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: Abandoned

It was 6am but I was barely into my sleep when the hotel receptionist came knocking at my door, saying that someone from Japanese TV wanted to speak to me. I was happy that they had sought me out because I was a Japanese person caught up in the massacre. I had also never been on television before except as part of the audience in a TV comedy show.

I went to the hotel phone in the reception and a woman’s voice said she was a reporter with Fuji TV and would like to know what happened to me and whether I was safe and unharmed. We talked briefly and then she asked if she could interview me for her TV station. I agreed and she said she would call back in 3 or 5 hours time and would I please be there. Right then I had no thoughts of going anywhere, but it reminded me that my plan to take a train to Aurangabad that morning had now become impossible but also, given my current situation, irrelevant.

Before the reporter hung up she said: “Please don’t talk to any other TV stations.” I gave her my word. However, other Japanese television stations and newspapers started ringing, and I told them that I had only agreed to only talk to the woman at Fuji. Another journalist said: “That’s ridiculous because your friends and family need to be aware that you are OK.”

In a way the reporter was right but they were all desperate for stories and would say anything. Besides there were other Japanese caught up in the massacre. I later heard that one had died in the Oberoi Hotel nearby but another Japanese man had survived; he was saved by his notebook when a bullet hit him in the chest. The woman from Fuji called me back and confirmed that she would phone again at around eight that morning so we could go over and practise what I was going to say.

I went back to my dingy room and fell on the bed, hoping for sleep, but then my mind drifted to the motionless leg I had seen in Leopold’s the night before. It was dawn by now, and I went out to the veranda where the other guests were also being called out and asked to speak to the media on the phone. Steve, our hero in Leopold’s returned there with the German stewardesses who had also been in the hole with me and I told him about the television interview I was about to do. He looked concerned. It was dawn and there was still no sign that the situation was easing. The troops continued to stand about on a very relaxed alert down below our hotel.

“Are you sure?” he asked, “It’s too dangerous to stay here. A group of us are going to the airport; it’s much safer than here. Come with us.”

But I replied: “No, I can’t. I have to wait for the television people.”

However, seeing the troops still stood outside, I changed my mind and agreed to accompany them and told the television reporter when she called that I was going to the airport with them, and she agreed: “Yes, yes, it’s very serious and dangerous where you are.”

Nevertheless, it wasn’t long before the hotel staff once again prevailed and convinced Steve and his party that the threat of danger was even greater at the airport. Through all this the Carlton staff seemed to go about their business as usual, which was itself bizarre because otherwise there was an atmosphere of total chaos and confusion. Nobody seemed to know what was going on, and nobody really did. Meanwhile people were still being mown down across the road from us.

An English couple were sitting with Steve. The man was around 40 years old and wearing stubble on his chin and a baseball cap placed on top of his balding head which sported the kindest of eyes between a pair of noticeably round ears. Every now and again those kind eyes turned to eyes full of terror. His chubby faced bespectacled partner perhaps with swept back hair was ten years younger. She was a London-born Chinese woman. They had been travelling around Asia for over a year but had only flown into Mumbai hours before the massacre began. They looked very scared. The couple had heard that the gunmen were seeking out British and Americans to kill.

There were also two English boys, in their mid-twenties, in our trapped party. One I found to be very attractive, which was a shame because they were even more scared than their older compatriots were and frantically trying to find a safe way of reaching the airport.  The other English woman with us was more composed. In addition on the veranda were a French man and his sister who was studying in India. Both were in their early twenties. There were also several Indian tourists and travellers. I hardly spoke to the Indians except one who said he was living in England. Short and plump, he was probably only 50 but had very little hair left on his head.

It turned out that all of the customers staying in the Carlton had been accounted for as alive and kicking. Indeed only Steve, the German stewardesses and I had been caught up in any of the massacres. The fact that we had come so close to death and now felt relief probably made us calmer than those who were still left to envisage their imminent doom.

