Walk On
PARMESH SHAHANI – EDITORIAL DIRECTOR
My friend Pina tells me that her youngest daughter came up with a wonderful plan in case terrorists came to their school. “We should always take a bottle of ketchup with us and when they come we should quickly put the ketchup over us and lie down and pretend to be dead, then they won’t need to shoot us.”
The Subway restaurant near my house is empty. “No more tourists after 26/11,” says the glum attendant. Meanwhile, at Gucci, the brown leather jacket I had my eyes on got sold in their 50 per cent off sale. “We tried keeping it for you sir, but two girls came this morning and bought a lot. Spent more than 2 lakhs.” I wonder who in their right mind would want to shop at a time like this, and walk across to the Trident re-opening, where everyone is smiling, and on edge. Devendra Bharma is on autopilot. He has, like his colleagues at the Trident, seen and felt the intensity of human emotions at their very extreme. He apologises for not answering his emails. “For some days, I didn’t reply to anything.” I want to tell him that I cleared out my inbox and sent about 200 emails in those three days, as helicopters flew overhead in the war zone around my home and the sounds of explosions at the Taj and Nariman House seeped through my shut windows, but Deepak Parekh and his wife have just arrived. Their hands need to be shaken, and Bharma, like his compatriot at the Taj, Karambir Kang, is a thorough professional.
I love walking, and ever since the attacks, I have begun to walk even more, around my streets of Colaba that I call home. Past Nariman House and Abhay Maskara’s gallery where just a few days before the attacks, we drank champagne and appreciated Nina Pandolfo’s graffiti-painted wall, past the Sassoon Docks and the Port Trust gardens that overlook the gorgeous sea, past the spire of Afghan Church and the pews of the RC Church at St Joseph’s High School where I used to sit and pray for first rank in my exams. In the other direction, Leopold’s and Colaba Causeway, my beautiful, beautiful shops, Bombay Electric and Curio Cottage and Soma, and Rasulbhai Adamji and V Naumal Opticians. My hidden rooftop cafes and secret art galleries, my childhood bookstores and regular footpath vendors, my florist, doctor and my chivdawala. “Let me show you my Colaba,” I would proudly say to global friends, and my feet hungrily pound the pavement as my eyes run over my haunts reassuringly, but I find no peace. The streets are noisy now but for those three days, there was eerie silence. Even the dogs and birds were waiting, with bated breath.
I have never wanted to stay in India more, or leave it so badly. I feel strangely affectionate, even towards the white-clad Sindhi women who push past me in a cloud of Chanel No. 5 on their way to play cards at the Radio Club. I want to tell the scary mobs who descend upon my streets in the aftermath with their peace march candles and their war cries to just f*# off. I want to hug Naeem, Mourad and Loumia’s son so badly when I see him, but my arms are frozen and I don’t say anything. He is bewildered and silent when he is told that I saw his parents just a few minutes before they were killed. My chachi calls up and says I should go to a mandir. “Thank god you were saved.” At home, I put the TV on, open my Subway sandwich, but can’t bear to touch the ketchup packet that comes with it.

