On the evening of November 26th 2008 and for 48 hours more, a massacre of Indian and foreign tourists, business executives, religious leaders, rail travellers, street vendors and bystanders shook the world.

The action of religious fascists, it left over 200 corpses littered around Mumbai.

Yuki Mishina's Story, Into the Fire and Abandoned record the ensuing drama.

The Black Hole of Mumbai: Into the Fire

Ironically one of those who survived downstairs was Joey Jeetun, the British Asian actor who had played one of the bombers in a TV dramatisation of the 7/7 London bombing. He had survived because an Indian man had told him to get down and thrown himself across him. Adding to the irony, the actor was then arrested by the security forces who suspected him of being one of the Mumbai terrorists.

A few papers described me as a “Japanese model” so maybe they did think I was a star. That was flattering, unlike their claim that I was Steve’s girlfriend.

Even though I felt in a complete daze, I can’t deny that I felt a certain sense of elation. I had survived a massacre.

As for Steve’s heroics he reportedly told the media: “Aw, it probably all sounds more dramatic than it really was. I did what any Aussie would do in the circumstances. It would have been nice if there'd been another Aussie around and we could have done more."

I did say that in the midst of the horror we did and thought strange things. In normal times we expect most people to behave normally, hence in very abnormal times we should anticipate that they will behave very abnormally. In the midst of these unpredictable and dramatic events our thought processes often left rational boundaries. Steve can be forgiven for declaring that two Aussies armed with butter knifes and shouting: “Spread ‘em!” and “Your toast!” would have been more effective than one.

What he didn’t know was that there were other Australians in Leopold Cafe at the time. Kate Anstee was one. She was now lying critically wounded in the ambulance outside waiting to be taken into intensive care. The 24 year old woman’s boyfriend, Dave who was also from Sydney, had saved her from death by quickly and calmly picking her up and carrying her out after she a .bullet had hit her femur and exited through the front of her thigh. He was grazed by bullets, which left flesh wounds to his legs.

In truth, Steve probably saved my life. Nevertheless, the Australian was a hero but no more so than those Indians and others who threw themselves across strangers or lovers to save them from death. That night there were a lot of dead heroes who made that momentous decision to risk their own lives rather than fail in their affection for humanity.

Crowds of people stood outside Leopold’s as we left. Steve gathered a small group of us together. The Indian man who had held my hand and his girlfriend came with us. Steve also invited along the two German air stewardesses.

At that time I was unaware how dangerous those Colaba streets were. I was oblivious to any thoughts that the gunmen might have left Leopold’s to continue their murderous frenzy elsewhere. Because there was a crowd outside Leopold’s and because our terrifying ordeal had seemed to last for an eternity, it never dawned on me to consider the reasons why elsewhere many places were shuttered. Behind many of those bolted doors and shutters there cowered men, women and children desperate to avoid the wrath of the terrorists.

Amongst their number were two more Australians, Max Rapley and Emily Morrison.  These two 22 year olds were staying in a Salvation Army hostel nearby and had met their own Slumdog, Mumbai street dweller, Martin d’Costa.

The 26 year old had offered to show them around the city and they were drinking with him close to Leopold’s when they heard firing nearby. They had fled out of the back of their bar and run towards the sea, only to find everybody fleeing towards them and back towards Leopold’s. They felt trapped as if between to armies. Luckily this Slumdog hero remembered that another Australian whom he had been guide for, Bollywood actor, Harry Key, lived close, and Martin managed to get them to the safety of his home.

As we left Leopold’s, some people tried to look after us, but everyone was panicking and shouting so much that I couldn’t make out what they were talking about. It seems they were offering assistance to help us to a safe place. They led us up to a room on the first floor of a building nearby. Its plain furniture indicated it was probably an office or meeting room of some kind. I hadn’t a clue what was going on and didn’t really care. I was just relieved that it was all over.

Steve must have told our would be protectors, looking after us in this anonymous building, that we lived very close by, and would be fine going back to the Carlton. He also persuaded the two still very frightened Germans to come along with us, and within 15 minutes we were ushered on our way.

I was relieved. But as we ambled back to our hotel at the back of the Taj International we were heading not out of trouble but into more of the same. Unknowingly, we were following in the footpaths of the terrorists.

When we reached the Carlton Hotel, Steve suggested we all go to his room, try to find out what was going on and sort out what we were going to do. I thought the hotel veranda might be better but he explained that his room was quite big and had air conditioning. He also had a television that worked, which would help. For a military man he wasn’t very tidy. His bed was a complete mess with all sorts of things scattered across it. He had barely apologised when he switched on the television.

On screen, reporters announced that there had been a massacre at Leopold Café, which was suspected to be the work of terrorists. The TV cameraman must have been pleased as his film showed the destruction and pools of blood in the restaurant. Soon we discovered that the terrorists had slaughtered more people in other parts of the city.  Worst of all, we discovered that they were now holed up in the Taj, right across the road from our hotel.

Now I was scared, really scared.

The German stewardesses wanted to go straight back to the airport but the hotel staff said it had also been hit and that it wasn’t safe to travel anywhere that night. Anybody in a taxi would be a sitting duck. This wasn’t a deception by the hotel to keep us there to ensure we prolonged our stay. The city was in chaos and in an unimaginable crisis. Rumours abounded that the airport had indeed been bombed and the police stations had suffered the same fate. International visitors tried to contact their consulates In Mumbai or their embassies in Delhi but either couldn’t get through or could only speak to answering machines.

