Smell the fear

Exactly after one month of the attacks, I drop by the Taj for a walk down the memory lane. While the staff members put up a brave face, and smile as widely as physically possible, their eyes are blank and haunted. And the stench of death and fear is unmistakable.There aren’t too many visitors (this is prime time eve), the otherwise packed lobby is frighteningly sparse. Students from the National School of Blind sing Christmas carols with great energy (see pic), but there are only a handful of listeners. I have never in my life had the glitzy lobby to myself. The Christmas tree decorated mainly white (the classy Taj touch) looks forlorn and loveless. While the lady at the desk reports 60% occupancy, sadly, I don’t see the figure remotely close. Clearly, she’s been briefed to get the spirits up. And if the lady is right about the number, the guests are safely ordering in, no one wants to hang out at the refurbished restaurants and bars anymore.We devour chai and sandwiches at the old-fav Shamiana. Again, we have the 24-hour joint to ourselves, there are only a few other guests (see the pic of a nearly vacant Shamiana). Grenades were lobbed exactly where we are seated. While the tea is as delicious as always, can’t seem to get the image of destruction out of my mind. It’s going to take the Taj a lot more time than we thought to reach normalcy.Equally, the shops are deserted. The Nalanda bookshop (seldom have I dropped by and not ran into a friend/acquaintance) has turned into my personal library. The Starboard bar, thankfully, has a few patrons. I quietly slip into the smoking lounge (the Taj tower pic has been shot from there), and notice two young girls puffing away and guzzling down wine. They don’t seem too upset, they don’t suss me out for a suspicious back-pack, and seem lost in their own conversation. They are the only brave souls inside the hotel, wonder if it’s bravery or some great wine.Damn, even the loo has been exclusively reserved for me.And I don’t even want to recount the lonely walk to the old wing, by the pool. This is what I felt walking by the Nagapattinum beach days after the tsunami.Outside the hotel, I urge the Sardarji durban to allow us to walk by the heritage structure (totally closed to the public). After a moment’s hesitation, he kindly grants permission. So we solemnly walk by the ravaged, raped, desolate heritage wing, devoid of humanity, even the sea seems unusually quiet, as if in mourning. (And to think this is the stretch which finds common ground with taporis, tourists, peanut sellers, romancing couples, prostitutes, pimps and elderly walkers.) The room lights are kept on (to keep the faith intact), but the fear is palpable. And the exit into the streets of the bustling Colaba brings much relief. A joy to suddenly run into humanity.No, 26/11 won’t go away too soon. The scars are just too deep to heal. Maybe they never will. Bombay will never be the same again. The terrorists are winning this war.