Death And The City
SUPRIYA NAIR– FEATURES WRITER
As children we are given to understand that our homelands were founded on the bodies of the dying. The history of modern India, bottled for easy consumption, is considered a history of sacrifices – revolutionaries, politicians, social workers, mill owners, truck drivers, women, children, all died for the idea of India. I have often wondered how easy it is to die for an idea. Would you die, for instance, for the idea of a home?
But an idea is fragile. Possibly so fragile that if I died for it I would take it with me. Mumbai is a thin, glittering strip of island, with edges sharp enough to cut. A quiet grey weapon of a city, with a heartbeat buried deep beneath the sound of the Arabian Sea crashing into its coasts. It is a sentimental, bourgeois city; a fishing village doing overtime as a metro; it has class. At least, it has a first class and a second class.
It is a city that has no time to read but thrives on its 15 or more newspapers at all hours of the day. It is a city that has no time for a lunch hour but affords a vagabond a snack from the same counter as a RBI executive. It is a city that whines endlessly about immigrants but never stops producing children who understand a multitude of tongues and speak none correctly. A city that has no ear for music, no eye for colour, no patience for earnest art, but still gapes, all pretence at disbelief suspended, at more movies per annum than any other city in the world would tolerate.
It is a city that always seems to be winding down but never seems to get to sleep. A city that doesn’t look up from its business when you pass by it at one in the night in a short skirt. It is a most wretchedly unhappy city; but the suicide rates never seem to go up. The number of strangers who will give you change when the bus conductor starts to growl at your 50 rupee note never seems to go down. Would someone die for a home like this?
When I think of the people who have died for Mumbai – a city that doesn’t even exist in name anymore – I think of all the deaths I have lived through. None of them were martyrs. I think of the Hindu-Muslim riots of 1992, which came about in spite of the city’s desperation to believe that religion meant nothing to it. I think of urchins hanging out of midnight locals, leaning over until they crash into electric poles and fall apart. I think of the flood victims, locked in their cars as the storm drains clog up and the water level rises over 90 cms in little over four hours. I think of July 11 and hundreds of limbs being hauled away from railway tracks in bedsheets. I think of each death as having eaten into the city, of becoming part of the idea of it without ever meaning to. It’s absurd and obscene to die for this city.
Why would it let you go without a fight?
The silence on the streets in late November frayed my nerves; but it mattered to me that I was here. I have suffered far more when I’m away from my city than within it. When I miss home, it doesn’t occur to me to think of what I love here: the Gothic quadrangle of my old college, the tree-lined lanes around my house, the church, mosque and Hindu mission that border my apartment block in outlandishly secular Bollywood-style, the Oval, with the sun gleaming on its cricket nets and the tetrapods lining Marine Drive.
When I miss Mumbai, I miss it as a big wedge of grime and humidity and resentment. I fret. I wonder how it will live without me. I miss falling asleep with its metallic thrum in my ears. I miss it with anxiety.
And then I just want to wrap my arms around it and hold it together. I want to give everyone in it a place to park their feet. I want to give everyone a day and a night off to sleep. I want to gently dim the lights at Churchgate Station. I want to say, Goodnight. I love you. Please don’t break.

The Devil Wore Versace
SONA BAHADUR – DEPUTY MANAGING EDITOR
“God lives in South Mumbai.” I’d often throw the jibe at my townie friends while navigating difficult monsoon suburban commutes. It took on a savagely tragic twist on 26/11 when the Devil upstaged God for 60 gory hours to hold siege over Colaba and its tony environs. The words have returned to haunt me ever since.
On the night of the siege they echoed in my dream as a desired pair of red-soled Louboutins became the blood-bespattered gown of a hostage reflected in the murderous eyes of a trigger-happy fanatic. Awake, I was still a fragmented zombie, a shifting mass of dualities. My inherent bias was terrifyingly evident in my initial elitist reaction to the tragedy as I cried: “Not the Taj!” Did the lives of those at CST and Nariman House matter less?
The surround of opulence that comes with working at a luxury magazine often blurs out the harsher, less pretty realities of life. But this time, terror didn’t just get the ‘common man’. It also targeted luxury. Wearing a faux Versace tee. The gap between Us and Them was strangely bridged by a horrific incident that wiped out every possible binary distinction – between a Chanel toting fashionista and a local train commuter, a North Indian ‘bhaiya’ and a ‘Marathi manoos’, a ‘minority’ Jew and a ‘majority’ Hindu.
Setting in motion a phase of self-reflection, the episode has heightened my awareness that living in a sane, civilised world is the vital prelude to all luxury. That the greatest showstopper is grace under jingoistic pressure. That the red carpet serves its purpose best when rolled out for acts of selfless bravery and service.
The tragedy has also enabled me to tap into my many selves. I’m trying to be true to each. By placing my faith in the extraordinary courage of ordinary folks. By trying to figure how I can help those affected. By supporting the war against terror. By reinstating my love for the good life and luxury and my hope for New India. By praying for baby Moshe and all the little ones orphaned in the attacks. By looking forward to a Viennese Coffee at the Sea Lounge when the Taj is restored. By resolving to never give in to fear or divisive propaganda. By being myself. By looking beyond.
As for my bloody dreams, I think I might have found a good antidote. I recently coloured my hair. Red.

