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.