Class 1 - The Bodies

This could not be my dad. My dad was muscular and fit. The body on the ice slab was obese. It had a bullet hole through the chest. But it was wearing a shirt very much like my dad's favorite shirt. 

The official’s eyes were bloodshot and slightly crazed. He too was struggling with maintaining his composure. “”Can you help us with a description? Identification marks..?”

Three nights ago we, my mother, my sister, my cousin and I  were  watching “Kaun Banega Crorepati” - the Hindi version of Who Wants to Be a Millionaire. Dad and his colleague Andy were out at a business meeting with a delegation from the UK. They had just finished negotiating film distribution rights, and Dad was going to be dropping Andy off at the airport around midnight. 

Mid-question we heard the strident sounds of the  “Breaking News” feature,  the station switched to coverage of the horror unfolding across the city.  Bomb blasts had gone off in the past hour, at 6 different places in  Mumbai. There was also word of a gunman shooting at citizens inside the Grand Victoria Terminus. The city was under a “shoot-on-sight” curfew. 

We saw a text  from Dad on the Family group. “Andy and I are at the Oberoi. Looks like there is some disturbance here. Some mad man playing terrorist. We are walking out the back entrance. All will be well. Good thing I'm wearing my lucky ducky shirt. Love, Dad.” We tried calling him, then, but could not get through. 

Cell phone towers were malfunctioning across the city, but the television network soldiered on. We watched as firefighters tried to control blazes across the city. We watched the terrorists on CCTV footage from the Taj Palace hotel. We saw the smoke erupt as they set it on fire.  We heard about bomb blasts in a taxi cab and at the railway terminus. There was no mention of the Oberoi on TV. My mother tried to console us as much as she tried to console herself,  “No news is good news”. 

About twenty four hours later Mom received the following text from Andy. 

“Typing this from the back of a military van giving us a ride to the airport. Rakesh helped several of us escape through a side door. He is with the police at the Oberoi, he's showing them where another group is sheltering from the terrorists. I’m sure you will all be together very soon.”  

We couldn’t tell when he had sent the text because of the issue with the cell phone networks. 

When the curfew finally lifted 36 hours after the first attack, my cousin Keki and I ran the 2 kilometers to the Oberoi. We had heard reports that over 100 people had managed to get out. 

But we did not find my dad there. The terrorists were still holed up inside. We were forced to leave as a commando unit rolled in. 

It had been another 24 hours before the military commandos had totally secured the hotel. We were directed to a make-shift hospital set up in a nearby office building.

“My dad was wearing a similar shirt, but this isn’t my dad.” “How can you be so sure ? Bodies change…..”  “I’m sure”, I said, my heart soaring at the possibility that dad might still be alive. “This man is wearing a gold chain with an Om pendant on it. My dad has a platinum chain with the Zorastrian Farvahar.” 

“There isn’t anyone else wearing such a colorful shirt”, the man said. His assistant tapped his elbow, and spoke to him quietly. I followed their gaze to the body lying by itself on a table in the corner, the face covered. The blood splattered t-shirt was a St Peters class of 1977 t-shirt, exactly like the one dad sometimes wore under his lucky ducky shirt. The bullet had narrowly missed the Farvahar which dangled apologetically off to the side of his body.