Die Another Day?
EVA PAVITHRAN– SENIOR COPY EDITOR
All of us at Verve are proud neighbours of one of Mumbai’s illustrious heritage sites. The Taj Mahal Palace and Tower. The iconic hotel has been the chosen venue for some of the most exciting interviews in my four-year journalistic career. The hotel by the bay has also been a spot I often frequented for cosy candle-lit dinners and some indulging retail therapy.
The day before the attack a couple of us from work had lunch at Leopold. The eatery was buzzing with life oblivious to the impending horror. On November 26, I was taking my driving lesson in front of the Trident/Oberoi (a favourite spot for mastering parking skills) at 9.45 p.m. when a cop urgently asked me to take a diversion. I remember being rather miffed, as I was blissfully unaware of the terror unfolding on the hotel’s premises. On my way back home, I heard two blasts. My heart skipped a beat. Those didn’t sound like fire crackers to me. I had heard similar ‘sounds’ up close before.
I’m a survivor of the train blasts that rocked Mumbai in July 2006. I was in the first train ripped apart by an RDX-layered bomb between Santacruz and Khar. I had watched bodies flung past my compartment window, seen a pregnant woman jump off the train and fall on her stomach and walked into a pile of shattered limbs and severely injured people. I recall my muscles refusing to move. They had turned immobile with fear. My right ear had given me trouble for over a week, at that time. I can’t ever forget the kindness of the Tidkes who gave me refuge in their home. I remember being scared to take a train during peak hours for over a month after the attacks.
Recent images brought back scenes that I have fought so hard to erase. All I could do for the next couple of days was to sit glued to the television. I wept for I knew how it felt to be on the other side. To see it on TV and to go through it, are two different things.

Enough Is Enough!
FALGUNI KAPADIA – CREATIVE DIRECTOR
November 26, 2008 is a date that is engraved on our minds forever. That evening I was packing my bags for a trip to the Maldives. I had an exciting photo shoot…. Wait, did I say shoot? That word has a different meaning for all of us now.
My thoughts of serene waters were shattered by the phone ringing. My mother shouted that Nirav and Jinali were at the Oberoi. “So what, Mom?” was my reaction. My irritation turned to fright when we switched on the TV – Mumbai had turned into Beirut. After all, we hear about terrorists taking over buildings and establishments, only in such places. Thankfully both of them got out safely, due to the brave staff of the Trident and the security forces.
I live across the bay from The Oberoi and Trident and my windows shuddered with every grenade blast. I could hear gunshots. I could also see the faint glow of the fire rising from the dome of the Taj. Being a townie (a favourite acronym for people living in South Mumbai) the Taj and the Oberoi are the two places I frequent. From meeting potential suitors at the Sea Lounge and Palms to doing photo shoots of the most glamorous models and the most happening Bollywood personalities in the corridors, restaurants and rooms…. There was an outbreak of text messages that said ‘I am alive, are you?’
This is Mumbai, my home, the place we considered safe, at any given point. A chilling thought occurred to me – I had been at a meeting at the Taj at 7.00 p.m. that evening and around Leopold with my husband at 8.30 p.m. We had been saved from being caught in the middle of it all by a couple of hours. It’s not like Mumbai is not familiar with terror. But, Wednesday’s attacks were significantly the most brazen.
Enough is Enough is possibly what each of us has on our minds and why not. I for one want my Mumbai, my Bombay back. I want people to frequent the Oberoi and Taj, catch trains at the CST without fear, be in the streets until the wee hours, without fear from terrorists, or for that matter, from our own security personnel, asking for our identities.

