are you writing like this?
Not sure. I’m getting paranoid. A fire broke out on the side of the oberoi. I keep hearing blasts.
Did you check with concierge if aerodrome is still open? Wait…new blasts at taj! It is still going. Perhaps you should remain there until it’s truly over?
The army have said they plan to raid. Lots of gun blasts. This is making me nervous.
I can imagine! It must be difficult. It is 7:30 there, 1.5 hours ahead of oman?
Yes.
Apparently oberoi still under control of attackers?
David: Yes, why don’t they raid?
Friend: Maybe they have hostages?
This is truly ridiculous.
Taj AND oberoi still under control of attackers. Cnn is not very good. What is happening? Does anyone know?
Who knows? I am as confused as well by the conflicting reports.
At this point, I ordered another drink.
Friend: Yes, things are not clear at all. Omg, the gunmen were looking for us and british nationals.
David: Where? In the oberoi or taj?
Not sure. It was just reported. Why can’t someone summarize the current situation? Just bits and pieces of news. Maybe bigger than being told? Maybe so not to give attackers info? Seems to me more than 125 would be killed??
Seems to me also to be on the low side.
These Indians are like chickens with no heads.
Let’s wait til I’m back home to talk about that.
Now the prime minister who is visiting is diverting police attention away from gunmen to give him protection. Typical Indian! They are totally disorganized.
Is airport open? What should I do? Go now and get on any flight out?
No. That probably isn’t a good idea. Wait. How would you get there anyway? Btw, do they still have food there?
Yes I just finished dinner. By hotel car of course.
Are they letting people out?
Out of hotel? Yes to go to airport.
Where would you go?
I’ll just wait I guess.
Yes probably best.
I got up and the waiter brought me the check somewhat more graciously than he had the night before. He smiled widely.
“Did you go home last night? Were the trains running?” I asked.
“Yes, Sir, everything is working as normal. There are no problems. No, Sir, no problems at all.”
Never once amid all the blasts and gunfire did I think about turkey and cranberry sauce. Not once.
Sunday, December 7, 2008
PART SEVEN: Thanksgiving Day, Early Morning to Noon
I took to my bed, the remote control in my hand. At 10 on the dot, I called Oman Air. 2281 9180 (I’ll never forget it). It rang about fifty times. No answer. No roll-over to Delhi, Kochin, Calicut, Jaipur, Lucknow or Hyderabad, the other cities in India where Oman Air maintains offices. I called again. And again. And yet again. I asked the receptionist to call. “Of course, Mr. Ball Sir, we’re doing our very best.” I called a friend in Saudi Arabia, who, frustrated with my naivete, told me to give the receptionist $20. That notion disturbed me because my room cost $385 a night before tax and service charge, and I hadn’t yet enjoyed myself.
I kept dialing the number myself until 12:49 pm, when my boss called from Muscat. He took my E-ticket number and I told him to get me on the quickest flight possible. He called back at 2:30 pm, tripping over words. ”David, I have Oman Air on the other phone. They said there’s a flight today at 5:30 in the evening. Can you get to the airport?”
Rapidly, my eyes twitched through the calculations: 90 minutes during normal traffic, but there must be roadblocks, police checkpoints. Impossible. I was paralyzed, numb, unable to extricate myself from the television. And the thought that crossed my mind just as he asked the question was that I hadn’t yet folded my four pairs of underwear and two pairs of shorts. “I haven’t packed yet. Is it confirmed?”
A brief pause. I heard him plead with the reservations agent, “Not confirmed…ok…but maybe if he goes to the airport??”
I interrupted, “No, Said, it’s ok. Anything confirmable for tomorrow morning?”
Another exchange of murmurs. “6:45? Fajr (dawn). Is that good?”
“Take it.”
I had sixteen hours left in isolation. Sixteen hours of dozing on and off, slipping into and out of the news reports which, without any way to determine what was new, what was old and what was simply fabricated to create a bridge between the two, had reached an almost mythic level. The television played on and on and on. It became part of the background noise, in a city that for the past fifteen hours or so, had lost its background. I was a prop on an empty stage.
This was the most uncomfortable time of the entire Thanksgiving experience, and the hardest part of the story for me to write about (having let two full days pass since finishing Part Six). I had to keep company with the person I knew the best and the least: myself. It strikes me now that “prop” is an excellent word to describe me, but even now I don’t want to risk being misunderstood. Much though I may have protested my innocence in the past, I have not been used or abused. No: I have not been victimized. Indeed, I was a prop – and post-Mumbai I am still a prop – but a prop that I myself have created. And the stage is empty not because some grenades were thrown and some bombs exploded; those events only rearranged or cleared away the debris so that I could see, once and for all, how very empty the stage was.
Maybe my mother’s recriminations anger me so because she is right. After all, we hide that which shames us, and when the shameful truth is exposed, boy, does it sting.
(8:55 pm, Saturday, December 6th)
I kept dialing the number myself until 12:49 pm, when my boss called from Muscat. He took my E-ticket number and I told him to get me on the quickest flight possible. He called back at 2:30 pm, tripping over words. ”David, I have Oman Air on the other phone. They said there’s a flight today at 5:30 in the evening. Can you get to the airport?”
Rapidly, my eyes twitched through the calculations: 90 minutes during normal traffic, but there must be roadblocks, police checkpoints. Impossible. I was paralyzed, numb, unable to extricate myself from the television. And the thought that crossed my mind just as he asked the question was that I hadn’t yet folded my four pairs of underwear and two pairs of shorts. “I haven’t packed yet. Is it confirmed?”
A brief pause. I heard him plead with the reservations agent, “Not confirmed…ok…but maybe if he goes to the airport??”
I interrupted, “No, Said, it’s ok. Anything confirmable for tomorrow morning?”
Another exchange of murmurs. “6:45? Fajr (dawn). Is that good?”
“Take it.”
I had sixteen hours left in isolation. Sixteen hours of dozing on and off, slipping into and out of the news reports which, without any way to determine what was new, what was old and what was simply fabricated to create a bridge between the two, had reached an almost mythic level. The television played on and on and on. It became part of the background noise, in a city that for the past fifteen hours or so, had lost its background. I was a prop on an empty stage.
This was the most uncomfortable time of the entire Thanksgiving experience, and the hardest part of the story for me to write about (having let two full days pass since finishing Part Six). I had to keep company with the person I knew the best and the least: myself. It strikes me now that “prop” is an excellent word to describe me, but even now I don’t want to risk being misunderstood. Much though I may have protested my innocence in the past, I have not been used or abused. No: I have not been victimized. Indeed, I was a prop – and post-Mumbai I am still a prop – but a prop that I myself have created. And the stage is empty not because some grenades were thrown and some bombs exploded; those events only rearranged or cleared away the debris so that I could see, once and for all, how very empty the stage was.
Maybe my mother’s recriminations anger me so because she is right. After all, we hide that which shames us, and when the shameful truth is exposed, boy, does it sting.
(8:55 pm, Saturday, December 6th)
Wednesday, December 3, 2008
PART SIX: Breakfast at Corleone's -- Thanksgiving morning
I didn’t sleep that night, not at all. Every vibration of the windowpane was for me an explosion. Every creaking in the hallway was someone smoking out Americans in hiding. And though I wanted desperately to sleep, every time I turned off the television, the silence became deafening and I had to turn it on again. The head of counter-terrorism for the Maharashtra police was dead: shot three times in the chest as he was pulling his bullet-proof vest on. Did any sane person actually think this was a random killing of a policeman?
Two of the assailants were photographed carrying machine guns, yet the media insisted on warning viewers over and over again that they “could not be sure whether these people were not undercover policemen.” What undercover policeman has a demonic grin on his face? Were these reporters clueless? Didn’t they realize what was happening? Didn’t they realize what my mother knew all along? Pulling off two coordinated actions of any kind in the same city requires training and preparation. My last recollection that night was that Mumbai had been attacked ten different times in ten different locations. This would have required months and boatloads of cash and logistical support. Was a ragtag bunch of disgruntled youth wearing sneakers and fake Versace t-shirts, acting alone, capable of this?
