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Sue,<br><br>I don't doubt it. The stories I've heard are a little more gruesome. How men were bound to chairs with a single bullet wound to the head, while wives laid by their feet dead. Some can imagine what happened.<br><br>I understand the Indian elite commandos saved many lives and killed most of the terrorists. Thanks to them, many more could have died.<br><br>Thanks for the story<br><br>MD<br><br>> From: suehovey@moscow.com<br>> To: vision2020@moscow.com<br>> Date: Wed, 10 Dec 2008 14:36:18 -0800<br>> Subject: [Vision2020] Fw: mumbai]<br>> <br>> I can't vouch for this story, but the fellow who sent it to me usually sends <br>> out only material he has checked out. Interesting and compelling reading .<br>> <br>> Sue Hovey<br>> ><br>> > Forbes.com<br>> ><br>> > Michael Pollack<br>> ><br>> > 12.01.08<br>> > My story begins innocuously, with a dinner reservation in a world-class<br>> > hotel. It ends 12 hours later after the Indian army freed us.<br>> ><br>> > My point is not to sensationalize events. It is to express my gratitude<br>> > and pay tribute to the staff of the Taj Mahal Hotel in Mumbai, who<br>> > sacrificed their lives so that we could survive. They, along with the<br>> > Indian army, are the true heroes that emerged from this tragedy.<br>> ><br>> > My wife, Anjali, and I were married in the Taj's Crystal Ballroom. Her<br>> > parents were married there, too, and so were Shiv and Reshma, the couple<br>> > with whom we had dinner plans. In fact, my wife and Reshma, both Bombay<br>> > girls, grew up hanging out and partying the night away there and at the<br>> > Oberoi Hotel, another terrorist target.<br>> ><br>> > The four of us arrived at the Taj around 9:30 p.m. for dinner at the<br>> > Golden Dragon, one of the better Chinese restaurants in Mumbai. We were<br>> > a little early, and our table wasn't ready. So we walked next door to<br>> > the Harbor Bar and had barely begun to enjoy our beers when the host<br>> > told us our table was ready. We decided to stay and finish our drinks.<br>> ><br>> > Thirty seconds later, we heard what sounded like a heavy tray smashing<br>> > to the ground. This was followed by 20 or 30 similar sounds and then<br>> > absolute silence. We crouched behind a table just feet away from what we<br>> > now knew were gunmen. Terrorists had stormed the lobby and were firing<br>> > indiscriminately.<br>> ><br>> > We tried to break the glass window in front of us with a chair, but it<br>> > wouldn't budge. The Harbour Bar's hostess, who had remained at her post,<br>> > motioned to us that it was safe to make a run for the stairwell. She<br>> > mentioned, in passing, that there was a dead body right outside in the<br>> > corridor. We believe this courageous woman was murdered after we ran<br>> > away.<br>> ><br>> > (We later learned that minutes after we climbed the stairs, terrorists<br>> > came into the Harbour Bar, shot everyone who was there and executed<br>> > those next door at the Golden Dragon. The staff there was equally brave,<br>> > locking their patrons into a basement wine cellar to protect them. But<br>> > the terrorists managed to break through and lob in grenades that killed<br>> > everyone in the basement.)<br>> ><br>> > We took refuge in the small office of the kitchen of another restaurant,<br>> > Wasabi, on the second floor. Its chef and staff served the four of us<br>> > food and drink and even apologized for the inconvenience we were<br>> > suffering.<br>> ><br>> > Through text messaging, e-mail on BlackBerrys and a small TV in the<br>> > office, we realized the full extent of the terrorist attack on Mumbai.<br>> > We figured we were in a secure place for the moment. There was also no<br>> > way out.<br>> ><br>> > At around 11:30 p.m., the kitchen went silent. We took a massive wooden<br>> > table and pushed it up against the door, turned off all the lights and<br>> > hid. All of the kitchen workers remained outside; not one staff member<br>> > had run.<br>> ><br>> > The terrorists repeatedly slammed against our door. We heard them ask<br>> > the chef in Hindi if anyone was inside the office. He responded calmly:<br>> > "No one is in there. It's empty." That is the second time the Taj staff<br>> > saved our lives.