Where do we go now?

I was working on an article for YourStory late last night when I decided to take a break. I must've signed into Facebook around 2:00am looking for a new message or two from friends in all corners of the world. Well, no such luck on the front but, as usual, I was confronted with tabloid-style conversational blurbs, a few oblique comments on pictures not to mention the ever-faithful notifications of Premier Football and Knighthood. I scrolled down the page looking for something to keep my attention without luck, so I scrolled back up to the logout button. Well, that was when I read one of the status updates. My friend sounded distressed by something happening in Mumbai.

I headed over the Google news and did a simple search for 'mumbai'. I stared blankly at the screen for a bit. All the initial headlines were painting a distorted picture of terrorism, bloodshed and 5-Star hotels in Mumbai. One of my closest friends works in the JW Marriott, so I immediately repeated that search adding 'marriott'. Up popped the words -- "Unconfirmed reports of gunshots in the Marriott". I picked up my cell and decided to call her immediately. As I was scrolling down my contact list, I switched on the TV and flicked past the two Champions League games (momentarily noting that both English teams had taken the lead) before heading for the news channels. It would be pretty redundant to recount what I saw given the coverage over the past 24 hours. However, I will say that the man spearheading the Times Now coverage was trying very hard to dilute his excitement with an appropriate amount of disbelief. Every few seconds the words "Newsflash!" or "Latest" or Breaking News" flashed across the screen to the score of a very dramatic voice. But details were few and far between once more and I still didn't quite know what was happening. Meanwhile, my Vodafone-Nokia partnership was persistently yielding 'Error in Connection' but I kept redialling her number guessing that the network had been affected by the obvious heightened volume of calls.

I continued surfing from news channel to news channel until I my blood ran cold when I saw the JW Marriott. Then came clippings of sniffer dogs and army troops patrolling its premises. My situation wasn't helped by the fact that the Marriott report had just ended and I was watching the outro which read like a cold open. Next followed the words "Mumbai Burns" arriving like the title of the blockbuster before the montage squiggled its viewers on to the studio, the Taj, the Trident, Nariman Point and the other terror spots.

When I finally heard her phone ring I felt the embers of composure glow brighter. But they were extinguished when she didn't pick up. Early reports spoke of these terrorists taking civilians hostages which naturally sent my imagination into overdrive. I cut the second call midway through and messaged, "Are you okay?". No reply. Over the course of the next 4 hours I must've sent about 3 more messages, hoping, praying for a reply. Well, it wasn't till about 7:15am that I got a reply. But until then, I was worried. Very, very worried. My little room was echoing the voices of clueless news reporters babbling incongruous bits of information.

Watching the Taj burn on the news last night, strangely brought back images of Boris Yeltsin's seige on the Duma (the Russian White House). While I'm not really trying to compare the two situations, but the footage we've been watching on TV does bring back hazy memories.

It must've been about a month since I'd celebrated my 10th birthday when this happened. I really didn't understand any of it back then. I remember one evening hearing a lot of commotion in the parking lot downstairs. The cacophony comprised of yelling, the dull rhythm of countless military boots clunking against the asphalt and dogs barking. All the lights were turned off in the house and my parents told me to be very quiet. Like I said, I didn't understand any of it but I knew that something had my family worried which translated to my state. For about 20mins, my dad stood at the kitchen window and peered down into the parking lot where we he said hundreds of troops had assembled. Their voices were coming up to the 9th floor but they were getting distorted on the way. At times they sounded Russian and bizarrely, at other times, they sounded American. We weren't sure what was going on because none of us spoke Russian. Turning on the TV wouldn't be of much help given that the only English channel available was CNN (which woke up the the crisis a little late).

We ate in darkness that night. I kept asking my dad what was going on, but he didn't have any answers at the time. I shut up after a while. The clinking of forks against mom's heavy bone china plates continued and I continued munching noisily. Funnily, I remember that and the fact that no one bothered to say, "Mone, close your mouth and chew". Our silhouettes pitched against the dull, red glow of the Moscow cityscape were transfixed in some place far, far away.

