For three days the terror-scarred dome held steadfast in Mumbai’s night sky, a sentinel to human courage, a witness to helpless dying. In the face of an unprecedented attack, Mumbai’s silent skyline stood intact, but the fairy tale of our home was ripped and the city’s soul lay shattered; its lonely lanes and gullies were shrouded by fear, the fear of dying in that split second when life was complacent with the seemingly normal.

The smell of death became perceptible even in the distance, beyond the line of fire.
I am told bodies were alive among the bodies of the dead. Tears and blood had welled up in a common stream. For more than a week, crematoriums complained of congestion. Corpses were coming in back to back. An innocuous dinner had turned out to be an encounter with death. Goodbye Ma and Pa, said the daughter. See you later tonight, she added just as usual.

A simple goodbye turned out to be the final farewell.
See you at the morgue, she should have said.
That’s not the way you imagine life to be.
Everyone’s world had changed, but some things on the outside were still the same.
A famous politician’s name was dropped so their body could be burned before the others. Among the heartbroken crowds, a sea of white ensembles and pink lips had dropped in to air kiss the dazed family.

A day later, the bright neon signs were switched on only to be blinded by the horror of that night. This kind of darkness can never go away.
The station throbbed with life soon after, engines whirring and people bustling, thinking their destination is now many heartbeats away, for in every second lay doubts of their existence. An ordinary journey away from home was now a journey into the unknown. Where I am going and where is this taking me? Will I ever come back home? Now in the melee, in the cacophony of commuters and hawkers, the soft hushed pulse of fear has crept in like a burglar. Now, as dusk falls, the anticipation of reuniting with loved ones exacerbates rush hour frenzy. Even under the strong new lights, trauma hangs like a pall, darkening the night. But in the morning struggle determination and courage brings people back. From them I want to learn to streak my own daylight with rays of hope.

Three days later, at the candlelight march, memories of innocence flickered as anonymous citizens held out candles. The breeze from the Arabian Sea wafted in with uncertainty about the future. Battling the wind, were flames of anger vowing not to be extinguished by fear and hopelessness. In the depths of the ocean, there mingled strains of mourning that we dreaded could haunt us for a lifetime.
At the far end of the curve, the Oberoi towered into the sky, silent and ravaged, signs of life buried before their time. Only the glow sign of an empty and desolate designer store remained, keeping its unassailable arrogance intact, just in case the dead needed any help from designer labels.
Yesterday, I lived in oblivion about abrupt endings, I was safe, we were safe, I had lulled myself, but today I cannot dismiss those deaths as episodes from a nightmare.
I will have to escape from pretences and confront the loss and face my own terror of losing. I have to live to feel the pain. I can no longer deceive myself with my own conjured up phantasm of reality. The struggle to fight will first begin from within.

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