A Wednesday
RACHNA SUBHERWAL – GROUP HR AND ADMINISTRATION MANAGER
It was another ordinary Wednesday – when suddenly I heard a gun shot almost in my backyard – was I hallucinating? Then I heard the clear blasting of a bomb! I rushed out of my house and there were several people in the compound running helter-skelter and someone cried – this is all happening out of the building that houses the Jews. The building in reference was Nariman House – a name we all just discovered, though it has been around for a few years!
By then there were a few rounds of gunshot and our building was declared unsafe so we all came out into the compound. We realised we were in the immediate line of gun-shots so we all huddled in the opposite building – Colaba Court, where our friendly neighbours opened their doors to 20 of us.
All of us were staring at the TV in utter dismay, disgust and disbelief that something of such great proportion was happening in our city and we were sitting around helpless. Calls kept coming from my family in Bangalore, Canada and the US as they watched the world news! Whilst we were discussing and watching the ‘carnage’ on television, we were totally oblivious of the couple who had sought shelter in the flat above and who had been shot when they looked out of the window! Innocent victims of a heinous act! Their three children are shell-shocked even today!
Around 2.30 a.m., we braved the potential peril and stealthily returned to our homes but of course none of us could sleep – by early morning we were aware of the commandos who had taken over our building due to its proximity to Nariman House. By evening the Commandos requested us all to evacuate the building. The Commandos had an ambulance ready and escorted us, including carrying one of our aged family members, into the waiting transport which was ready to take us to any part of the city.
I wondered aloud whether we would have homes to go back to. By Friday night, the relief and cheer that it was all over, was soon replaced with anger, despair, frustration, grief – all I know is one will not be the same again!

A Good Star
SEBASTIEN GAUTIER – INTERN
Mumbai war through the eyes of a Frenchman....
Following a normal day of work at Verve, I stepped out for dinner with a friend to Colaba’s Woodside Inn. (Un)fortunately the restaurant was full and we had a toss up between Café Mondegar, Indigo Deli, Henri Tham or Leopold Café. We picked the fanciest one, Henry Tham.
After a good meal, the waiter brought us the bill and he told us with a ‘vague’ smile that we could not leave since there were terrorists outside. We thought it was a joke. But we realised soon enough that this was for real when we heard three gunshots. Surprised and a little scared, we went to see what was going on in the bar on the ground floor. People were dancing like nothing had happened. The music was so loud, they had not heard the shots!
A few minutes after the attack started, the news was already doing international rounds and we started receiving calls from family, friends and others abroad. It was only then that we realised how big this was. And yet, no one was scared because we naively trusted the protection provided by the door. It is in moments like these that you feel that nothing can happen to you, only to others.
We could hear blasts from the Taj which is less than 100 metres from the bar. We met a lady who told us she was driving past Café Leopold and saw, no more than 5 metres from her, two terrorists shooting from the street in the direction of the café. We left the bar for a friend’s house on Colaba Causeway.
By the time they made Colaba accessible, we were ready to leave and grabbed a cab to Bandra. Selfishly, as soon as we left the area, we felt free and safe. Mumbai seemed quite normal outside but I realised that I had been lucky. I believe that I had been under a good star that night.