Even so, everybody was frantic and trying to contact their embassies for advice as to what to do. I went and called the Japanese Embassy to see if we could get any help from them, but an old woman answered the phone but it seemed she either couldn’t hear me or understand me and I put the phone down in frustration.

Oliver, a German I had met on my first night at the Carlton, was by now also on the veranda. Tall and angular, I remember he wore his thick brown hair like a wig. Beneath it were kind grey eyes and, were it not for his broken nose, his feminine lips, gentle voice and delicate ear ring in his left ear might have had me concluding that he was a woman. He decided to telephone the German Embassy and succeeded in getting through but they said they could not do anything. When he said that it was too dangerous to leave the hotel because of the situation on the streets they replied: “Why don’t you call Pizza Hut for a delivery?” which didn’t make him happy.

The embassies and consulates had abandoned the citizens of their countries whi were trapped in Mumbai to their fates.

Meanwhile the terrified British couple kept on phoning whoever they could, desperate for an exit form the city they had just landed in. After a while, with panic draining their energies, their thoughts turned to food, and the realisation that the Carlton did not have a restaurant.  Steve then asked me: “What do you want from McDonalds?” I thought he was joking and replied: “A burger please.”

But he was only half joking; he informed us that McDonalds had a takeaway near Leopold’s so it was agreed that Steve would check if the way was safe then two of us should risk venturing out. Otherwise we could starve to death. Well the situation wasn’t quite that desperate at the time, but these were minds tossed up in the air and terrorised by trauma then starved, not particularly of food but sleep.

The English couple bravely volunteered and ventured out, but only after the woman had asked whether there were any Kentucky Fried Chicken outlets nearby.  None were.

The couple left the hotel and, sheltering behind the wall of relaxing soldiers, went out to find the normally crowded, noisy, bustling Colaba streets almost empty. Not a car horn could be heard only the cawing of the crows that perennially flapped their way across the Mumbai skies. The streets were deserted: and most shops were shut on that morning when neither a school door opened nor a train ran through Mumbai.

The English couple kept away from the front of the Taj. If they had ventured there they would have found a surreal sight of stray dogs and beggars with nothing to do but sleep in the morning sun whilst heavily armed commandos herded escaping hotel guests into a bus to make their way to safety.  A burst of gunfire aimed at the fleeing vehicle startled the beggars and set the dogs off barking, and indicated that the terrorists were still at large in the hotel. Inside hundreds of guests and staff were still quivering in fear for their lives and either being held as hostages or hiding behind barricaded doors. Downstairs in the kitchens lay the bodies of many trainee chefs slaughtered indiscriminately by the drug and hate fuelled frenzy.

Our English scouts returned neither with cheeseburgers or deep fried chicken nuggets but with cartons of vegetable fried rice. McDonalds however was not surprisingly closed, there being little business out on the streets and no management ready to risk their lives for mine and other’s burger needs. Instead they had found a small café open and bought the rice and a box of mineral water. I didn’t care about my burger. I too was famished and wolfed the food placed before me.

With a full stomach, I felt much better and refreshed. With all these people around me on the veranda and with the soldiers down below, I began to feel much less frightened. Not one of our party had dared to leave. Most of the time we were sitting on the veranda, talking or watching for news on the television.

Across the road we heard the sound of another gunfight then were cheered by the news that the hotel siege was over, but soon this was contradicted and in the afternoon we heard loud explosions.

Sometimes, during this macabre theatre, I was called away to take calls from Japan in reception or on my mobile or Steve’s. It turned out that one of Steve’s callers my mother. She had been taken the number from when I had phoned her. At last we had a sane conversation. I assured her that I was fine and apologised for crying and sobbing down the phone to her in the middle of the night.

By the evening of the 27th, and over 24 hours since the massacres had begun, it still wasn’t clear what was happening at the Taj or whether there were other gunmen still around the city.  However, we could occasionally hear shots and sometimes an explosion across the road, and smoke was now rising so continuously as if the hotel interior was a smouldering ruin. We were transfixed to our dingy hideout. Nevertheless, in the evening, Oliver, the German, volunteered to go in search of our supper. We agreed to have fried rice again but he also returned with a special bonus, a few beers. For that moment he was our champion.