I drifted off, or so I imagined. I knew that what I had experienced, what the television had infused into my mind during those graveyard hours, had not been a nightmare. No, it was real enough. But, maybe I was dead. My right shoulder and arm were numb all the way down to my wrist. Maybe I was paralyzed. Maybe this was a dream.
In those moments of confusion, I reached behind my head. It ached. My neck was stiff because it had spent hours in the same unnatural position against the headboard. My cheek was red with the heat of pressure. I gathered the feather pillows from the floor and the foot of the bed and propped my head against them. I couldn’t even muster the strength to go to the bathroom. I flipped channels again. I sat that way for an hour or two more, mesmerized by the reports, the same reporters, the same pictures (marked “LIVE” in the upper right-hand corner) that I had seen six hours earlier. I was waiting for some glimmer of light, and when finally the sun rose and began to curl a path over the top of the Intercontinental, peeking into the small opening I had left in the rudely drawn curtains, I felt some sort of relief. Why? Did I really believe that demons, like vampires, can’t come out when the sun is up? Why are we so afraid of darkness, only to overlook the evil committed in broad daylight?
It was 6:30 or so. I called the reception desk and asked whether they had succeeded in reaching Oman Air. Not, of course, that I expected them to say yes…after all, the office was not scheduled to open for another three-and-a-half hours. But, I wanted to be proactive. I couldn’t just lie here waiting to doze off again.
“No, Mr. Ball Sir, we’re trying. We’ve had no luck.” I didn’t believe him in the least. I know that he had done nothing. I demanded to speak to the manager.
“She’s not here, Mr. Ball Sir, can I help you?”
I would have loved to unleash my frustration at him – to let him know that I just spent 300 rials (about $800) to fly to Mumbai for a few days’ off only to land in the midst of an unprecedented terrorist attack, that I would not accept this, that I could not just calm down and wait for it all to go away. But, I thought better of it.
“Is breakfast being served in the restaurant?”
“Yes, Mr. Ball Sir, yes, until 10:30.”
“You mean, there is no interruption?”
Silence. “No, why would there be, Sir, everything is fine, we have no problems.”
Had I missed something in all my channel surfing? Was the attack over? Had they killed all the invaders?
I watched some more. They were still referring to the gun-toting madmen as potential undercover law enforcement officers. Do you remember “Poltergeist,” the 80s thriller where the little girl hears a sound coming from a television after programming had stopped and finally gets pulled physically into the fuzz, only to be lost in a parallel dimension? That’s exactly how I felt at that moment. I remember this very clearly. I began to wonder whether what I was experiencing was reality or illusion.
I stood up from the bed and limped over to the window. The woman on the mildewed balcony was gone. In fact, there were no people, no cars, no cats, nothing. Mumbai…the city that is always fuming, pulsing, thick with sounds…was dead. Nineteen million souls had vanished. I felt so alone. I wanted my city back. I yearned to be in New York, to be back in my apartment in Muscat, to be anywhere but here. I looked every which way. I began to feel cold and raised the temperature on the thermostat to 24.
At some point, I wound up in bed again, and I listened to the report of the rabbi from Brooklyn and his wife who were holed up in Nariman House. This made me so sad. I knew they were going to be killed. Throughout this whole experience, I felt sorry for three people: the anti-terrorism chief Hemant Karkare and this couple who came to a country of a billion to tend to a Jewish community of 5,000.
The phone rang. I hesitated in answering it. I was confused: I had dozed off again. The middle of my lower back ached so badly that I nearly cried out in pain as I rolled over to pick it up. I thought it was the duty manager, and I asked again whether he had succeeded in speaking to Oman Air, but it turned out to be Mr. Arif, the local travel agent who wanted to tell me that I should not go out today and that he would cancel my appointment with the driver.
Shouldn’t go out? “I CAN’T go out,” I insisted.
“It’s for the best. And don’t open the door to anyone.”
I needed something to eat. I was still getting over a nasty cold, and one of the worst features of any cold of mine is that I lose my sense of taste. It had began to come back last night, and I wanted to make sure that things were better today, at least as far as taste was concerned. I brushed my teeth. Hmmmm, I thought, about 50%.
Walking into the Corleone restaurant (what a name for a restaurant in post-invasion Mumbai!), the waiter smiled broadly: “How are you today, Mr. Ball Sir?”
Was he trying to be funny or cute?
“How do you expect me to be?” I motioned towards the window overlooking a deserted Marine Drive.
“Everything is back to normal, it’s OK now, Sir. Would you like the same cheese omelette you had yesterday?”
I nodded.
In the corner sat two Greek men fidgeting with newspapers and napkins. They kept asking one of the hotel staff questions about a paper that they showed to him and pointed at.
At a table roughly twenty feet from me were two Americans. The older one, with salt ‘n pepper hair greased back and blow-dried, had a crispy white shirt and tie on. I remember thinking, "how did he get the creases to stay put"? He must have demanded the laundry to do it for him that very morning, express service, no expense spared, even though 90% of the hotel staff couldn’t make it to work, and the ones who did has slept in the lobby next to the stranded guests. For he was a busy man, he had an agenda printed on his face, and every few minutes he typed something into his Blackberry. He was earnest, diligent, ready to go to work, and would not be deterred by some Third World country failing to control its ports or slay its invaders. There was money to be made. He reminded me of someone, but I couldn’t place him.
He was determined to be the life of the somber breakfast show, laughing loudly, pounding the table, turning red, flailing around the morning newspaper as his friend, a nerdy missionary type with a blue Oxford shirt and pressed but brand-less jeans, chuckled on cue. They could have been Mormons except that they were loudly slurping coffee, so they must have been investment bankers or business consultants. I hated them instantly.
The older one had reading glasses that he perched on the tip of his nose as he stabbed the paper with his index finger: “These people really don’t have a clue how to deal with terrorists. This place is so fucked up.” He started laughing so hard that he coughed. “Can you believe a whole city shuts down when a boatload of guys shoot their way into a hotel? Unbelievable, just unbelievable. Some economic powerhouse this is, huh?” This time his laughs become convulsive. I thought, hoped, he might keel over. One death I wouldn’t have regretted.
Then it hit me: Steve Wynn, the owner of some Vegas hotels. That’s who he reminded me of.
Steve called over the waiter, then the duty manager, then the chef came out. He was pointing again, this time to the chef’s hat. “I want one just like that, just like that. Got it? For me and my friend.”
Some murmurs.
He pulled out his wallet. “If it’s a question of money…”
They all chimed back in chorus, but I couldn't make out what they asked him.
“Of course I’ll wear it. We’ll both wear them to the airport. Now come on. It’s Thanksgiving, you know, and there’s no turkey here, so my friend…well, we’re gonna make him look like one.” The group was mirthful, but visibly confused over which way to go.
After breakfast, I passed the Mormons right by and they didn’t even glance at me. I have grown accustomed to being overlooked by my compatriots. And I was glad in this case. These two nauseated me.
The last vision I had of Corleone’s was marred by a hotel staff member (or maybe another duty manager?) bringing Steve and his missionary friend their fucking hats in a bag. They tossed the bag aside and put them on, glowing, like two kindergartners who have just fished a quarter out of a muddy puddle in the gutter.
Two of the assailants were photographed carrying machine guns, yet the media insisted on warning viewers over and over again that they “could not be sure whether these people were not undercover policemen.” What undercover policeman has a demonic grin on his face? Were these reporters clueless? Didn’t they realize what was happening? Didn’t they realize what my mother knew all along? Pulling off two coordinated actions of any kind in the same city requires training and preparation. My last recollection that night was that Mumbai had been attacked ten different times in ten different locations. This would have required months and boatloads of cash and logistical support. Was a ragtag bunch of disgruntled youth wearing sneakers and fake Versace t-shirts, acting alone, capable of this?
I drifted off, or so I imagined. I knew that what I had experienced, what the television had infused into my mind during those graveyard hours, had not been a nightmare. No, it was real enough. But, maybe I was dead. My right shoulder and arm were numb all the way down to my wrist. Maybe I was paralyzed. Maybe this was a dream.