Calling Elvis
SHIRIN MEHTA – FEATURES EDITOR
I guess, this time, it was our fate to live. And without the immediate trauma and stress. Booked into our favourite Taj restaurant, Golden Dragon, on the 26th, the fateful night of Mumbai’s terror, at 8.30 p.m. to celebrate my mother’s birthday, we had no idea that we were pre-marking a day that would not be easily erased from memory. And when my 16-year-old begged for an earlier date since he had exams coming up, little did we know that the 24 hour preponement to humour a favoured grandchild, would be that between life and perhaps, death. Yes, we were lucky – this time.
On Tuesday the 25th, the Golden Dragon, our dearest eaterie for family celebrations, had excelled, as always. We had our favourite dishes that we have clung to with adroit precision. Our servers would smile indulgently as we rattled off the same old list of mouthwatering delicacies. And as we dug into our pan-fried mixed-meat noodles, squid in butter chilli garlic sauce, honey roasted pork, crispy congee lamb and fried rice, who should come running up to greet my grownup sons and have a word, but Elvis. Elvis, who, as knowledgeable steward, has been part of our dining experience at the Golden Dragon for years so that without him our evening could never be complete.
As I crouched at home in front of the television news, watching the Taj in a halo of smoke, with tears pricking my eyes, suddenly Elvis became the focus of my thoughts. Had he been there, as always? Was he safe? And later, as I read the stories of valour where Taj employees had taken bullets for their patrons, I knew that Elvis would have done all he could to help that evening’s diners. I could see him there, younger and slighter, so many years ago, leading my children away into the kitchens to show them the wonders of meals emerging. I always knew they were safe with him and took a deep grateful breath for those few minutes of reprieve from childish demands. And of course, there was the day when my son ran out hugging an enormous crab, with Elvis in hot pursuit!
These were the memories that filled my mind so that I could feel myself smiling and crying simultaneously. Until, a week later, my husband returned one evening and announced that he had met Elvis. My husband had hardly noticed a scooter following him to work. Elvis had spotted him at a traffic junction. He recounted how the staff had stayed till the end and how, miraculously, they had managed to save almost everyone at the Golden Dragon. I, of course, would not have expected anything less.

Sab Nahi Chalta Hai
SITANSHI TALATI-PARIKH – ASSISTANT FEATURES EDITOR
‘Light a candle and watch it burn away
Light a fire in your soul and keep it here to stay....’
I read post after post, article after article of heart-rending stories and traumatic accounts. In reading them, I forget my own pain. But a greater anguish floods my soul – it is a gut-wrenching feeling, like something is being ripped out from inside. The city isn’t burning, we are. We are being caught alive and examined in public – it is our own public hanging and extermination – well-deserved in the face of reality. It made me angry when we revelled in the spirit of Mumbai, to bounce back and just get into work, without a second thought. I came to work, broken and disheartened, walked into the building barely a block away from Café Leopold and watched everyone discussing the horror in muted tones, with escalating emotions. I couldn’t join in. I watched people – young people – say ‘but it will be okay – we will be back to normal soon, sab chalta hai’. My mind screamed out to them – what is normal? Is our apathy – which is neither resilience nor spiritedness – normal?
As I arrived, a few days later for the protest march and drifted along with the throng, as if I were a paper boat riding a wave, something snapped within me. A sense of pride, a sense of conviction, a sense of determination, a sense of change. As the chants mounted into a powerful crescendo, it was the chant of a city finding its spirit. The real spirit – not to sit back and watch, but to stand up and take charge.
I felt a thundering inside me, as I watched the intelligentsia rub shoulders with the workers. Every ethnic community stood unified that night – the remote SoBoites who generally abscond from voting because it is beneath them, stormed the streets and asked for justice, pushed for change.
Of course this time it was because it was the Taj and Oberoi that got hit. Of course it was because these are places that we could have been at – on another day, at another time. And of course, it made people uncomfortable – for the first time, this made them sit up and take notice. It was unfortunately at the cost of so many people, so many people we knew, but all the same, it gave Mumbai a soul.
If we need a cause to get motivated, this is it. Let us not burn another candle in our lives – a candle that may brighten up a dark night, sympathise with a bereft one and watch out for a lost soul; but ones which eventually melt away into the night like stained wax. Let it not be another incident relegated to the archives of human thought – better left undisturbed. Let us wake every day with a fire that eats into us, ravages us, demanding that we do something, to make it right. Let it not take the loss of one more life before we hold onto our very evasive Mumbai soul.

