The Siege: 68 Hours Inside the Taj Hotel (40 page)

Finally, he was outside, as cameras clicked and whirred and the warm morning sun was on his face. A police van drew up, and a constable beckoned over Bhisham’s aged mother, who was hobbling on bleeding feet, offering to take her to the nearby Azad Maidan police station. Bewildered, Bhisham waved her off, before climbing into a waiting bus. He stared up at the windows of the Taj, wondering if the Thadanis had made it out too.

Mike Pollack caught up with Anjali on the hotel steps. Swinging her around, he whisked out his BlackBerry to snap a picture: Mike grinning broadly, Anjali, caught mid-sob, terror and relief in her eyes.

Ack, ack, ack.
Mike spun around, his phone still held aloft, and saw bullets were streaming down from the windows above. People dressed up for the night stood blinking in the day, incredulous. The screaming began as guests dragged one another out of the way. Mike lifted Anjali through the door of an open bus, shouting, ‘Lie low,’ as Taj staffers formed a human shield around those remaining. Hot bullets and frantic bursts of fire pattered everywhere, as Mike was pulled towards a boundary wall, cowering against it, half kneeling. He heard a click and looked around to see a photographer taking a shot.

Bhisham had his face pressed into the grimy rubber floor of the
bus and was crying. ‘The whole thing is a crazy film shoot,’ he said, broken by the unending terror, as the bus lurched forward, gathering speed, until finally the gunfire was inaudible.

Within an hour he and his mother were home in Breach Candy, turning on the TV news, searching for reports on missing friends, as if it were all a dream. After showering, he pulled the cork from a bottle of red wine he had been given as a gift in Italy earlier that year. This was the right occasion, he said to himself, as he savoured the plummy, rich red fruits and his mother pulled her face into a look of disgust. ‘Alcohol
saved
our lives,’ Bhisham exploded. ‘If I’d not taken us upstairs to the Crystal Room for a drink at 9.30 p.m., you and I would have died in that lobby.’

As the wine softened his mood, he felt a pang of something he could not understand. But it was not for the dead and injured, or even for the grand hotel that was still being pummelled, or for Gunjan Narang, the school bully who he now knew had been slaughtered alongside his family in the cellars, or for others whose fates he still did not know. What he felt was disappointment, or perhaps even sadness. ‘I had become so convinced that it was the end for me that I was committed to the idea of my death,’ he recalled. Now that he had survived, it was going to take an age to readjust.

Mike Pollack eventually made it back to his in-laws’ house, exhilarated. ‘Everything that has happened,’ he gabbled to Anjali, as they hugged their two sons, ‘is literally biblical.’ The epic slaughter and disasters of the Old Testament were, to his way of thinking, mythical. But what they had endured inside the Taj was a real, elemental journey. ‘Look what humans are capable of when put in harm’s way,’ he told her, hopping about. ‘See what we became? How we all helped each other?’

Mike was already thinking ahead, disenchanted by what he had done with his life so far, playing the high-stakes game at the edge of human possibility. ‘These things just fall away in the face of death,’ he confessed to Anjali, ‘leaving only what is truly important.’ He would sell up the hedge fund and channel his money and energies into something more fulfilling.

10 a.m. – the cellars

The dark had a flavour. It tasted like cardboard and smelled of gravy. Enveloped by it, Chef Oberoi listened to the sound of approaching footsteps. He was shattered and dehydrated, his stomach growling. Looking around, everyone seemed to have reached the end. There was a knock on the door. ‘Come out.’ The small, portly chef stood, quaking in the darkness. ‘Please stand,’ he signalled to the others – guests and their children, members of his Kitchen Brigade. They would face whatever was out there with dignity.

As Oberoi pushed open the door, torchlight blinded them. Sixteen people, eyes straining, filed out of the door, staring at the masked gunmen before them. ‘Follow us,’ one of them said in Hindi, and it dawned on Oberoi that they were not
fidayeen
but Indian soldiers. But no one felt elated as they walked silently through the gloom, trying to ignore evidence of the slaughter that had, inexplicably, missed them. Oberoi suspected that he would never be able to forget the sounds of killing as he passed the puddles of congealing blood marking where his colleagues had fallen. After a couple of twists and turns, they were suddenly outside and standing blinking in the warm sunshine, inhaling the smells of a heaving city by the sea.

He caught sight of shell-shocked colleagues huddled together, like the shipwreck survivors, watching the still burning Palace wing, everyone contemplating those who had not made it. Oberoi caught up with their news, and the first report was the hardest to swallow. Chef Banja, his ally and foil, was confirmed dead.