As we sat or paced around in Steve’s room, he offered us the use of his mobile phone. He had inserted an Indian sim card in it because it is far cheaper to phone at rupee rates than in dollars, pounds or yen.  First he made his calls and at some point in the night he must have contacted the Australian media because their Channel 7 reported that he was holed up in a: "dingy little room at the back of the Taj Mahal Hotel where he is hiding after seeing two gunmen toss grenades into the restaurant in which he was having a beer just hours earlier.”

Steve is said to have told them: "We went to where we thought was a safe place - the back of the hotel we were staying in, but it's under siege at the moment," and that he was desperate to find a way out of the hotel with a Japanese woman (me) and two German air stewards with whom he was hiding.

"I don't have a weapon, or a firearm ... I don't know what's going on., I don't have access to a television or anything,  I'd like someone to tell me what's going on so I can make a plan to get out of here with these guys. I'm about a block from the harbour and my plan is just to go."

Well it wasn’t quite like that. As far as we knew our hotel was not under siege at the time. But journalists, desperate to secure their scoops, took us closer to the centre of the Apocalypse, because every misconstrued drama was nevertheless relayed back to us via television reports.

The real slaughter was now taking place across the road in the Taj in a frenzy of bloodshed and panic. Guests enjoying a relaxing evening besides the swimming pool suddenly heard shots followed by a wounded man staggering outside. It is not certain whether anybody stopped to help him as the sound of gunshot and sight of blood provoked a full scale rush up a staircase into the hotel’s Sea Lounge where at least 50 guests were now hiding beneath tables in the dark, wincing at the sound of explosives going off.

On a floor above them a group of foreign executives had by now barricaded themselves in. Whilst on the ground floor a waiter had barricaded the doors of the Golden Dragon, the hotel’s Chinese restaurant, and diners had cowered under their tables for 30 minutes but were now being led through a maze of service corridors to the business centre, which was quickly becoming a bunker where they were joined by a. wedding party. Other guests trying to flee the Taj had run into a gunman who was mercilessly gunning them down.

Steven didn’t flee the hotel. None of us did. We sat in shock. Whilst the others used Steve’s mobile to phone their friends and relatives, I waited my turn. My desire to be comforted turned my thoughts to my great grandmother. She had died at the age of 101 but I wanted her there to help me. She was a very strong woman. I had been in London when she was dying but she didn’t want me to know of her condition because then I would have felt duty bound to return home to see her.

Then that made me think of my grandmother who is in her eighties and that she could die at anytime, so I really ought to be back in Japan. It wasn’t just that; India was no longer a fun place to be in. I wanted out.

Finally my turn arrived to use Steve’s mobile. I phoned my mother. She picked up the phone but in Osaka and she was very drowsy and answered: “Moshi moshi!!”

I started trying to tell her what was happening, but I was in shock. I had nearly died. I just said: “Moshi moshi!!” then burst out crying down the phone to her and sobbing: “I nearly died mum! I nearly died! Terrorists came to my restaurant while l was there!”

My mother could only reply: “What? What?”

I didn’t realise that it was 2am in Osaka and that I had woken her out of her deep sleep, so I just repeated my wailing: “I nearly died! I nearly died!”

When I realised I couldn’t get any sense out of her nor make sense to her, I implored her: “Go and check the TV now! Check the TV!” I burst out sobbing and finished the call.

I recovered slightly then decided to contact Matt, an ex-boyfriend, and see if he could rearrange my flight tickets at his travel agents. I still have that message on my phone: “Hi. I’m going back to Japan soon as possible. Now I nearly died. Can I change my fright to Japan,” (Sic – it was hard to see all the spelling as the tears ran down my face).

Matt sent me a reply: “I hope you are OK xxx I can change your flight to Sydney but not Japan.”

But right then I didn’t want to go to Sydney; I wanted to go home, so I cried again. I sent a text to David, my other English ex: “Watch the news!” David replied sweetly, but I couldn’t reply to him or Matt. I had run out of credit on my pay-as-you-go mobile.

We went back to watching the events on television then went out onto the hotel veranda, whose large windows looked out on the back of the Taj, so we could see what if anything was going on. I was reassured when I looked down onto the street below. By now Mereweather Road had a wall of Indian troops armed with rifles and facing towards the Taj, so it seemed that we were protected.

However, across the road, the silhouettes crossing the lit up windows of the Taj portrayed a tragic story. I took some pictures with my camera. They showed scores of people running down the stairwells from the higher floors.

Many were making their way to Chambers, the Taj business centre, and by 3am 300 guests cowered inside the centre as staff handed out blankets and water. Later, advised by the staff, groups of ten people began making a break for safety through the maze of service corridors.  Nevertheless as they ran down the very narrow corridors, suddenly there were shots very, very close and the groups divided in panic some continuing on whilst others turned back in panic.

I wished those people the luck that I had had. We heard shooting coming from inside the hotel and concluded that either the army were chasing down the gunmen or that another bloody massacre of innocent civilians was taking place. Looking at the soldiers down below whom by now were casually standing at ease, and laughing and joking with each other, I assumed that the troops must be winning.

Transfixed by the battle in the Taj and the constant television reports, I stayed on the veranda until 5am. Utterly drained by the night’s traumas, I went to bed and straight to sleep.

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