In those moments of confusion, I reached behind my head. It ached. My neck was stiff because it had spent hours in the same unnatural position against the headboard. My cheek was red with the heat of pressure. I gathered the feather pillows from the floor and the foot of the bed and propped my head against them. I couldn’t even muster the strength to go to the bathroom. I flipped channels again. I sat that way for an hour or two more, mesmerized by the reports, the same reporters, the same pictures (marked “LIVE” in the upper right-hand corner) that I had seen six hours earlier. I was waiting for some glimmer of light, and when finally the sun rose and began to curl a path over the top of the Intercontinental, peeking into the small opening I had left in the rudely drawn curtains, I felt some sort of relief. Why? Did I really believe that demons, like vampires, can’t come out when the sun is up? Why are we so afraid of darkness, only to overlook the evil committed in broad daylight?
It was 6:30 or so. I called the reception desk and asked whether they had succeeded in reaching Oman Air. Not, of course, that I expected them to say yes…after all, the office was not scheduled to open for another three-and-a-half hours. But, I wanted to be proactive. I couldn’t just lie here waiting to doze off again.
“No, Mr. Ball Sir, we’re trying. We’ve had no luck.” I didn’t believe him in the least. I know that he had done nothing. I demanded to speak to the manager.
“She’s not here, Mr. Ball Sir, can I help you?”
I would have loved to unleash my frustration at him – to let him know that I just spent 300 rials (about $800) to fly to Mumbai for a few days’ off only to land in the midst of an unprecedented terrorist attack, that I would not accept this, that I could not just calm down and wait for it all to go away. But, I thought better of it.
“Is breakfast being served in the restaurant?”
“Yes, Mr. Ball Sir, yes, until 10:30.”
“You mean, there is no interruption?”
Silence. “No, why would there be, Sir, everything is fine, we have no problems.”
Had I missed something in all my channel surfing? Was the attack over? Had they killed all the invaders?
I watched some more. They were still referring to the gun-toting madmen as potential undercover law enforcement officers. Do you remember “Poltergeist,” the 80s thriller where the little girl hears a sound coming from a television after programming had stopped and finally gets pulled physically into the fuzz, only to be lost in a parallel dimension? That’s exactly how I felt at that moment. I remember this very clearly. I began to wonder whether what I was experiencing was reality or illusion.
I stood up from the bed and limped over to the window. The woman on the mildewed balcony was gone. In fact, there were no people, no cars, no cats, nothing. Mumbai…the city that is always fuming, pulsing, thick with sounds…was dead. Nineteen million souls had vanished. I felt so alone. I wanted my city back. I yearned to be in New York, to be back in my apartment in Muscat, to be anywhere but here. I looked every which way. I began to feel cold and raised the temperature on the thermostat to 24.
At some point, I wound up in bed again, and I listened to the report of the rabbi from Brooklyn and his wife who were holed up in Nariman House. This made me so sad. I knew they were going to be killed. Throughout this whole experience, I felt sorry for three people: the anti-terrorism chief Hemant Karkare and this couple who came to a country of a billion to tend to a Jewish community of 5,000.
The phone rang. I hesitated in answering it. I was confused: I had dozed off again. The middle of my lower back ached so badly that I nearly cried out in pain as I rolled over to pick it up. I thought it was the duty manager, and I asked again whether he had succeeded in speaking to Oman Air, but it turned out to be Mr. Arif, the local travel agent who wanted to tell me that I should not go out today and that he would cancel my appointment with the driver.
Shouldn’t go out? “I CAN’T go out,” I insisted.
“It’s for the best. And don’t open the door to anyone.”
I needed something to eat. I was still getting over a nasty cold, and one of the worst features of any cold of mine is that I lose my sense of taste. It had began to come back last night, and I wanted to make sure that things were better today, at least as far as taste was concerned. I brushed my teeth. Hmmmm, I thought, about 50%.
Walking into the Corleone restaurant (what a name for a restaurant in post-invasion Mumbai!), the waiter smiled broadly: “How are you today, Mr. Ball Sir?”
Was he trying to be funny or cute?
“How do you expect me to be?” I motioned towards the window overlooking a deserted Marine Drive.
“Everything is back to normal, it’s OK now, Sir. Would you like the same cheese omelette you had yesterday?”
I nodded.
In the corner sat two Greek men fidgeting with newspapers and napkins. They kept asking one of the hotel staff questions about a paper that they showed to him and pointed at.
At a table roughly twenty feet from me were two Americans. The older one, with salt ‘n pepper hair greased back and blow-dried, had a crispy white shirt and tie on. I remember thinking, "how did he get the creases to stay put"? He must have demanded the laundry to do it for him that very morning, express service, no expense spared, even though 90% of the hotel staff couldn’t make it to work, and the ones who did has slept in the lobby next to the stranded guests. For he was a busy man, he had an agenda printed on his face, and every few minutes he typed something into his Blackberry. He was earnest, diligent, ready to go to work, and would not be deterred by some Third World country failing to control its ports or slay its invaders. There was money to be made. He reminded me of someone, but I couldn’t place him.
He was determined to be the life of the somber breakfast show, laughing loudly, pounding the table, turning red, flailing around the morning newspaper as his friend, a nerdy missionary type with a blue Oxford shirt and pressed but brand-less jeans, chuckled on cue. They could have been Mormons except that they were loudly slurping coffee, so they must have been investment bankers or business consultants. I hated them instantly.
The older one had reading glasses that he perched on the tip of his nose as he stabbed the paper with his index finger: “These people really don’t have a clue how to deal with terrorists. This place is so fucked up.” He started laughing so hard that he coughed. “Can you believe a whole city shuts down when a boatload of guys shoot their way into a hotel? Unbelievable, just unbelievable. Some economic powerhouse this is, huh?” This time his laughs become convulsive. I thought, hoped, he might keel over. One death I wouldn’t have regretted.
Then it hit me: Steve Wynn, the owner of some Vegas hotels. That’s who he reminded me of.
Steve called over the waiter, then the duty manager, then the chef came out. He was pointing again, this time to the chef’s hat. “I want one just like that, just like that. Got it? For me and my friend.”
Some murmurs.
He pulled out his wallet. “If it’s a question of money…”
They all chimed back in chorus, but I couldn't make out what they asked him.
“Of course I’ll wear it. We’ll both wear them to the airport. Now come on. It’s Thanksgiving, you know, and there’s no turkey here, so my friend…well, we’re gonna make him look like one.” The group was mirthful, but visibly confused over which way to go.
After breakfast, I passed the Mormons right by and they didn’t even glance at me. I have grown accustomed to being overlooked by my compatriots. And I was glad in this case. These two nauseated me.
The last vision I had of Corleone’s was marred by a hotel staff member (or maybe another duty manager?) bringing Steve and his missionary friend their fucking hats in a bag. They tossed the bag aside and put them on, glowing, like two kindergartners who have just fished a quarter out of a muddy puddle in the gutter.
Tuesday, December 2, 2008
PART FIVE: Still Room 435, The Midnight Hours, Thanksgiving Day -- 12:30 am to 7:30 am
News reports on any great calamity have the same hypnotizing effect on a person as a multiple car accident or an infomercial. You simply can’t pull yourself away. My friend in Saudi Arabia had not answered my last SMS (“Should I be worried?”), my mother was not talking to me. I was alone, except for CNN, BBC and the local channel.
I noticed at the moment of realizing my aloneness that the curtains in my room were still open. And across the street, a woman was standing on her mildewed balcony, looking blankly across the road. Who was she? Why was she looking? I drew them shut in one fell swoop. The rod almost came down with my tug.
At sometime after 2 in the morning, the phone rang. I had fallen asleep with the remote control in my hand. I was in a semi-seated position, my head leaning against the headboard. The quilt was on the floor.
It was Brian. “David, do you have a Bolivian passport?” During my last three years as a practicing attorney in New Orleans, I had served as Honorary Consul of Bolivia, and though I always kept a stockpile of Bolivian passports in my safe, and probably had a valid argument for granting one to myself, I never did.
“No.”
“You really need to get another passport because they’re after Americans.”