So was Wasabi’s head waiter, the iron-man Thomas Varghese. Young Hemant Talim, the Golden Dragon chef, was critical and Chef ‘Big Foot’ Kamdin had been killed. Oberoi recalled how the Kitchen Brigade joked that he was a giant: ‘
Kaiz bhai, tereko teri height maar gayi
[Brother Kaiz, your height has killed you].’ Zodiac’s Chef Mateen was also dead. Oberoi had been waiting for him to hand in his notice, after getting a high score in his matriculation exams that would have secured him a place in any top business
school. Where was Chef Boris Rego from Shamiana? Missing. Oberoi winced. Rego’s father, Urbano, was a close colleague and a friend, Goa’s most famous culinary star. What would he tell him? And what of Chef Raghu, the banqueting chef who had made a stand in the Chambers kitchens? He was also missing. Nitin Minocha, the Golden Dragon senior sous-chef, a Vijay Banja in the making, the hotel’s emerging talent, was in hospital, where doctors feared he might lose an arm.

Oberoi needed distractions. He had to work. The chef began to organize visits to hospitals. Ratan Tata had pledged to cover all staff medical bills. Funerals would have to be arranged, underwritten by Tata too. Oberoi borrowed a phone and dialled Chef Banja’s wife, Fareeda. He broke the news to her and her eighteen-year-old son, as all around ambulances mustered, ferrying survivors and the dead to hospitals across the heartbroken city.

At Jaslock Hospital, on Pedder Road in Breach Candy, Rajvardhan Sinha, the chief of SB2, arrived. After leaving the Taj with his batch-mate Vishwas Patil, he had hobbled home to find his eight-year-old son getting ready for school. The domestic scene had blindsided him. Up until now Rajvardhan had lived in a bubble of war, prepared to die at any moment. But here normal life was going on. His son was full of questions and Rajvardhan had been careful to stick to the basics. He was caught out when the boy began to cry, running over to hug him, sensing that he had almost lost his father, in a scene of anguish tinged with relief that Rajvardhan imagined was being acted out all over the city. ‘The siege is only part of it,’ he told his wife, a college lecturer. ‘These killers have trespassed on our sense of security.’ She had never seen him so worked up before, and knowing that he would not rest until the siege was over, she insisted he get an X-ray.

Two hours later, his ankle heavily strapped, Rajvardhan hobbled back to his office in Rang Bhavan Lane. From there, he called the state’s head of intelligence, who confirmed that everything pointed to Pakistan. Rajvardhan was ordered to liaise with foreign intelligence agencies, assuring them that India was on top of things, while
probing to see if they had anything that pointed to the direct involvement of the Pakistan military.

Rajvardhan’s men had their work cut out, confirming the identities of foreigners who had died in the assault so that their corpses could be repatriated and dealing with the chaos of the paperless living. Many hotel guests and Leopold victims had lost everything, and his men would need to confirm who they were before issuing them with exit permits. He also had the FBI to deal with too. A note on his desk informed him that a parallel criminal inquiry by the Bureau was already underway. He looked out of his window towards the lane where eight hours earlier three senior colleagues had been gunned down: Kamte, Karkare and Salaskar. How had it happened? Soon they would salute them at their funerals.

At Bombay Hospital, Amit Peshave, who had only slept for four hours in two days, was still working. ‘Kidneys failed. Four or five bullet wounds. Hip. Buttocks. Hands – twice. Thigh. Groin,’ an orderly shouted as a woman from the Taj cellar was pulled out on a trolley, tagged with the name Jharna Narang. Amit recoiled. ‘Blood, fluids, clear the way.’ The woman’s parents and brother, Gunjan, had died, an orderly said, while the gunmen had left her for dead. Amit stared at her blood-spattered face, mesmerized by her murmuring lips that seemed to be chanting.

‘Two shots in the torso, one in the leg.’ Another ambulance had swung in. As Amit helped with the stretcher, a crimson rivulet of blood poured off the trolley, soaking his shirt and trousers. ‘Please, no,’ he gasped, almost dropping the body. Despite his parents being doctors, he had grown up with a phobia of blood. As he glanced up at the patient’s face, he realized it was Chef Raghu, his friend from Chambers who he thought was dead. Sunil Kudiyadi had reported seeing a gunman sitting on Raghu’s corpse, having emptied a magazine into him. Now Amit stared at the gaping, crimson tear in Raghu’s whites and a cascade of emotion washed over him. ‘Blood and wound packing,’ an orderly cried. ‘Pull through,’ Amit urged, welling up. Raghu’s eyes flicked opened and he smiled. ‘Hey, boss,’ he whispered.