<br>> ><br>> > After about 20 minutes, other staff members escorted us down a corridor<br>> > to an area called The Chambers, a members-only area of the hotel. There<br>> > were about 250 people in six rooms. Inside, the staff was serving<br>> > sandwiches and alcohol. People were nervous, but cautiously optimistic.<br>> > We were told The Chambers was the safest place we could be because the<br>> > army was now guarding its two entrances and the streets were still<br>> > dangerous. There had been attacks at a major railway station and a<br>> > hospital.<br>> ><br>> > But then, a member of parliament phoned into a live newscast and let the<br>> > world know that hundreds of people--including CEOs, foreigners and<br>> > members of parliament--were "secure and safe in The Chambers together."<br>> > Adding to the escalating tension and chaos was the fact that, via text<br>> > and cellphone, we knew that the dome of the Taj was on fire and that it<br>> > could move downward.<br>> ><br>> > At around 2 a.m., the staff attempted an evacuation. We all lined up to<br>> > head down a dark fire escape exit. But after five minutes, grenade<br>> > blasts and automatic weapon fire pierced the air. A mad stampede ensued<br>> > to get out of the stairwell and take cover back inside The Chambers.<br>> ><br>> > After that near-miss, my wife and I decided we should hide in different<br>> > rooms. While we hoped to be together at the end, our primary obligation<br>> > was to our children. We wanted to keep one parent alive. Because I am<br>> > American and my wife is Indian, and news reports said the terrorists<br>> > were targeting U.S. and U.K. nationals, I believed I would further<br>> > endanger her life if we were together in a hostage situation.<br>> ><br>> > So when we ran back to The Chambers I hid in a toilet stall with a<br>> > floor-to-ceiling door and my wife stayed with our friends, who fled to a<br>> > large room across the hall.<br>> ><br>> > For the next seven hours, I lay in the fetal position, keeping in touch<br>> > with Anjali via BlackBerry. I was joined in the stall by Joe, a Nigerian<br>> > national with a U.S. green card. I managed to get in touch with the FBI,<br>> > and several agents gave me status updates throughout the night.<br>> ><br>> > I cannot even begin to explain the level of adrenaline running through<br>> > my system at this point. It was this hyper-aware state where every<br>> > sound, every smell, every piece of information was ultra-acute, analyzed<br>> > and processed so that we could make the best decisions and maximize the<br>> > odds of survival.<br>> ><br>> > Was the fire above us life-threatening? What floor was it on? Were the<br>> > commandos near us, or were they terrorists? Why is it so quiet? Did the<br>> > commandos survive? If the terrorists come into the bathroom and to the<br>> > door, when they fire in, how can I make my body as small as possible? If<br>> > Joe gets killed before me in this situation, how can I throw his body on<br>> > mine to barricade the door? If the Indian commandos liberate the rest in<br>> > the other room, how will they know where I am? Do the terrorists have<br>> > suicide vests? Will the roof stand? How can I make sure the FBI knows<br>> > where Anjali and I are? When is it safe to stand up and attempt to<br>> > urinate?<br>> ><br>> > Meanwhile, Anjali and the others were across the corridor in a mass of<br>> > people lying on the floor and clinging to each other. People barely<br>> > moved for seven hours, and for the last three hours they felt it was too<br>> > unsafe to even text. While I was tucked behind a couple walls of marble<br>> > and granite in my toilet stall, she was feet from bullets flying back<br>> > and forth. After our failed evacuation, most of the people in the fire<br>> > escape stairwell and many staff members who attempted to protect the<br>> > guests were shot and killed.<br>> ><br>> > The 10 minutes around 2:30 a.m. were the most frightening. Rather than<br>> > the back-and-forth of gunfire, we just heard single, punctuated shots.<br>> > We later learned that the terrorists went along a different corridor of<br>> > The Chambers, room by room, and systematically executed everyone: women,<br>> > elderly, Muslims, Hindus, foreigners. A group huddled next to Anjali was<br>> > devout Bori Muslims who would have been slaughtered just like everyone<br>> > else, had the terrorists gone into their room. Everyone was in deep<br>> > prayer and most, Anjali included, had accepted that their lives were<br>> > likely over. It was terrorism in its purest form. No one was spared.