Did he think it was like going to the supermarket? But, I said nothing. “Listen, David, we called the State Department and we told them where you are and what’s happening. They said to keep a low profile and not attempt to go outside.”
Geez, fucking brilliant, aren’t they? My country’s finest. “Brian, I have to try to leave. There is not a single fucking car on the road. This is a city of 19 million people. There is nobody anywhere in sight. I need to get away.”
“Did you call the airline?” My mother laughed sarcastically in the background: “Airline? Does he think a plane is gonna land in a god-forsaken war zone?”
“There’s no answer," I whispered sullenly. I had asked the manager and the receptionist both to call Oman Air, both in Mumbai and in Delhi, to change my reservation. I had even given them my E-ticket. But, could I really trust people who had the gall to tell me a gas line had blown up and whose primary interest was collecting bar tabs when bombs were exploding less than a kilometer away?
Brian told me to call home throughout the day, not to worry about the time or the cost of AT&T roaming charges, and not to go out. I guess he hadn’t heard that the door to the hotel was blocked. My mother screamed in the background: “Tell him to close the curtains.”
I noticed at the moment of realizing my aloneness that the curtains in my room were still open. And across the street, a woman was standing on her mildewed balcony, looking blankly across the road. Who was she? Why was she looking? I drew them shut in one fell swoop. The rod almost came down with my tug.
At sometime after 2 in the morning, the phone rang. I had fallen asleep with the remote control in my hand. I was in a semi-seated position, my head leaning against the headboard. The quilt was on the floor.
It was Brian. “David, do you have a Bolivian passport?” During my last three years as a practicing attorney in New Orleans, I had served as Honorary Consul of Bolivia, and though I always kept a stockpile of Bolivian passports in my safe, and probably had a valid argument for granting one to myself, I never did.
“No.”
“You really need to get another passport because they’re after Americans.”
Did he think it was like going to the supermarket? But, I said nothing. “Listen, David, we called the State Department and we told them where you are and what’s happening. They said to keep a low profile and not attempt to go outside.”
Geez, fucking brilliant, aren’t they? My country’s finest. “Brian, I have to try to leave. There is not a single fucking car on the road. This is a city of 19 million people. There is nobody anywhere in sight. I need to get away.”
“Did you call the airline?” My mother laughed sarcastically in the background: “Airline? Does he think a plane is gonna land in a god-forsaken war zone?”
“There’s no answer," I whispered sullenly. I had asked the manager and the receptionist both to call Oman Air, both in Mumbai and in Delhi, to change my reservation. I had even given them my E-ticket. But, could I really trust people who had the gall to tell me a gas line had blown up and whose primary interest was collecting bar tabs when bombs were exploding less than a kilometer away?
Brian told me to call home throughout the day, not to worry about the time or the cost of AT&T roaming charges, and not to go out. I guess he hadn’t heard that the door to the hotel was blocked. My mother screamed in the background: “Tell him to close the curtains.”
PART FOUR: Conversations with Mom -- Room 435 -- Just after Midnight, Thanksgiving morning
“Look, before you turn on the TV, I wanted you to hear it from me first: there have been a couple of explosions tonight in Mumbai. I’m in my room, it’s not where I am, I’m fine.”
My brother, Brian, was speechless. “Where are they bombing? Is it close to you?” I had to think quickly. I lied. “No, it’s in the same part of the city, but it’s miles away.” Little did he know: it was less than a kilometer. Before the lights had gone off, I could have told you which rooms at the Oberoi had their curtains drawn and which ones didn’t.
I asked him to speak to our mother before I called her, to prepare her as it were. I couldn’t wait. I had to talk. I tried her again about ten minutes later. A medley of CNN and BBC played in the background of my room. She was taking care of an infant.
“I thought you were going to Bombay,” she said.
I had to explain, then, for the first time, that Bombay and Mumbai are the same place. She started cursing, screaming, threatening. “You have a death wish…first Saudi Arabia, now this fucking place. Isn’t it enough I had to live through 9/11 with you over there with those people? When are you going to learn that you can’t be around those people?” I tried to impress upon her that India was not part of the Middle East, if for no other reason than I had no response to her other objections, but she wouldn’t give me an inch of space. “If you want to die, that’s your problem, I can’t be involved anymore. And if you continue to act like this, it’s better that we separate and have nothing further to do with one another. I can’t fucking take this anymore, David, I can’t. You’ve made your bed…now you’ve got to lie in it.” She slammed the phone down.
In a crisis, time achieves a new rhythm. I can’t remember when the phone rang next, but it must have been sometime within the next half hour. It was my mother again.
“They’re going around asking for Americans. They’re checking passports. DID YOU HEAR ME? You’re finished. You can’t hide, David. You stick out like a fucking sore thumb over there. How can you do this to me? What did I do to deserve this? Do you hate me that much? Isn’t it enough they are threatening to blow up the subway and Brian’s in the city. I can’t take it anymore…”
She had figured it out before all the brilliant analysts and talking heads on TV: of course it was Al Qaeda. Who else would shoot up a train station, and hotels where foreigners hang out, and a bar where foreigners congregate? But I could not remain silent. I had to defend myself.
“Ma, this is NOT my fault, do you understand? I’m allowed a few days’ vacation somewhere I choose. This has never happened here before, NEVER, do you understand? UNPRECEDENTED. That’s what your beloved CNN says. It is not MY fault that terrorists choose the day I arrive in India to launch an attack there.”
She didn’t agree. It was very much my fault because I had no business being there in the first place.
“All I’m telling you is don’t you dare move from there. They’re gonna shut off the water, you’ll lost the power, there won’t be any food. You’ll be stuck there for weeks. I can’t take on this problem, not now, I really can’t.”
The second conversation ended as abruptly as the first.
About ten minutes later, she called back. I heard the same CNN coverage playing in her living room. Ten and a half time zones separated us, but we were somehow connected. That gave me reason to be hopeful.
My mother, though, was not willing to be conciliatory or hopeful. “How are you gonna get out of there? They just hit a bar where Americans go. I’m sure you’ve been there before. They’re gunning down cops with machine guns. It says they invaded the city. They control the place.”
“Ma, Mumbai is a huge city, they don’t control it, it’s a few isolated incidents.”
“No, it isn’t. They will find you. Close your curtains, turn off the lights, and don’t answer the phone or open the door for anyone. How are you going to get out? What if they bomb the airport or the plane? Did you ever think of that? Did you ever think of that when you decided to go to fucking BOMBAY? God forbid you should come back home to New York…it’s not good enough for you….”
“Ma, FOCUS. FOCUS FOR GOD’S SAKE. I am stuck in my hotel room, the door is blocked, and I need to get out. But, it’s midnight, and I can’t call the airline now, they’re closed.”
“Which airline?”
“Oman Air.”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake. It never stops.”
“FOCUS, FOCUS. I’m not going to keep saying it. If you want to get angry, wait til I’m out of here. Right now, we have to figure out what to do.”
We never did. She accused me of ruining my life, wasting my money, searching for something, and we never addressed the issue of how to survive this crisis. We couldn’t.
Neither of us had an answer.
My brother, Brian, was speechless. “Where are they bombing? Is it close to you?” I had to think quickly. I lied. “No, it’s in the same part of the city, but it’s miles away.” Little did he know: it was less than a kilometer. Before the lights had gone off, I could have told you which rooms at the Oberoi had their curtains drawn and which ones didn’t.
I asked him to speak to our mother before I called her, to prepare her as it were. I couldn’t wait. I had to talk. I tried her again about ten minutes later. A medley of CNN and BBC played in the background of my room. She was taking care of an infant.
“I thought you were going to Bombay,” she said.
I had to explain, then, for the first time, that Bombay and Mumbai are the same place. She started cursing, screaming, threatening. “You have a death wish…first Saudi Arabia, now this fucking place. Isn’t it enough I had to live through 9/11 with you over there with those people? When are you going to learn that you can’t be around those people?” I tried to impress upon her that India was not part of the Middle East, if for no other reason than I had no response to her other objections, but she wouldn’t give me an inch of space. “If you want to die, that’s your problem, I can’t be involved anymore. And if you continue to act like this, it’s better that we separate and have nothing further to do with one another. I can’t fucking take this anymore, David, I can’t. You’ve made your bed…now you’ve got to lie in it.” She slammed the phone down.
