A reporter talks on her phone as smoke is seen coming from hotel Taj in Mumbai on Thursday. Arko Datta / Reuters
That was when it got chaotic. In the narrow, snaking corridor, where two people couldn’t walk comfortably side by side, we were fired at. We couldn’t tell where exactly the shots were from, but they were alarmingly close. We turned and ran back inside, keeping our heads down. There was almost a stampede-like situation, before the group pressed to the door behind us realized what was happening and moved back. People tripped and fell, but were pulled up and we ran back inside. We had no idea what happened to the rest who had been evacuated earlier. We ran to the larger room at the Chambers and sunk into chairs. After about half an hour, without any word from outside, we heard volleys of gunfire back and forth, from the corridor outside. Everyone flattened themselves on the ground, with their hands over their heads. We were snaked around the furniture and the floor was a tangle of bodies and limbs, each trying to make space for themselves, while doing the same for their companions on the ground. The lights were soon switched off and everyone was silent. We stayed that way till morning, with gunfire going back and forth, and even what sounded like grenade blasts coming from the corridor, probably just 30 feet from us. Soon those crisp sheets were being torn up to stanch wounds—a man had been shot in the arm and a woman had injured her leg. The dawn broke through the stained glass windows that led to the terrace. But still no word from anyone. We heard via cellphones, that the rest of the building had been evacuated.
To everyone’s credit, there was no hysteria; a few people were crying softly but soon stopped. Everyone kept cool, even though, those hours before dawn were the bleakest. We seriously feared for our lives, and everyone was praying. Most softly, but some whispered chants of Jai Mata Di reached our ears. I was frightened, terrified actually, but was too busy praying through the gunfire to cry.
All through this ordeal, I had been exchanging text messages with friends and family. I must have exchanged over a hundred messages with my brother, who was frantic at home. Friends, colleagues, ex-colleagues and family members kept telling me they were praying, and that helped. They were passing on what they saw on the news—“the commandos have arrived, this squad has stormed the building, that one has now come; you’re sure to be rescued soon”. But we weren’t, not just then.
It had been silent for a few hours after dawn. At about 8.30am, a commando, with a machine gun and a bulletproof vest rushed in. We lifted ourselves off the floor at his instructions, with our hands in the air. “Does anybody have any weapons?” After we all whispered no, we were asked to line up. Just then, some commotion caused us to panic—I cannot remember if it was more shots, but someone shouted get down, and we all dived to the floor (not an easy feat in a sari). “I want you all to stay calm. Listen to me, there is nothing to worry about. The first bullet will go through me, I’m leading you out,” our commando said. We got back up and we stepped out into a corridor, which was strewn with broken glass and bullet shells. Crunching our way through that, I spotted a small restaurant or private dining room, which was in a shambles. We walked down a flight of stairs guarded by commandos and through corridors; in some there were pools of congealed blood. We made our way to the lobby and were led out into the sunshine on the porch, where we had given our car to the valet the night before.
But it wasn’t over yet. As a cop van and BEST bus pulled up and people started getting in, shots rang out at the vehicles from the hotel. Some of the gunmen were still inside. We all ran back to the lobby doors, but there was not much fear; the presence of the commandos and other personnel gave us courage. My friend and I were put into a BEST bus after 10 minutes. We were packed like sardines and everyone was crouched with their heads down. Some of us didn’t lift our heads till we got to Azad Maidan police station. The cops were quite comforting—they laid out plastic chairs for us, gave us water, and took our details, before we were free to leave.
Through all of this we were in touch with the bride and groom whose reception had been disrupted. They had not yet left their room in the old wing when the firing started. They laid low with the lights off, listening to the firing that was going on in the corridor outside their room.