When the Pale Horse came riding in Mumbai…
“And I beheld, and lo a Pale Horse; and he that sat on him was called Death, and Hell followed with him,” - Book of Revealations
‘Rum had never tasted so good,’ I thought to myself as I reached for my glass filled with the dark nectar while sitting with an old college pal in a dim lit bar in the Fort area of South Mumbai after a day’s work. The day was November 26 and all was well with the world till then. But then, I guess good things never last as long as we want them to….
The cell phone vibrating in my shirt pocket brought me back from my rum appreciation session and I flipped it open to hear the excited voice of Aditya, the latest rookie reporter in our paper, a small chap who was on the night shift and was considered a bit ‘wet behind the ears’. “Duuudeee…there has been some firing at Colaba,” he shouted excitedly in the phone. Sigh….kids, I said to myself even as I was going through possible scenarios in my mind about what might have happened-“depressed businessman shoots himself”, “security guard misfires service rifle”, “small time scumbag shot by crime branch guys” etc etc…
“Might be some accidental discharge but go and check it out nevertheless,” I told him and got back to boozing with my pal. Twenty minutes later, the damn cell buzzes again. Grimacing at my pal who was maybe getting irritated with the interruption of the unwinding session, I flipped it open again. “Jai, where are you drinking?” This was Kavita, my immediate boss at the office. Sighing deeply again (for she wouldn’t have called me up post 9 pm unless the shit had hit the fan), I told her my location. “Rush to CST, there has been firing at different places in the city. Aditya has been sent to Leopold’s and we need you at CST pronto.”
This is the life of a crime reporter. One moment you could be having the time of your life guzzling booze with a close pal and the next moment, you might be watching some cops drag out a ripped apart body from a bomb explosion spot. Signaling the waiter across, I told him to send the bill ASAP and told my pal about what had happened. The friend, who stays diagonally opposite the Mumbai Police Headquarters at Crawford market offered to drop me till Metro junction on his bike. “Buddy, we both are drunk and I don’t want to risk some traffic cop pulling us over for drunken driving. But on second thoughts, if the shit has indeed hit the fan, then traffic cops are going to be the least of our worries,” I told him as he started the bike, with me sitting behind him. Till then, some TV news channel had been running the story and the bar patrons had all forgotten their drinks and had gathered around the television.
The streets were practically empty as we sped on the bike towards CST. As the normal road was dangerous to bike considering our drunken status, my pal decided to take a roundabout route (where there are no traffic cops, he assured me) and we reached the junction of Crawford market near the Commissioner’s office. Even as the bike was heading towards Metro junction by passing the Police HQ, we saw three men wearing jeans and shirts stand in a semi circle right in the middle of the road, facing us silently. “What the fuck is this?” I asked my equally clueless pal and he just shrugged and sped towards them. It was when we reached a few meters from them that I saw their hands were behind their back and even as we neared, they brought their hands in view.
Our blood went cold. The three men had been holding automatic pistols in their hands and as we came near, the trio just swung their arms up, pointing their guns in our general direction. The sight of three gun barrels staring anyone in the face is enough to evaporate any amount of alcohol in the blood-stream and we did not react any differently. Screeching to a halt a few feet from the three gunslingers, me and my pal were still trying to process what to do when one of them shouted in Marathi, “Where the fuck do you think you are going?” my pal probably did not get it, but the Marathi told me they were cops and I leaned over my friend’s shoulder and whispered in his ear, “Take it easy. They are cops, probably here to handle the situation.” Saying this, I got off the bike and walked up to them.
The press card is an ace up the sleeve for any reporter to come out of such situations and while confidently walking up to them, I reached in my back pocket for my wallet which contained the card. With a snarl, all three swung up their guns again. In that nanosecond, I realized that they must have thought I am reaching for a weapon and had reacted accordingly. One itchy trigger-finger and my ticket would have been punched that night. Moreover, I had been wearing casual clothes and was carrying a bag on my back, which might have been the description about the gunmen given to all cops by the wireless operators. I felt that cold sensation of fear explode deep in my stomach and goose bumps on my limbs but still managed to say as clearly as possible, “I am a journalist and am on my way towards the Metro junction. I am going to reach in my pocket very slowly and take out my press card. May I?”
Slowly lowering their weapons, one of them grunted in reply and I did a slo-mo taking out my wallet and showing them my card. I was watching their eyes and could see that they were equally frightened at the turn of events throughout the city. A scared cop with a loaded weapon is probably more dangerous…after I showed him my card; he asked to know who my pal was. “He is my friend Fozan who came to drop me till here as there are no cabs around,” I replied a second before I bit my tongue. The name Fozan made their eyes go hard again and they demanded that he step down and show them the vehicle papers. After convincing them with great difficulty that Fozan was not a covert operative of ANY terrorist organization, they grudgingly let him go and waved me onwards towards Metro…
My next three days were spent covering the 26/11 incident from various combat zones but I know for a fact that the closest I came to getting killed was that night when the cops almost mistook me for a terrorist. Maybe my guardian angel was working overtime that night…
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I got goosebumps just reading this. I could well imagine your plight, buddy. Glad to know your guardian angel was working overtime :) cheers to that :)
ReplyDeleteWhat worked in your favour was the 'Divine Spirit', which you call Rum. After a good booze session that night, you had become immune to almost everything, even bullets.
ReplyDeleteJokes apart, a very well scripted narration. I could feel what you must have gone through on that fateful night. Keep blogging buddy. You are too good at it.