In a crisis, time achieves a new rhythm. I can’t remember when the phone rang next, but it must have been sometime within the next half hour. It was my mother again.
“They’re going around asking for Americans. They’re checking passports. DID YOU HEAR ME? You’re finished. You can’t hide, David. You stick out like a fucking sore thumb over there. How can you do this to me? What did I do to deserve this? Do you hate me that much? Isn’t it enough they are threatening to blow up the subway and Brian’s in the city. I can’t take it anymore…”
She had figured it out before all the brilliant analysts and talking heads on TV: of course it was Al Qaeda. Who else would shoot up a train station, and hotels where foreigners hang out, and a bar where foreigners congregate? But I could not remain silent. I had to defend myself.
“Ma, this is NOT my fault, do you understand? I’m allowed a few days’ vacation somewhere I choose. This has never happened here before, NEVER, do you understand? UNPRECEDENTED. That’s what your beloved CNN says. It is not MY fault that terrorists choose the day I arrive in India to launch an attack there.”
She didn’t agree. It was very much my fault because I had no business being there in the first place.
“All I’m telling you is don’t you dare move from there. They’re gonna shut off the water, you’ll lost the power, there won’t be any food. You’ll be stuck there for weeks. I can’t take on this problem, not now, I really can’t.”
The second conversation ended as abruptly as the first.
About ten minutes later, she called back. I heard the same CNN coverage playing in her living room. Ten and a half time zones separated us, but we were somehow connected. That gave me reason to be hopeful.
My mother, though, was not willing to be conciliatory or hopeful. “How are you gonna get out of there? They just hit a bar where Americans go. I’m sure you’ve been there before. They’re gunning down cops with machine guns. It says they invaded the city. They control the place.”
“Ma, Mumbai is a huge city, they don’t control it, it’s a few isolated incidents.”
“No, it isn’t. They will find you. Close your curtains, turn off the lights, and don’t answer the phone or open the door for anyone. How are you going to get out? What if they bomb the airport or the plane? Did you ever think of that? Did you ever think of that when you decided to go to fucking BOMBAY? God forbid you should come back home to New York…it’s not good enough for you….”
“Ma, FOCUS. FOCUS FOR GOD’S SAKE. I am stuck in my hotel room, the door is blocked, and I need to get out. But, it’s midnight, and I can’t call the airline now, they’re closed.”
“Which airline?”
“Oman Air.”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake. It never stops.”
“FOCUS, FOCUS. I’m not going to keep saying it. If you want to get angry, wait til I’m out of here. Right now, we have to figure out what to do.”
We never did. She accused me of ruining my life, wasting my money, searching for something, and we never addressed the issue of how to survive this crisis. We couldn’t.
Neither of us had an answer.
PART THREE: In Room 435, Intercontinental Marine Drive -- November 26, 2008 -- 9:45 to 11:24 pm
As the waiters at the Dome were busily collecting money from the scattering guests, the lights in the Oberoi went out. The gunshots continued; in fact they echoed because, by this point, there was hardly any sign of human life on Marine Drive: the taxis and cars – normally clogging the strip at this hour of the night – simply had vanished into thin air.
I went down to the lobby. In contrast to Marine Drive, it was very much loud and alive, boisterous even. Every chair and divan was taken. Unlikely friendships were forming as groups of strangers were forced to sit next to one another. The single door to the hotel – the same one through which I had entered that morning – was the narrow channel through which a bulging stream of the young and the restless passed. All were smashingly dressed, and they all headed for the door to the discotheque in the basement.
I asked to speak to the manager. Someone who was definitely not the manager, but one of the reception clerks, blocked my path to the office.
“Can you please tell me what’s going on?” I realize now that I must have sounded anxious because I remember straining to keep my voice down, and it cracked in mid-phrase as a result.
“Nothing to worry about, nothing’s…”
At that point, the manager, a woman in a sari, stepped in between us. She was soon joined by a private security guard (or the parking valet, I’m not sure which), who contributed nothing to the conversation except an occasional swish to and fro of his head.
“No problem. It was a gas explosion at one of the hotels, they think, nothing serious. Everything is totally under control.”
“Why did the lights go out?” I interjected.
Some guy I had seen earlier behind the reception desk burst in with an opinion: “The explosion must have cut through an electrical line.”
Gas explodes when it is exposed to fire. I tried to imagine how a gas line could explode and knock out an electrical line. Somehow, this did not compute.
“Can you please keep me informed of what’s going on? I’m in Room 435.”
All three of my interlocutors nodded. I went upstairs and turned on CNN. There was some breaking news scrolling at the bottom of the screen about gunfire erupting at the Victoria Terminus train station in Mumbai. BBC carried the same line. The local Mumbai station was much more involved in the emerging crisis: reporters were at the train station where random shots had been fired by unidentified assailants. Another reporter was standing amid the trees between the Oberoi and the Trident, where a fire had broken out.
No talk of gas explosions or electrical lines.
I called down to reception and asked to speak to the manager again.
“May I know the subject?”
“The current crisis, please put her on.”
Someone came on, I think it was the manager, but I can’t even state categorically at this point whether it was a man or a woman. Things were beginning to get fuzzy as my mind was beginning to wander to the issue of how to get out.
“Hello, I am very concerned. Can you please assure me,” I demanded, “that the front door has been sealed off, and that there is a policeman blocking the entrance.”
“Yes, a car has been placed in front of the door, and there is an armed policeman there.”
“Can you also confirm that the hotel has stopped letting outsiders into the discotheque?”
Silence. “I think it’s a private party, Sir.”
“I don’t care if it’s a private party, they are outsiders, they cannot simply be let into a building when explosions are taking place in the vicinity.”
How long had this been going on? Hours? I didn't really now. Actually, it had been less than ten minutes since the second explosion. Information was pouring in, but not in an organized manner. It was all random, haphazard. At 9:41 p.m., according to my cell phone, I sent an SMS to a close friend in Cairo. Like me, he is American. Like me, he is an “experienced Middle Eastern hand.” My first SMS read as follows:
Bombs just went off at or near Oberoi. I was sitting on roof at interncontinental and the sound was bone chilling. Grenade attacks at Victoria station. Everything cordoned off. We cannot go outside on marine drive.
No answer.
I don’t remember exactly when I started flipping back and forth among the three news channels, nor do I remember for exactly how long I was doing this. It seemed like hours because time had come to a standstill and began dripping by like molasses in winter.
My friend finally answered at 10:42 pm, and with this SMS, we began a dialogue that lasted until 11:24 pm:
Friend: OMG! Be careful.
David: In the morning I will try to get a seat back to Muscat. 25 confirmed dead. Taj trident and oberoi hotels all attacked.
Am watching on cnn! Cnn says 11 dead. Fighting still going on. Many attackers. Are you still watching cnn?
David: Going back and forth between CNN and BBC.
Do you still hear guns? Glad you are in your room. Don’t call your mother!
I don’t hear anything. I left the roof when I saw the smoke and flames at the oberoi.
Attackers still not under control!
I know. Shouldn’t I call my mother to forewarn her?
Friend: Does she know you are there? If so wait till it’s over. Are there police near your hotel?
She knows I was coming but told me to cancel because of sickness. Yes there are police. No cars on marine drive.
Do you feel safe? Stay in the room with your light off. That’s what cnn said.
David: Yea. Nobody can enter or leave hotel according to front desk. And it’s a very small hotel. Only 58 rooms I believe.
You are lucky you are there. The taj and oberoi were targeted. Who is doing this?
At this point, I decided to forewarn my mother. Her mobile phone rang, but she didn’t pick up. I called my brother instead.
I went down to the lobby. In contrast to Marine Drive, it was very much loud and alive, boisterous even. Every chair and divan was taken. Unlikely friendships were forming as groups of strangers were forced to sit next to one another. The single door to the hotel – the same one through which I had entered that morning – was the narrow channel through which a bulging stream of the young and the restless passed. All were smashingly dressed, and they all headed for the door to the discotheque in the basement.
