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Sunday, November 30, 2008 12:21 IST

The worst is (hopefully) over, but accompanying the sense of great relief is also great grief. Nobody, surely nobody, has come out unscathed from last week's terror attack, only some worse than others.

The sheer fact of a human life being snuffed out just like that is lifelong trauma for those not even remotely involved in the attack. Imagine then the impact on those who have lost their near and dear ones?

Over the past few days, to my utter dismay, some friends have suddenly popped up in the list of dead put out by hospitals or the police. There are several others who were known to people I know: the chain of tragedy seems unending. Perhaps the most painful was confirmation on Saturday that Sabina Saikia-Sehgal had indeed died in the Taj hold-up.

For three long days, I had tried to get info on her whereabouts after receiving a call from common friend Jyotirmoy Sharma in Hyderabad that she had perhaps got trapped in her sixth floor room in the Taj. In that period, Sabina’s husband Shantanu, whom I have inexplicably never met, maintained a patient, agonising vigil outside the hotel, alas in vain.

Sabina and I were colleagues in my previous place of employ. Though separated by cities which are traditionally defined by clashing mindsets and cultures (she worked out of Delhi), we became buddies because of several common interests, food of course being top of this agenda.

This was her domain interest, and Sabina showed her passion and expertise with aplomb on every occasion. But to only say that she was a `foodie’ diminishes her essential personality. She was a bon vivant, full of zest, fun, stories, compassion and looking to exploit every moment to make for a good life. A meeting with her would begin with 5-10 minutes of mild, humourous bitching about work and people, but soon the conversation would move to music, movies, style – just about anything that needed attention and an opinion at that point in time.

Her journalistic rigour was strong. She would never tire of telling me that she had cut her teeth in reporting `hard news’, including a longish stint on the Intelligence Bureau beat. Of politics she knew enough, but it switched her off. The only thing she was clueless about was sports. She would have believed that a fine leg field was a seductive ploy for a batsman to get himself out. In cricketing terms it perhaps is, but not the way Sabina would have thought it.

Sabina was of imposing physical size, but small on formalities. People could connect with her in a jiffy. My friendship with her was formed in less than two minutes in circa 2000, and lasted till the day she died. We hadn’t met for months now, and only occasionally spoke on the phone. The recurring theme in these conversations was the mustard fish curry (Assamese style) she cooked which she had bragged to me about. I ribbed her often of this unfulfilled promise

``Done deal next time you are in Delhi, you haven’t ever met Shantanuu too,’’ she said in our last talk. ``Or else when I am down in Mumbai, I am coming to your house and taking over your kitchen.’’ That threat proved false. She came down to Mumbai, and came back into my life only as a cold, painful statistic.

But somewhere, sometime we will have that mustard fish together.

3 comments

Fifteen years have passed and still we have not made anything concrete that can guarantee us safety against terrorism. I remember what my grandma used to say: Jahan roz marte hain, wahan janaaza nahi nikalta, aur na koi rota hai. This is what is happening since 15 years. I would not be surprised to find one day that at least one person has died in every single family because of communal riots or terrorism if no hard steps are taken against them

A layman’s thought

Out of the blues they ripped our hearts,
From five star hotels to just footpaths,
They had their laugh, they had their fun,
They left our city abandoned and done.

Two days have passed and nothing’s changed,
The war on terror still remains,
For innocent people are paying the price,
For us to see another sunrise.

This city is strained, this city is hurt,
The value of life is treated like dirt,
Secured lives is a thing of the past,
The price we are paying for the votes we do cast.

They came on planes in the middle of day,
To pay homage, that’s what they say,
To flaunt their wealth in charity,
For a vote bank, that’s their priority.

That the men that hold the reigns of power,
Could not unite in a crisis hour,
Is enough for all Indians to think,
In this forth coming elections.

Marathi and Hindi and Bhojpuri and all
No barrier for an Indian, no barrier at all,
For the Gods have surely witnessed this sight,
They surely got prayers in every dialect tonight.

Lord forever let India stand,
Let peace flow upon this land,
Let any hand that holds the reigns,
Never think of its own gain.


Floyd Gonsalves

For the lack of words, all i can say is; thank you for sharing your story. I know how it feel.