Whatever was going on in the Taj that Thursday night, I slept very well. The Japanese TV company had phoned me and said they wanted to interview me on the following morning.

 I awoke on the 28th, showered and put my make up on for my television interview. On the veranda the news was that the gunmen and many hostages were still inside the Taj from which plumes of smoke continued to rise. Steve and I offered to go out and buy breakfast for the group who were pleased when we not only returned to the veranda with bread, soft drinks and mineral water but also sweets. However, just as I had put our booty down on one of the tables, the hotel receptionist entered with a smartly dressed Japanese man. He offered me his card and announced himself as being the reporter from Fuji TV who would interview me.

Despite the context, I was pleased that my moment on TV had finally come: “I’m sure that I’ve seen him before on TV,” I told myself and conjured up a picture of my mum watching me on the television with tears of happiness rolling down her eyes.

My interviewer took me to another table so that we could discuss what I would say. Soon after we went to Leopold Café. It was evident that, while the battles raged in the Taj, some of the city was trying to get back to pursuing their normal daily lives.  The camera crew had set up their equipment in front of the restaurant and a crowd of Indians stood around as filming began.

“It’s like I’m a movie star,” I thought, though I know now that in a country where time is not so valued, it is pretty easy for a crowd to gather as gazing is a way of passing the day.

At the end of our filming, the reporter, who was a very friendly and charming man, asked me whether I intended to continue with my holiday.

“Yes, of course!” I declared,” I need it even more now!”

I was wondering whether he would offer me a payment for the interview because the previous day the English couple said they had been interviewed four times by phone and received 60 euros for their efforts. Well, I had the shock of my life, when my interviewer pulled out $500 from his wallet and handed it to me.

“Here,” he said,” I hope this will help you to enjoy the rest of your vacation.”

I was ecstatic as I returned to the Carlton. As I passed by the soldiers still stood around I looked up at my friends on the veranda, and waved my money in the air. Yes, they were abnormal times, but I was overwhelmed at how fantastically generous a Japanese company had been compared to their European counterparts.

“$500 dollars, he gave me!” I laughed when I saw our party on the veranda, “$500!”

I must have sounded pretty insensitive. It was also pretty stupid of me to wave and show off all that money on the city’s streets. I got a grip of myself and went to my room to store my reward in a safe place, then rushed back to the veranda to see if there was anything left of the food that Steve and I had bought that morning. Nothing was left.

Back on the veranda, the English boys still looked petrified but I told them and the others how life seemed pretty relaxed on the streets now. The television reports also gave the impression that the troubles were over, that the airport was fully operational and normality was returning to some parts of the city. That was enough to convince most of us that it was time to get out. The English boys and the German air stewardesses made plans to get to the airport and fly out, the English couple decided to go to the railway station and book tickets to leave.

By now, rested and armed with my $500, I was reluctant to go back to Japan or off to Australia just yet. I wanted to have the holiday I had planned but the jitters were still all around. Aurangabad and the Ellora Caves had been my intended next stop but though the massacres had not scared me off India, they had scared me off travelling in the north of the country, whilst my friend in Chennai told me that the south was completely unaffected. I opted to get a train to Goa and head for Colva Beach, which was reasonably near the airport should any more trouble break out, and I wished to leave.

Still hungry for my breakfast and glad of people to accompany me across the city to the station, I agreed to share a taxi with the English couple.  On the way to the station we had a sharp reminder of how nervous and potentially dangerous the Colaba streets still were, when we stopped at some traffic lights. There a smartly dressed gentleman heading in the opposite direction stopped while many other people rushed by him. Leaning down to our cab window he pressed us.

“Sir, it is not safe here! There has been shooting heard nearby, so please go in a different direction.”