I asked to speak to the manager. Someone who was definitely not the manager, but one of the reception clerks, blocked my path to the office.
“Can you please tell me what’s going on?” I realize now that I must have sounded anxious because I remember straining to keep my voice down, and it cracked in mid-phrase as a result.
“Nothing to worry about, nothing’s…”
At that point, the manager, a woman in a sari, stepped in between us. She was soon joined by a private security guard (or the parking valet, I’m not sure which), who contributed nothing to the conversation except an occasional swish to and fro of his head.
“No problem. It was a gas explosion at one of the hotels, they think, nothing serious. Everything is totally under control.”
“Why did the lights go out?” I interjected.
Some guy I had seen earlier behind the reception desk burst in with an opinion: “The explosion must have cut through an electrical line.”
Gas explodes when it is exposed to fire. I tried to imagine how a gas line could explode and knock out an electrical line. Somehow, this did not compute.
“Can you please keep me informed of what’s going on? I’m in Room 435.”
All three of my interlocutors nodded. I went upstairs and turned on CNN. There was some breaking news scrolling at the bottom of the screen about gunfire erupting at the Victoria Terminus train station in Mumbai. BBC carried the same line. The local Mumbai station was much more involved in the emerging crisis: reporters were at the train station where random shots had been fired by unidentified assailants. Another reporter was standing amid the trees between the Oberoi and the Trident, where a fire had broken out.
No talk of gas explosions or electrical lines.
I called down to reception and asked to speak to the manager again.
“May I know the subject?”
“The current crisis, please put her on.”
Someone came on, I think it was the manager, but I can’t even state categorically at this point whether it was a man or a woman. Things were beginning to get fuzzy as my mind was beginning to wander to the issue of how to get out.
“Hello, I am very concerned. Can you please assure me,” I demanded, “that the front door has been sealed off, and that there is a policeman blocking the entrance.”
“Yes, a car has been placed in front of the door, and there is an armed policeman there.”
“Can you also confirm that the hotel has stopped letting outsiders into the discotheque?”
Silence. “I think it’s a private party, Sir.”
“I don’t care if it’s a private party, they are outsiders, they cannot simply be let into a building when explosions are taking place in the vicinity.”
How long had this been going on? Hours? I didn't really now. Actually, it had been less than ten minutes since the second explosion. Information was pouring in, but not in an organized manner. It was all random, haphazard. At 9:41 p.m., according to my cell phone, I sent an SMS to a close friend in Cairo. Like me, he is American. Like me, he is an “experienced Middle Eastern hand.” My first SMS read as follows:
Bombs just went off at or near Oberoi. I was sitting on roof at interncontinental and the sound was bone chilling. Grenade attacks at Victoria station. Everything cordoned off. We cannot go outside on marine drive.
No answer.
I don’t remember exactly when I started flipping back and forth among the three news channels, nor do I remember for exactly how long I was doing this. It seemed like hours because time had come to a standstill and began dripping by like molasses in winter.
My friend finally answered at 10:42 pm, and with this SMS, we began a dialogue that lasted until 11:24 pm:
Friend: OMG! Be careful.
David: In the morning I will try to get a seat back to Muscat. 25 confirmed dead. Taj trident and oberoi hotels all attacked.
Am watching on cnn! Cnn says 11 dead. Fighting still going on. Many attackers. Are you still watching cnn?
David: Going back and forth between CNN and BBC.
Do you still hear guns? Glad you are in your room. Don’t call your mother!
I don’t hear anything. I left the roof when I saw the smoke and flames at the oberoi.
Attackers still not under control!
I know. Shouldn’t I call my mother to forewarn her?
Friend: Does she know you are there? If so wait till it’s over. Are there police near your hotel?
She knows I was coming but told me to cancel because of sickness. Yes there are police. No cars on marine drive.
Do you feel safe? Stay in the room with your light off. That’s what cnn said.
David: Yea. Nobody can enter or leave hotel according to front desk. And it’s a very small hotel. Only 58 rooms I believe.
You are lucky you are there. The taj and oberoi were targeted. Who is doing this?
At this point, I decided to forewarn my mother. Her mobile phone rang, but she didn’t pick up. I called my brother instead.
Monday, December 1, 2008
PART TWO: At the Dome -- November 26, 2008 - 5:40 to 9:45 pm
As Mr. Ansari turned onto Marine Drive, I told him that I needed to sleep for a while, and that he should come to pick me up at 7 so that he could drop me at Trishna’s for my butter garlic crab and then to take me to Regal or Metro Cinema to see Dostana. It was already 5:40 pm. I watched the cricketers practicing in the field near the decrepit aquarium, and watched the sun move down to go to sleep for the night. I wish I could track the mental processes that occurred within the next seven minutes, for by the time he turned into the driveway up to the door of the Intercontinental, I announced, “Ansari, sorry. I just don’t feel like going out tonight. I’ll eat at the hotel and turn in early. Can you come to fetch me tomorrow morning at 10?” He agreed and off I went to take my nap.
I woke up at 8, with visions of butter-infused crab still dancing in my head. I couldn’t move myself off the bed. The thought of getting dressed and going out again, of thrusting myself into the crowds of a weekday night in Mumbai, made me even more tired. I wanted my crab, I wanted to go to Leopold’s, I wanted to see Dostana…but I simply couldn’t muster the energy tonight. My lack of vim and verve notwithstanding, I had to eat; the lunch at Jimmy Boy’s, though delicious, had worn off hours ago. I threw on my pants and a Polo shirt and took the elevator to the 8th floor.
There, before me, lay the Arabian Sea. Whatever remained of the moon shimmered. The power-walkers were competing with picnickers along Marine Drive. To my left, less than a kilometer away, were the Oberoi and the Trident. The maitre d’ told me there were no tables available, but that I could sit at the bar. I ordered a caipiroska, then another. They were filled with ice, not enough liquor. I looked at my watch. I was becoming anxious. I wanted to eat. It was 9 o’clock. Should I try to make it to Trishna’s?
She came by and announced that my table was ready. I fell into one of the oversized white leather armchairs facing the Oberoi and the Trident and ordered the grilled lobster and a Long Island Iced Tea. A flutist played background to some electronic club music perforated time and again by harangues in languages I didn’t understand. It was not a calming experience, but something akin to being forced to attend an Enver Hoxha rally.
To my left, there was a table of Americans. They sounded California nouveau riche mixed with a Northeast birth certificate. Rich Americans: the kind my mother stereotypically dismisses as “snobs.” They were talking about the economic crisis and how much money they had lost in the market. The man with the navy blazer and what looked in the dark like an ascot audibly chuckled, but his mouth didn’t move.
Then the first blast came. It was like a truck backfiring in your immediate vicinity or a cherry bomb going off inside a garbage can. I continued eating. Some of my neighbors got up and started milling about. An Indian couple nervously looked over the edge of the building to look for an accident. The woman pointed at smoke in the distance. Other than that, no unusual activity occurred: drinks kept arriving, plates were taken and replaced, and guests streamed in gawking at the spectacular view of Mumbai by night. Everyone eventually sat back down and the flutist, unfortunately, continued his performance.
The second blast came as I was finishing my sushi. This was no truck backfiring or cherry bomb in a garbage can. This sound shook me to the car and rattled my internal organs. It was the sensation I imagine one has when a bomb is dropped nearby. The reverberations lasted longer than the explosion. Everyone in the Dome jumped up and ran. The Indian couple were calling people on their cell phones. The California crew were not laughing any longer. Cars along Marine Drive stopped dead in their paths. Even the honking – such a familiar sound in Mumbai – had stopped. I was looking for someone to talk to, but everyone seemed to be looking for something out there in the illuminated darkness. Then the Indian husband clicked off a call.
“What is that?” I asked.
“A bomb, definitely a bomb.”
“Are there going to be elections or something? Have there been any political problems here recently?”
He shook his head: “No, this is not normal.”
