“They are holed up in the kitchens of the Taj!” That was the subsequent bit of news that filtered in as we sat on the long rows of dining tables at the Colaba Agiary, where a Parsi wedding feast was slowly abandoned.

It had not taken us long to realise that the firing which first began at the Leopold Café at Colaba Causeway just a short distance away from where we were, was more than some underworld shoot out, a play of bullets between two gangs. Within 30 minutes of the first senseless shootings at the Café, the massacre had extended. To the Victoria Terminus, to the Oberoi and the Taj hotels, to Cama Hospital where three of our top cops were shot down simultaneously.

It was unbelievable. One moment we were all laughing and talking, clinking wine glasses and the next there was shock and disbelief, fear and worry, a horrible gloom. The fairy lights had lost their lustre and the band had long stopped playing. There were over two hundred guests all beautifully dressed in silks, bejewelled, now pacing, now huddled in small groups, speaking in hushed tones, confusion writ large on their faces. Discussions were on, each trying to comprehend what was going on in the city, our city. The senior police officers and hotel top brass which was also present among the high profile guests, had quietly left to pursue their line of duty.

I felt alone and withdrew myself from the crowd to find myself a quiet spot. Suddenly I was inexplicably afraid. I wished my husband was alive. I missed the presence of someone strong I could turn to. There was just a mobile phone to stay connected with family, as well as to know what was going on through a relay of information by those watching the carnage on TV (and who wasn’t!). Desperate friends from around the world who know most of us are in and out of these two hotels on most days were calling to check if I was safe. The feeling of anger and impotency at not being able to do something for our city was driving me to tears.

I had a graphic map in my mind of the lay of the kitchens at the Taj, something normal visitors to the hotel are not aware. I have been to the kitchens umpteen number of times. To shoot photographs for this magazine, interview chefs, learn about new recipes, help mix the Christmas pudding, and to sit innumerable times in the glass office of Chef Hemant Oberoi to discuss his culinary experiences, learn something new. And it was to him that my mind kept going. Where was he? Was he alright? How was his staff? Were they all safe? Stupidly I was thinking of all the knives hanging there, the hundreds of gas cylinders…The thought that there were ruthless terrorists holed in there was driving me insane.

And then news of Oberoi was filtering in. Of grenades being chucked, hostages being taken, of two restaurants- Tiffins and Kandahar being stormed, of diners being indiscrimately shot down… Was all that possible? Maybe somebody was getting it all wrong. I was hoping it was true that it was all false. A bad dream, mere rumours.

Unfortunately, everything was true. They were showing it all on TV. Live. By now, three hours later, most guests had left. Sharing cars, or leaving in convoys, or spending the night in houses of friends who lived nearby. I was still indecisive. My friends made up my mind for me, we should leave, they said. In such times we function on auto pilot. And strange as it may seem all I wanted to do most was reach home and hug my pet, Inshy. My Lhasa Apso is the closest person to me on earth and what I needed most was her warmth and innocence and gentleness.

So we left. Putting all our jewellery in our evening bags, my friend Zeba Kohli, her husband Rajesh and I, with trepidation, drove away in a convoy of four cars. It was eerie, the streets were desolate. We were in Navy Nagar, the Defense area and we saw trucks full of soldiers parked along the way, waiting for orders. My cell phone suddenly rang. It was an ex-staffer who lives at Colaba, “Ma’am,” she pleaded urgently, “please don’t leave, they are just two minutes away from the Agiary (the Parsi Fire Temple where we were), they have bombed a gas station near Colaba Market!” I regretfully informed her we already had. To which she responded asking us to drive with caution and keep in mind that two of the terrorists who had absconded in a police van were still on the road somewhere.

We kept our nerves and drove on slowly. When we reached the right turn under Air India building on Marine Drive, the full import hit us. We were witness to chilling activity, the water front was crammed with police vehicles, fire engines, ambulances, TV vans, policemen with guns, media, people with family and friends stranded inside the hotel swarmed the place. Oberoi just a little away was cordoned off.

We drove past this scene, our mouths dry, our hearts frozen.

Malabar Hill where we lived was just at the end of the Marine Drive, up Walkeshwar Road, but the empty stretch ahead seemed endless. And then when we reached Chowpatty, at the traffic signal just past the two famous restaurants Cream Centre and New Yorker we just knew something was wrong. The posse of police were hurriedly pulling the barricades from the beach strip and putting them in place, blocking the road. When we slowed to ask what was happening, we were chased away with shrill blowing of whistles and frantic waving of arms. We sensed something and stepped on it, to reach home minutes later to learn that the two terrorists on the loose in the police jeep had developed a flat tyre, swapped cars near the Mantralaya throwing out the occupants of a Skoda and come driving down Marine Drive, right to this barricade where our brave policemen charged at them with their lathis and pistols, shooting dead one of the dastards and taking alive the other.

Life suddenly seems to be hanging by a thread.