<br>> ><br>> > The next five hours were filled with the sounds of an intense<br>> > grenade/gun battle between the Indian commandos and the terrorists. It<br>> > was fought in darkness; each side was trying to outflank the other.<br>> ><br>> > By the time dawn broke, the commandos had successfully secured our<br>> > corridor. A young commando led out the people packed into Anjali's room.<br>> > When one woman asked whether it was safe to leave, the commando replied:<br>> > "Don't worry, you have nothing to fear. The first bullets have to go<br>> > through me."<br>> ><br>> > The corridor was laced with broken glass and bullet casings. Every table<br>> >was turned over or destroyed. The ceilings and walls were littered with<br>> > hundreds of bullet holes. Blood stains were everywhere, though,<br>> > fortunately, there were no dead bodies to be seen.<br>> ><br>> > A few minutes after Anjali had vacated, Joe and I peeked out of our<br>> > stall. We saw multiple commandos and smiled widely. I had lost my right<br>> > shoe while sprinting to the toilet so I grabbed a sheet from the floor,<br>> > wrapped it around my foot and proceeded to walk over the debris to the<br>> > hotel lobby.<br>> ><br>> > Anjali and I embraced for the first time in seven hours in the Taj's<br>> > ground floor entrance. I didn't know whether she was dead or injured<br>> > because we hadn't been able to text for the past three hours.<br>> ><br>> > I wanted to take a picture of us on my BlackBerry, but Anjali wanted us<br>> > to get out of there before doing anything.<br>> ><br>> > She was right--our ordeal wasn't completely over. A large bus pulled up<br>> > in front of the Taj to collect us and, just about as it was fully<br>> > loaded, gunfire erupted again. The terrorists were still alive and<br>> > firing automatic weapons at the bus. Anjali was the last to get on the<br>> > bus, and she eventually escaped in our friend's car. I ducked under some<br>> > concrete barriers for cover and wound up the subject of photos that were<br>> > later splashed across the media. Shortly thereafter, an ambulance came<br>> > and drove a few of us to safety. An hour later, Anjali and I were again<br>> > reunited at her parents' home. Our Thanksgiving had just gained a lot<br>> > more meaning.<br>> ><br>> > Some may say our survival was due to random luck, others might credit<br>> > divine intervention. But 72 hours removed from these events, I can<br>> > assure you only one thing: Far fewer people would have survived if it<br>> > weren't for the extreme selflessness shown by the Taj staff, who<br>> > organized us, catered to us and then, in the end, literally died for us.<br>> ><br>> > They complemented the extreme bravery and courage of the Indian<br>> > commandos, who, in a pitch-black setting and unfamiliar, tightly packed<br>> > terrain, valiantly held the terrorists at bay.<br>> ><br>> > It is also amazing that, out of our entire group, not one person<br>> > screamed or panicked. There was an eerie but quiet calm that<br>> > pervaded--one more thing that got us all out alive. Even people in<br>> > adjacent rooms, who were being executed, kept silent.<br>> ><br>> > It is much easier to destroy than to build, yet somehow humanity has<br>> > managed to build far more than it has ever destroyed. Likewise, in a<br>> > period of crisis, it is much easier to find faults and failings rather<br>> > than to celebrate the good deeds. It is now time to commemorate our<br>> > heroes.<br>> ><br>> > Michael Pollack is a general partner of Glenhill Capital, a firm he<br>> > co-founded in 2001.<br>> ><br>> ><br>> > <br>> <br>> =======================================================<br>> List services made available by First Step Internet, <br>> serving the communities of the Palouse since 1994. <br>> http://www.fsr.net <br>> mailto:Vision2020@moscow.com<br>> =======================================================<br><br /><hr />You live life online. So we put Windows on the web. <a href='http://clk.atdmt.com/MRT/go/127032869/direct/01/' target='_new'>Learn more about Windows Live </a></body>
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