The Americans asked another group – I think they were French – to sit by them. Then the Indians joined them. “Maybe there’s safety in numbers,” the navy blazer assured them nervously. He pushed his pomaded hair back into place and straightened his ascot.
At that point, the waiters were rushing about like chickens without heads to hand out everyone’s check. Civil unrest or not, the hotel management certainly would not risk people running out on their bills.
A group of Britons came up, followed by another group of Americans. The former had been turned away by police further up Marine Drive, and their protests that they had to get back to the Oberoi were not met with sympathy. “Our luggage is there, what are we to do?” The Americans had also tried to get back to their hotel, a smaller guesthouse which was on the other side of the Taj, and the police had stopped them at another blockade. They had no idea where to go.
Then we heard gunfire. Automatic bullets in the all-too-near distance.
I woke up at 8, with visions of butter-infused crab still dancing in my head. I couldn’t move myself off the bed. The thought of getting dressed and going out again, of thrusting myself into the crowds of a weekday night in Mumbai, made me even more tired. I wanted my crab, I wanted to go to Leopold’s, I wanted to see Dostana…but I simply couldn’t muster the energy tonight. My lack of vim and verve notwithstanding, I had to eat; the lunch at Jimmy Boy’s, though delicious, had worn off hours ago. I threw on my pants and a Polo shirt and took the elevator to the 8th floor.
There, before me, lay the Arabian Sea. Whatever remained of the moon shimmered. The power-walkers were competing with picnickers along Marine Drive. To my left, less than a kilometer away, were the Oberoi and the Trident. The maitre d’ told me there were no tables available, but that I could sit at the bar. I ordered a caipiroska, then another. They were filled with ice, not enough liquor. I looked at my watch. I was becoming anxious. I wanted to eat. It was 9 o’clock. Should I try to make it to Trishna’s?
She came by and announced that my table was ready. I fell into one of the oversized white leather armchairs facing the Oberoi and the Trident and ordered the grilled lobster and a Long Island Iced Tea. A flutist played background to some electronic club music perforated time and again by harangues in languages I didn’t understand. It was not a calming experience, but something akin to being forced to attend an Enver Hoxha rally.
To my left, there was a table of Americans. They sounded California nouveau riche mixed with a Northeast birth certificate. Rich Americans: the kind my mother stereotypically dismisses as “snobs.” They were talking about the economic crisis and how much money they had lost in the market. The man with the navy blazer and what looked in the dark like an ascot audibly chuckled, but his mouth didn’t move.
Then the first blast came. It was like a truck backfiring in your immediate vicinity or a cherry bomb going off inside a garbage can. I continued eating. Some of my neighbors got up and started milling about. An Indian couple nervously looked over the edge of the building to look for an accident. The woman pointed at smoke in the distance. Other than that, no unusual activity occurred: drinks kept arriving, plates were taken and replaced, and guests streamed in gawking at the spectacular view of Mumbai by night. Everyone eventually sat back down and the flutist, unfortunately, continued his performance.
The second blast came as I was finishing my sushi. This was no truck backfiring or cherry bomb in a garbage can. This sound shook me to the car and rattled my internal organs. It was the sensation I imagine one has when a bomb is dropped nearby. The reverberations lasted longer than the explosion. Everyone in the Dome jumped up and ran. The Indian couple were calling people on their cell phones. The California crew were not laughing any longer. Cars along Marine Drive stopped dead in their paths. Even the honking – such a familiar sound in Mumbai – had stopped. I was looking for someone to talk to, but everyone seemed to be looking for something out there in the illuminated darkness. Then the Indian husband clicked off a call.
“What is that?” I asked.
“A bomb, definitely a bomb.”
“Are there going to be elections or something? Have there been any political problems here recently?”
He shook his head: “No, this is not normal.”
The Americans asked another group – I think they were French – to sit by them. Then the Indians joined them. “Maybe there’s safety in numbers,” the navy blazer assured them nervously. He pushed his pomaded hair back into place and straightened his ascot.
At that point, the waiters were rushing about like chickens without heads to hand out everyone’s check. Civil unrest or not, the hotel management certainly would not risk people running out on their bills.
A group of Britons came up, followed by another group of Americans. The former had been turned away by police further up Marine Drive, and their protests that they had to get back to the Oberoi were not met with sympathy. “Our luggage is there, what are we to do?” The Americans had also tried to get back to their hotel, a smaller guesthouse which was on the other side of the Taj, and the police had stopped them at another blockade. They had no idea where to go.
Then we heard gunfire. Automatic bullets in the all-too-near distance.
PART ONE: Arrival in Mumbai -- 5:30 a.m., November 26, 2008
As the Oman Air 737 made its final series of sharp turns into the Chhatrapati Shivaji International Airport in Mumbai, I strained to pick out some landmarks, some points of orientation in those unique pre-dawn minutes, but I could not. A flame here and there from fishermen's boats in the Arabian Sea, the intermittent flickering of kerosene lamps in the shanties that now come right up to the fence that cordones off the airport. The only thing I could pick out with certainty was the massive vacant hill which appears to be the only part of Mumbai that is not covered with structures and people. As soon as we passed over it, the plane basically dropped onto the runway.
I bought a voucher at the Prepaid Taxi Desk for an air-conditioned new car to take me to the Intercontinental on Marine Drive. Unlike most Intercontinentals, this hotel has about 60 rooms spread out over 6 floors. The ground floor is home to the Czar, a bar famed for its wide selection of vodkas, and next to the reception desk, all Japanese minimalist and pristine, is a staircase down to the disco, where the bold and beautiful of Mumbai and Bollywood dance the night away. The 8th floor, though, is truly spectacular, for there, a l'air libre, you find the ample white leather armchairs of the Dome, a foo-foo bar and restaurant that specializes in grilled lobster marinated in Korean hot bean sauce (to die for) and sushi expressly sized so that anyone, no matter how small his mouth, can eat it in a single bite, so as to experience that ideal melding of flavors and textures which, after all, is what true sushi aims to achieve.
But, I wasn't there yet. So, voucher in hand (Rs 485, or US$ 10), I pushed my stubborn cart through a sea of people waiting for their friends and relatives to arrive and scanned the millions of fuming yellow-and-black antiques for a single blue air-conditioned modern taxi bearing license plate number 5535. Out of the crowd -- and this sort of thing can only happen, and always happens to me, in Mumbai -- a hand out of the throngs reaches for my luggage and my hand, guiding me, saying, "Come, Sir, come, this way, car this way, Sir." And wouldn't you know it...he led me straight to car 5535.
Most normal taxis circulating the streets of Mumbai date from the 1960s and 1970s, and there is now a move, as I read in the paper, to deny re-registration of vehicles that are more than 25 years old! The gear shift, for example, is not on the floor, but on the steering wheel (like a turn signal)...I remembered this from my grandfather's Ford in the late 60s. My car was, comparatively speaking, brand spanking new...it probably dated from the early 80s. And, boy, did the air conditioning work, blowing right onto my knees, which were level with the windshield: for another characteristic of Mumbai taxis is that they were not designed for tall people.
Mumbai is an island...and not a terribly big island as islands go, though it has 19 million people. The road from the airport to southernmost Mumbai, the location of Marine Drive (originally called the Queen's Necklace when Elizabeth II's great grandmother Victoria reigned as Empress of India) and the three major international hotels -- the Taj Mahal, the Oberoi and the Trident.
As we waited to turn in and pull up to the front door of the Intercontinental, waiting for the morning power-walkers to get out of the way, I wondered whether I should have listened to others and stayed at the Taj. I always liked having a drink amid its old-world faded charm, or enjoying Darjeeling and scones at afternoon tea...but it never occurred to me to stay there. Too touristy, I always sneered. Stephen, my colleague in Muscat, had advised me to stay there -- "It's the only place to stay in Mumbai" -- but I could not be dissuaded. After all, I had already paid one night for the Intercontinental and couldn't get it refunded. Thank God almighty I had decided to remain stubborn.