Amit needed to walk. He picked up his soiled black jacket and strolled out into the sunshine, heading towards his dorm in Abbas Mansions. Along the way he bumped into a friend from the Trident–Oberoi hotel. Both of them guessed what the other had been through, so they walked along in silence, sipping a small flask of Honeybee rum. When Amit rounded the corner of the Taj, a soldier stepped out of a gateway, aiming his rifle. ‘Stop, or I
will
shoot.’ His finger wavered over the trigger. ‘Taj staff,’ Amit cried in Hindi, feeling ragged and full of hatred for the world. Something about his frantic tone and dishevelled demeanour rang true. ‘What the hell are you doing, man?’ the soldier asked, lowering his weapon. ‘I was inside
there
,’ Amit said, pointing to the Taj. ‘And now I have to sleep.’ The soldier saluted, letting him pass into Abbas Mansions.

Upstairs, Amit threw off his clothes and filled a bucket to shower. When the water finally ran clear, he dried himself off and called his family in Pune, before kneeling: ‘Thank you, God,’ he prayed, ‘for saving my life.’ There would, after all, be time for a frame of snooker, for girls and guitar lessons, to take a trip and make his mark. But first he had to sleep.

11 a.m. – the Taj Tower

Inside the Taj, four terrorists continued to pinball around, hurling grenades and shooting up rooms in wild acts that the Black Cats sensed were retribution for the Chambers evacuation. The commandos hoped to contain them in the Palace while they entered the Tower, which promised to be a complex and lengthy operation. There were twenty floors, usually with seventeen rooms on a floor, containing an unspecified number of guests, as well as 140 non-residential rooms – restaurants, kitchens and stores. Only one electronic master key could be found, which would slow down access.

As guests had been told to stay in their rooms in a coordinated ring-round, Kudiyadi feared it was going to be difficult to talk people
out. The Black Cats mostly spoke no English and doors locked from the inside would have to be blown open. From experience, Major Unnikrishnan knew that it took an average of five minutes to clear a room, assuming there was no contact. This meant they required an unfeasible thirty-six man-hours to empty the Tower, which would take them to Saturday evening, even before they turned to the six-storey maze of the Palace wing with its 264 guest rooms. Given how late they had come to the city, and how few boots they had on the ground, with only a small transporter plane found for them that could carry just 120 men and their kit, this was untenable. ‘Everything needs to be done in double-time,’ the Brigadier warned.

Sisodia and Major Unnikrishnan went over the drill. They would start from the top of the Tower, with gravity on their side, the Major advising his men to avoid silhouetting in doorways and windows, reminding them that a blasted door was the area of greatest vulnerability. Two commandos would stand on opposite sides of the threshold, ready to move, using a manoeuvre known as ‘the buttonhook’ that required them to enter, cross and turn back on themselves, dominating the space.

They could not use the same procedure in every room as repetition got men killed. So did talking. Apart from pre-assigned codewords to indicate the presence of guns, hand grenades or other weapons, they would rely on hand signals. Finally, in a building as tall as the Tower, there was the critical issue of resupply. Clearance was resource-thirsty and the NSG were severely limited. They needed to use the charges, grenades and ammunition sparingly.

12 p.m. – the Palace wing

With the Tower operation under way, Major Unnikrishnan came down to the lobby, where police and hotel staff watched the Maharashtra police chief talking on TV. All hostages inside the Taj ‘have been rescued’, he announced. ‘Depends on your definition,’ Major Unnikrishnan said, shaking his head, as he turned his attention to
the Palace. Before clearance, he wanted to do a sweep, orientating the men, rescuing straggling guests, gathering intelligence on the whereabouts of the gunmen.

He would lead one team into the north wing and up to the still-burning sixth floor, while a second team would do the same in the south wing. As the two teams set off, the Major warned that he would be the first down, drawing a dry laugh from the men gathered around him. They expected nothing less of him, as Unnikrishnan had emerged as a leader back in his training days, when he had been part of Oscar Squadron, known as ‘The Olympians’, their motto ‘Faster, higher, and stronger’. Commissioned in 1999 into the 7 Bihar Regiment, he had been deployed on three tours of Kashmir, and two stints at Siachen, the glacier straddling India and Pakistan that is the highest battlefield in the world. In Manesar, he had dealt with his abilities with modesty and humour, withholding his real profession from social networking sites, where he described his work as ‘nonproductive human resources’. It was a smart play on the old joke: join the armed forces, meet lots of interesting people – and kill them.