It’s Alright Ma, I’m Only Crying
MAMTA BADKAR – EDITORIAL COORDINATOR
To quote Bob Dylan:
‘Disillusioned words like bullets bark
As human gods aim for their mark
Made everything from toy guns that spark
To flesh-coloured Christs that glow in the dark
It’s easy to see without looking too far
That not much is really sacred.’

I heard a sound like thunder Wednesday evening and thought it strangely anachronistic. My mother dismissed it as a fire-cracker but the second blast was so loud my window panes shook. The news channels were reporting a gang-war but the blasts that took place 10 minutes from my house were in fact grenades and it was obvious from the start that this wasn’t underworld gun-culture playing itself out given that the victims were all locals or tourists. After a two hour phone-call frenzy I sat glued to my television watching terrorists take over what I’ve always considered my turf.

‘Temptation’s page flies out the door
You follow, find yourself at war
Watch waterfalls of pity roar
You feel to moan but unlike before
You discover that you’d just be one more person crying.’

I live in South Mumbai, I went to school here, I went to college here and now I work here. It seems like an acutely parochial existence to any outsider and maybe it is, but it’s what I know. As the young death dealers scourged Café Leopold, Taj, Oberoi and CST I had painfully provincial concerns. I was thinking that could be me, my family, my friends. I was wondering why the government wasn’t doing any more to help them. My office was literally at Ground zero. And then I realised there had been blasts in Jaipur, Ahmedabad, Banaglore, Delhi, Malegaon and Assam and all they had got from me were a few platitudes. How then could I expect more?
‘And though the rules of the road have been lodged It’s only people’s games that you got to dodge
And it’s alright ma, I can make it.’
Enough has been said about the Mumbai attacks, fingers have been pointed every which way and then some, brown-nosed politicians have resigned and school children have marched in protest. But I somehow can’t shake the feeling that I too am accountable. I can’t wipe my hands clean even if I didn’t vote the government that failed us, into power. That’s the democratic catch-22 if you will. We can’t just believe in a democracy, it is something we have to participate in.

Overcome, I Must
SAMEER MORE – DESIGNER
Hide from your cruelty
trying to hide for days
hide from your lies
your evil ways hunting me
stalking me
leave me!
stop constantly beating me!
Oh please set me free
I’m crying, stop!
I can’t take this pain, save me,
save me from this torture
before I go insane
you tell me to get up,
so you can push me down one more time
what do you get?
what is this for?
I can defeat you
I can overcome this fear
I can try to dest you after all these years,
But why is it so hard to say goodbye to it?

Candles of love
APSARA OSWAL – JUNIOR FASHION STYLIST
I’ve been residing in Mumbai for the last 10 years and there is no other place in the world I would call home. This city has given me a sense of belonging and my heart wept as I witnessed it being bruised and battered. Enough has been articulated regarding the precarious nature of life today and I’m tired of being anxious and angry. The eerie quietness subsequent to this brutal tragedy has given me (and hopefully others) the strength to realise that you cannot always choose what happens, but faith lights the way through the darkest night, directs us through the fiercest storm and sustains us when we are feeling vulnerable and weak. Let’s keep the candles of love and compassion burning beyond this incident and start now in helping humanity in whichever way possible, instead of just conveniently blaming the system for its inadequacy. The success of a democracy lies in the minds and hearts of the citizens to imagine a perfect world and then play the part in its creation.