After resting a few hours, I called a local travel agency that had been recommended to me, and Mr. Ansari came to pick me up to take me around town. I went to have lunch at Jimmy Boy's, the famous Parsi restaurant on Horniman Circle in Fort. Pomfret steamed in a banana leaf with spices, chicken masala, carrot pickle, pilau...a delicious meal for all of US$ 8. I actually wanted to go to Trishna, my favorite seafood restaurant in Kala Ghoda, a short way down from the VT train station (now, like most other landmarks, named after Chhatrapati Shivaji) and next to the Jehangir Art Gallery. They have the best butter garlic crab in the world: you pick the live crab, they weigh it, and before you have finished your cocktail, it comes to you in a neat, delicious, juicy pile of ivory white lump crabmeat. You smell from the garlic for days, and the butter permeates every last morsel. That, alas, would have to wait for the evening. Or so I thought...
After lunch, I told Mr. Ansari to take me to Colaba. I had read and savored every word of Shantaram, the celebrated book about Mumbai's underworld, which focuses on a place in Colaba called Leopold's Cafe, where all the down and out, wayward foreigners, drunks, tramps and drug addicts hang out. We stopped first at Cottage Industries, the exaggeratedly overpriced handicrafts emporium where the Kashmiri salesmen are so obnoxiously insistent and smarmy that I stormed out after a few minutes and said to the driver, "Come, let's forget about Leopold's, let's go to the Crosswords bookstore near Malbar Hill."
We passed the Metro Cinema. At that point, I remembered that I had wanted to see Dostana, the new Hindi comedy about two men, one of them the half-Parsi John Abraham, who pretend to be gay lovers living together so they could both be close to the woman of their dreams. But, instead, I passed by the Regal, another veritable old-world theatre across the street from the Maharashtra Police Headquarters and an excellent, normally priced handicrafts store with the unlikely name of Avante. The film was playing. Great...but later in the evening.
I had missed Trishna's, foregone the Taj and the Metro Cinema and postponed Leopold's Cafe.
Crosswords didn't have the guidebook to Mumbai I had left behind in New York, so we circled the car up Malbar Hill again, past the hidden Towers of Silence, the traditional spot where Parsis bring their dead, smeer the corpses in honey and ghee and leave them to the vultures to devour in a final act of charity. As we waited in a long, steaming, honking line of ancient cars, a leprous girl came to the passenger window and started banging her stump of an arm to get my attention. Her eyes was jaundiced, tired...she couldn't have been more than six or seven. "Ignore her," said Mr. Ansari, "she's just bringing this money to someone, it doesn't go to her." We turned off, back past Crosswords, and back along Chowpatty Beach and Marine Drive. I needed another nap to prepare for the evening ahead.
Little did I know what I was in for...
I bought a voucher at the Prepaid Taxi Desk for an air-conditioned new car to take me to the Intercontinental on Marine Drive. Unlike most Intercontinentals, this hotel has about 60 rooms spread out over 6 floors. The ground floor is home to the Czar, a bar famed for its wide selection of vodkas, and next to the reception desk, all Japanese minimalist and pristine, is a staircase down to the disco, where the bold and beautiful of Mumbai and Bollywood dance the night away. The 8th floor, though, is truly spectacular, for there, a l'air libre, you find the ample white leather armchairs of the Dome, a foo-foo bar and restaurant that specializes in grilled lobster marinated in Korean hot bean sauce (to die for) and sushi expressly sized so that anyone, no matter how small his mouth, can eat it in a single bite, so as to experience that ideal melding of flavors and textures which, after all, is what true sushi aims to achieve.
But, I wasn't there yet. So, voucher in hand (Rs 485, or US$ 10), I pushed my stubborn cart through a sea of people waiting for their friends and relatives to arrive and scanned the millions of fuming yellow-and-black antiques for a single blue air-conditioned modern taxi bearing license plate number 5535. Out of the crowd -- and this sort of thing can only happen, and always happens to me, in Mumbai -- a hand out of the throngs reaches for my luggage and my hand, guiding me, saying, "Come, Sir, come, this way, car this way, Sir." And wouldn't you know it...he led me straight to car 5535.
Most normal taxis circulating the streets of Mumbai date from the 1960s and 1970s, and there is now a move, as I read in the paper, to deny re-registration of vehicles that are more than 25 years old! The gear shift, for example, is not on the floor, but on the steering wheel (like a turn signal)...I remembered this from my grandfather's Ford in the late 60s. My car was, comparatively speaking, brand spanking new...it probably dated from the early 80s. And, boy, did the air conditioning work, blowing right onto my knees, which were level with the windshield: for another characteristic of Mumbai taxis is that they were not designed for tall people.
Mumbai is an island...and not a terribly big island as islands go, though it has 19 million people. The road from the airport to southernmost Mumbai, the location of Marine Drive (originally called the Queen's Necklace when Elizabeth II's great grandmother Victoria reigned as Empress of India) and the three major international hotels -- the Taj Mahal, the Oberoi and the Trident.
As we waited to turn in and pull up to the front door of the Intercontinental, waiting for the morning power-walkers to get out of the way, I wondered whether I should have listened to others and stayed at the Taj. I always liked having a drink amid its old-world faded charm, or enjoying Darjeeling and scones at afternoon tea...but it never occurred to me to stay there. Too touristy, I always sneered. Stephen, my colleague in Muscat, had advised me to stay there -- "It's the only place to stay in Mumbai" -- but I could not be dissuaded. After all, I had already paid one night for the Intercontinental and couldn't get it refunded. Thank God almighty I had decided to remain stubborn.
After resting a few hours, I called a local travel agency that had been recommended to me, and Mr. Ansari came to pick me up to take me around town. I went to have lunch at Jimmy Boy's, the famous Parsi restaurant on Horniman Circle in Fort. Pomfret steamed in a banana leaf with spices, chicken masala, carrot pickle, pilau...a delicious meal for all of US$ 8. I actually wanted to go to Trishna, my favorite seafood restaurant in Kala Ghoda, a short way down from the VT train station (now, like most other landmarks, named after Chhatrapati Shivaji) and next to the Jehangir Art Gallery. They have the best butter garlic crab in the world: you pick the live crab, they weigh it, and before you have finished your cocktail, it comes to you in a neat, delicious, juicy pile of ivory white lump crabmeat. You smell from the garlic for days, and the butter permeates every last morsel. That, alas, would have to wait for the evening. Or so I thought...
After lunch, I told Mr. Ansari to take me to Colaba. I had read and savored every word of Shantaram, the celebrated book about Mumbai's underworld, which focuses on a place in Colaba called Leopold's Cafe, where all the down and out, wayward foreigners, drunks, tramps and drug addicts hang out. We stopped first at Cottage Industries, the exaggeratedly overpriced handicrafts emporium where the Kashmiri salesmen are so obnoxiously insistent and smarmy that I stormed out after a few minutes and said to the driver, "Come, let's forget about Leopold's, let's go to the Crosswords bookstore near Malbar Hill."
We passed the Metro Cinema. At that point, I remembered that I had wanted to see Dostana, the new Hindi comedy about two men, one of them the half-Parsi John Abraham, who pretend to be gay lovers living together so they could both be close to the woman of their dreams. But, instead, I passed by the Regal, another veritable old-world theatre across the street from the Maharashtra Police Headquarters and an excellent, normally priced handicrafts store with the unlikely name of Avante. The film was playing. Great...but later in the evening.
I had missed Trishna's, foregone the Taj and the Metro Cinema and postponed Leopold's Cafe.
Crosswords didn't have the guidebook to Mumbai I had left behind in New York, so we circled the car up Malbar Hill again, past the hidden Towers of Silence, the traditional spot where Parsis bring their dead, smeer the corpses in honey and ghee and leave them to the vultures to devour in a final act of charity. As we waited in a long, steaming, honking line of ancient cars, a leprous girl came to the passenger window and started banging her stump of an arm to get my attention. Her eyes was jaundiced, tired...she couldn't have been more than six or seven. "Ignore her," said Mr. Ansari, "she's just bringing this money to someone, it doesn't go to her." We turned off, back past Crosswords, and back along Chowpatty Beach and Marine Drive. I needed another nap to prepare for the evening ahead.
Little did I know what I was in for...
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