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. And I was almost certain that the corpse was wearing 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 live 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. We hoped “No news is good news”.
Several hours later, mom received a text message from Andy. “ Rakesh and I walked out of the Oberoi. Rakesh was so brave and so clever. Several of us were able to escape with his help. He put us into a military van leaving for the airport. There were some people still trapped inside the hotel, Rakesh went to talk to the police. 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. But we received it about 24 hours after the attacks began.
When the curfew finally lifted 36 hours after the first attack, my cousin Khushroo 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 exactly this 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 Mary’s Class of 1977 t-shirt, exactly like the one dad sometimes wore under his lucky ducky shirt. The bullet had narrowly missed the Farvahar around his neck.
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