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.