My Dirty Diamond: Bombay
ARSHAD SAID KHAN – SENIOR WRITER
I’m looking for a word that would sum up all that the city of Bombay and its spaces mean to me. ‘Bathos’ is as close as I can get. Here I have done A-list parties; sipped Cristal on a six-tier yacht; enjoyed prawn biryani at Janta Bar and seen Hindi dubbed B grade Hollywood flicks in Kamathipura cinema holes. Attending fashion week in a vintage dog collar-leash and Manish Arora boots before grabbing a quick Daarbeli at VT is just a small instance from what I call: my Bombay life. Sleaze or super luxury: I’m crazy in love with this unpredictable monster’s offerings.
Of course this is not the life of everyone but I’m one of those lucky thousands who see Bombay’s many dimensions. In Colaba I’ve worked, been conned, picked up strangers and bargained over cool accessories many times over. Besides partying at The Taj and The Trident, I have known the staff at stores like Gucci and Zegna while sourcing clothes for fashion shoots. The lesser-discussed blast near the docks was where I would take after-dinner walks when I used to live in Mazgaon. The Chowpatty encounter happened near my college and I listened in horror as my professor described the sound of gunshots, to me. One of my best friends works at The Times and we were on phone as he ran for his life.
I was angry, extremely angry that my lover was attacked. So angry that I must confess, for the first time I uttered, “The *-#: @!”. And now I’m angry at Bombayites and the whole nation because my head is swimming with half baked opinions and touristy fingers pointing at the unlit hotels. And the fact that I can’t ride a rented bicycle to the Gateway anymore. Angry, because I see cops everywhere but don’t feel secure.
But dazzled I am still with the filth and the shimmer and will always be. The circus goes on. PR people still hound me over new products I can write about. I half listen as I plan out my evening date and wonder how long we’ll have to wait for a table at the sole sweaty dhaba Crystal overlooking Chowpatty. We will go disco dancing at Polly Esther’s later and top it all off with Bade Miyan’s roadside meaty goodies. Oh and this is not the weekend’s agenda. Fancy a ride? Do bring a Fellini perspective if you decide to drop in.

Our Bombay
HINA OOMER-AHMED – JUNIOR FASHION STYLIST
For me, the events of 26/11 were in a sense a reminder of the terror of being around on 9/11 – the same sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach, shock, disbelief and unbridled anger. A reminder of how vulnerable and unprepared we are for the onslaught of destructive forces that make a mockery of the false sense of security we continue to feel.
It is a challenging time to be a Muslim, difficult to see the senseless death and destruction being carried out in the name of a religion that you have believed in all your life. But then this was not the religion I was brought up to believe in – it does not propagate hatred, violence and merciless murder. These happenings are the result of a group of people who grossly misinterpret and misquote the religious texts in order to mislead impressionable youth to create terror for political and strategic gains. I am Muslim but also an Indian. I feel as violated and hurt as any citizen of Mumbai.
It is tiring and frustrating to live in a world where one has to constantly look over one’s shoulder. It is time to stop thinking in divisive terms of religion, political affiliation or class and show our unconditional love and support for a city that has given us so much. It’s time to take back the night of 26/11, take back our Bombay!

My City...
PRIYANKA SIPPY – GENERAL MANAGER, MARKETING
The city that has cradled me in her arms
Laughed with me, cried with me,
Where I’ve loved and lost and loved again,
The city that I’ve always sworn by,
Albeit the dust and dirt, the crowds and noise,
Safe, lively, happy, vibrant Mumbai.
Until they came and cruelly wiped the smile off her face,
Again...and again…and again.
I can feel her tears, her anguish and pain,
As she cries for lives lost, faith lost
For her children so dear.
As a mute spectator of irresponsible and insensitive leadership
She holds out her arms
As if to say
Together we can fix this
So we never have another day
So dark and full of despair.
Let’s stand together and put back the pieces
Give her the courage to hold up her head and
Smile again.