Our taxi driver wiggled his head in assent whereupon heeding the warning he turned the cab round there and then at the junction. Nevertheless we reached Victoria Terminus, the scene of one of the bloodiest massacres without incident. There we managed to book our tickets. I found that I could only reach Colva on the next day by booking on the 6am train. It meant an early rise but I was given a jolt by the news of more shootings and it was a case restarting my holiday or hanging around in the grim Carlton with little to do but gaze at the horror filled Taj.

On our return from the station the English couple agreed that, like me, they were hungry, so we opted to find somewhere to eat a meal. I couldn’t believe it when the woman demanded: “No, I want go to a Kentucky Fried Chicken!” so the driver was asked to find a KFC takeaway. But the driver didn’t know of any KFCs in the city, which made her very unhappy. We drove around in a vain search. Every restaurant that we suggested she dismissed, insisting that she must have her KFC meal. So we didn’t stop for anywhere to eat and finally returned to the hotel. A Chinese woman being addicted to KFC was the most peculiar addiction I had heard for a long time.

Not to be thwarted I accompanied the two of them to a nearby restaurant where she ordered chicken. You can imagine her explosion when told that the restaurant had no chicken in that day because of the troubles. Exasperated, I left the warring couple and went to a nearby internet café to email my friend in Chennai. Rejoining them for a dessert, I found it so disgusting that I was glad I had not dined with them. However my hunger remained and I bought some snacks from close by.

I spent the rest of the day on the veranda. The Taj situation appeared to be a stand off. The troops still hung around, the hotel still smouldered and there were very occasional sounds of the battle. I spotted an ambulance arrive, indicating further casualties. That night the English boys left for the airport and we wished them luck. Steve said he was hanging around for a while but Oliver declared that he had also booked for Colva, which meant we could share a taxi the following morning. We both went to bed early as we would have to be up at 5am to make sure we caught the train.

My alarm went off at 5am in the darkness before dawn. I was pleased to have Oliver accompanying me to the station and hoped we could sit together on the train. At least he spoke English slowly if not very well. It was strange how, of the first two people I had met at the Carlton, Oliver and Steve, it was the German who was to be the companion with whom I would share my next journey.

I showered, packed the rest of my things into my backpack and Nike bag and carried them into reception. Oliver was standing there ready to accompany me. But he was not the only one present. With him was the short fat Indian from England. He had also booked for the early train and so would make our taxi fare even cheaper. Steve had also come to see us off. It was a lovely gesture from a kind and brave man. We hugged and said goodbye.

As we left the Carlton we heard some shots coming from the direction of the Taj. We panicked and started running till we eventually flagged down a taxi and headed for the station.  As we were travelling along the dimly lit streets it suddenly struck me that we would imminently arrive not only at the station but also the scene of the first massacre. So many people had died there that I imagined that we would witness even greater levels of destruction than I had witnessed in Leopold’s. I decided that, if we had time, I would take some pictures with my camera.

To my surprise, as I put down my backpack and reached for the camera in my Nike bag, the station appeared busy and quite normal as if the recent carnage had just been a media invention. Indeed the station was so back to the humdrum that two Indian guys approached me and requested that I take their photo. It seemed a strange request for why should I have any particular desire to pack their picture into my camera and take it home with me. I laughed and agreed to satisfy their wish, whereupon I showed them the result and they went happily along their way.

When it was time for us to board the train, Oliver went to help me get my backpack on. He must have realised how heavy it was and I was utterly relieved when he asked: “Would you like me to carry your bag for you? Mine is much lighter so you can take mine.”

It was a godsend, as the English say. He gave me a bag and as I picked it up it seemed so light that it made me wander how he could travel with so little. It made me think how lucky men who travel are because they do not have to take with them too many clothes, make up stuff, a hair dryer, much underwear and all the other things we women need.

Our train left on time and in the darkness. Two hours later, inside the Taj the elite National Security Guard commandos took off their black balaclavas and rested. The Black Cats had killed the last three gunmen holding out in the hotel. The troops could begin the tasks of removing the one hundred bloody corpses and several severed limbs.

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