We woke up early next morning and found the parking lot thankfully deserted. Mom and sis were watching CNN which would sporadically focus on the Moscow situation. I didn't bother to watch during those first few days because I remained preoccupied in my own world of toys and video games. It wasn't until Yeltsin called in the heavy artillery that things caught my attention. That morning I remember the sharp rays of sunlight flooding part of the house as the loud sound of rotor blades reverberated across the rooftops. Dad and I ran from window to window looking for the chopper without luck. I had just about entered the bedroom, tracking the path of the sound all the way to my balcony. I struggled with the handle completely forgetting that both the door and the windows had been sealed with newspaper and scotch tape to keep us insulated. That is when it crossed straight over my balcony, complete with rocket launcher pods, missiles and a gunman stationed behind one of those massive machine guns we'd associate with Vietnam. I remember getting very excited, jumping up and down while clapping like a looney. Yes, well, it would excite most 10yr olds, but I was a complete airforce nut back then. I really, really wanted to become a fighter pilot for the longest time (as would suggest my large collection of books on combat aircraft and model aircrafts -- some of which can still be found around the house). My dad arrived the moment the chopper had disappeared out of sight over the opposing multi storey. I was babbling non-stop about the missiles, the gunman and the fact that the chopper had passed right over our building. Like I said, I'd turned into a looney.

I watched the TV for hours that day hoping to catch a glimpse of that chopper on the news, but all we saw were other transport choppers.

I remained obsessive till the next day and I recall getting very upset with dad because he said I must've seen an ordinary military transport chopper, not the gunship I said I had.

Then came that big moment which I still remember. Someone called my dad from the Indian Embassy and asked us to turn on CNN immediately. There was the Duma charred in parts, bullet ridden with automatic fire still very much audible. But then another camera suddenly shifted slightly to a line of armoured vehicles coming down the giant road, oddly leaving some sort of trail behind. Well, on that grainy reception I thought they were armoured vans until they changed formation to drive side by side. That's when I caught side of barrels -- tanks!

Yeltsin was a maniac. Who the hell brings in tanks to deal with a rebel faction in the Duma? That said, I have to admit, he was providing a 10yr old the most excitement he'd ever seen his whole life. Whats more incredible is the fact that these tanks would then open fire on the building.

Meanwhile, CNN was reporting that hundreds of people had gathered to watch the events unfold from right outside the Duma. These people stood openly, unprotected, unnerved by bullets whizzing past, watching the armed forces exchange fire with those holed up inside the building. Many of them were shot. Many of them died.

On some level, I'm guessing these images are echoing the visuals we have been watching on television over the past two days. Today, I think of the lives that were lost all those years ago, I think of the lives we've lost two days ago and I wonder what has violence solved?

The only difference between then and now is the media circus. There weren't 50 cameramen swarming around cops, commandos or survivors in Moscow during or after the ordeal ended. None of the journalists harped on and on and on and on about the heritage and the symbol of the Russian democracy being destroyed. However, they did speak of the loss of lives though. I didn't quite appreciate it back then. My judgement was clouded by age and the fact that we'd subsisted for 9months on James Bond, Die Hard and other commando operation movies where extras dived about when a pouch squirted tomato sauce in their pocket, or a puff of smoke when off in the hero's toy gun. Those journalist had a sense of perspective. The Duma was rebuilt in a matter of days but, unfortunately, the lives lost will never be replaced.

I see Kamte, Karkare, Salaskar and the other faceless heroes who laid down their lives for our people. What do you see?

Russian police said, on 8 October, 1993, that 187 had died in the conflict and 437 had been wounded. Unofficial sources named much higher numbers: up to 2,000 dead.

The kids of the colony returned to their beloved playground -- the parking lot, even though the fierce gun battle waged on only 10minutes away from our compound. I accompanied my circle of friends for a walk around the compound that evening. There was a Pakistani boy named Ali Saleem Mallick, a Nigerian boy named Sydney and this deaf and dumb boy we called Mongolian (because he had the facial features and everyone called him that to begin with) -- all of whom I've lost touch with sadly. Every now and then, the sky would light up and we'd dart out from under the trees to catch a glimpse of the orange beams of strafer fire passing over our compound. We were kids. We were impressionable. We were naive, but not anymore. Its about time some people grow up.

Images taken from the Slate archive.