Elitist Target
SHAINITA BHANSALI MEHTA – DEPUTY MANAGER, ADVERTISING AND PROMOTIONS
Ever since the attack our eyes have been fixed either on the news channels or on every newspaper. One can’t overlook the fact that this has resulted in enough noise and hoopla from every citizen of this city, almost as though this were the first attack ever. Given that the elite have been targeted this time, clearly shows their power to question the politics of this country. It is a shame then that these things are ignored or taken for granted when the lower class is aimed at; like post the attacks on the local trains two years ago where the death toll was much much higher than 26/11. The ‘Enough is enough’ campaign screaming all over the city has gained more power this time than ever. One can conclude that when beauty is victimised, tolerance has no limit. Terrorism seeks no beauty and no pride. It only seeks the innocent and the lives of the innocent. This voice that has arisen, however, should only be the first step to the action that will make a difference.

Evolved Species?
LILY SHROFF – ASSISTANT MANAGER BUSINESS AND DEVELOPMENT
Settling down after the attacks in Mumbai, I still cannot believe that they took place four blocks down the road from my home. Tranquility shattered and chaos ruled! Over a month later, the question that remains in my mind, repeatedly unanswered, is now what? Do we go back to life as usual and allow ourselves to depend upon the level of unpreparedness our government exhibited? Do I stop talking and figure out how to register myself as a politician and make a difference? The question remains, how do we rationally eradicate the cause without eradicating humanity? If any one side can answer this question – politicians, citizens or even the terrorists – then we can go back to calling ourselves an evolved species.

Are They Muslim?
LAMYA BHATRI – JUNIOR PHOTO EDITOR
Are they Muslim? I believe not. Are they even human? How can perpetrators of such heinous crimes and destruction be followers of a religion that means peace, purity, submission and obedience?
Why must I, a liberal, urban Muslim have to repeatedly defend my religion? How often will I be stopped at a security gate because of my name? When will people realise that these extremists, terrorists, do not stand for Islam? Will people always look at a burkha-clad woman with scorn? Will a bearded gentleman always be regarded with suspicion?
Will people ever understand that the greater jihad is against the evils within oneself? I, as a Muslim, hurt as much when I hear of terror attacks across the globe. And then, there’s the added anguish of knowing all this is done in the name of the faith I was born into. The Quran I know does not stand for this. And, who is more at fault? The man who fired the gun or the man who brainwashed him? If his name was Kumar or Karl instead of Kasab, would the world react differently? When will this end, Allah, Bhagvan, Christ.... When?

The Scent Of Fear
MALA VAISHNAV – MANAGING EDITOR
Mumbai city’s corruption, squalor, high rises and lowlife are what we have learnt to live with. Traffic jams and water cuts are damned on a daily basis. And the foul air in our lungs transforms into the ubiquitous yearly wheeze. We ignored these perennial irritants because at least we lived in ‘one of the safest cities in the world’. Use your common sense, we told our children and new visitors. Keep away from the dark alleys at night, don’t walk on lonely streets or subways. As long as you stay in crowded well lit public places, Mumbai is quite safe. A safety that has always been taken for granted.
Today, I am on high alert. Do I ask a cabbie to bomb check his vehicle before getting in? At a cinema, will I find myself watching, from the corner of my eye, the person in the next seat and wonder why he keeps bending down? And drive myself into a frenzy over it? If an elevator suddenly stops mid-floor in a five-star, will my blood pressure shoot up? If my child does not return home at the stipulated hour, will I inundate her with calls? I have already begun distancing myself from dustbins on suburban stations and memorising exit areas in malls. In a train last week, three women commuters suddenly stood up shrieking and the compartment went into silent shock. It was a cockroach! In former times, there would have been laughter and a shaking of heads. Now, the girls were treated to frozen glares, even reprimanded for creating a scene.
At a dinner I attended the same night a champagne bottle cork popped somewhere and the foreigners in the restaurant all but ducked before smiling sheepishly.
Terrorism is a great leveller. You could be a rail passenger, a woman giving birth, a victim of a car hijack, a supercop or a fine diner. Nobody matters.
So as we go about our daily routines, I wait for Mumbai to be declared ‘safe’ again. But who will tell me that? And more importantly, will I believe them?
It is only when I reach my doorstep each day that I fully exhale. Till then, it is a long series of short breaths....

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