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The saree jinx
Tilu Mangeshikar, an anesthesiologist, with Tan Tong Seck Hospital in Singapore, doesn’t wear high heels anymore. For a few months now she has taken to wearing a pair of tights under her saree as well.
"You never know when you might need to dump the voluminious saree and run," she says.
Tilu was at the Crystal Room, Taj Mahal Hotel, on the evening of 26/ 11, with her husband Prashant and daughter Kalindi. They were there for a wedding reception. A few hours after everyone had congregated, at around 9.30 pm, they heard the first gun shots, through the happy chatter and the clink of glasses. They put it down to gang war, until someone from the staff stepped in, announced the inevitable and switched off the lights. When the first bullet shot straight into the room she pushed her daughter under the table, even as panic started to spiral out of control. Every one thought that this was perhaps their Titanic moment.
What happened thereafter has become a bit of an urban legend now. The guests were asked to file into the Lavender Room, part of Chambers, where they spent the rest of the night. They caught the attention of a terrorist who was on the prowl, were fired at, some of them ducked, a few got the bullets, but Tilu and Kalindi escaped. Some people collapsed with asthma attack, while heart patients were getting breathless. A man behind them took a bullet in his abdomen which went through his back.
Tilu dragged him into the Lavender Room, by now his guts hanging loose from his frame. "Table cloths and napkins were used to make bandages. And with the help of some others, I held the wounded man down. I bunched up his intestines and held them within with my bare hands and table napkins for six hours.
The man died after six days in the ICU," says Tilu.
"My mind often goes back to that day, and I wonder what would have happened if it was my daughter bleeding on the floor instead of that man," says she. "I would have picked her up, broken the windows, constructed a rope with the table cloths and jumped out for assistance." That would not have been possible in a saree. "Which is why I have taken to wearing a pair of tights under my saree today," she says.
Sure, people have their own way of coping with tragedies and crisis. Her daughter Kalindi does not speak about the incident at all. It is almost as if she was never a part of it. As for Tilu, who used to be an atheist, is further convinced that religion is the bane of our lives and to be a free thinker is the best religion of all. Tilu is prepared for a similar eventuality. "Should this happen with me once again, I'd be a lot more pro-active,” she says. "I carry a lot of guilt inside for not being able to save that man. Every time I wear a saree, my hands shake with paranoia and I wonder how I would cope if I am put in a similar situation.”
She draped a saree for the first time after 26/ 11 this Diwali to a party in Singapore. A guest collapsed, who she had to tend to and subsequently move to Tan Tock Seng Hospital. "So you can well imagine my foreboding when I don a saree," she says.
Living with wounds
Twenty-eight-year old Anamika Gupta, a beautician, prefers to see the silver lining among dark clouds. If there is one good thing that has emerged out of 26/11, she says, it’s that it held a mirror to her inner strength.
“We have seen death, up, close and personal. Nothing can shake us now,” she says, pointing to the deep gash on her stomach — the place where a bullet was lodged as she and her friends tried to escape the random shooting that night at Leopold Café. Her friend and closest confidante Sarika Upadhyay, 33, couldn’t agree more. A year after the attacks, this single mother of a five-year-old still carries splinter wounds in her body. The shrapnel lodged in her leg is yet another ugly reminder of how close she came to death.
She finds it difficult to bend or stand or walk for long. The pain is also excruciating when she does any physical activity. But living with injuries is also another reality they have come to terms with. “Life has to go on, hasn’t it?” Sarika says.
NIGHTMARE AT COLABA
Anamika and Sarika, along with two of their friends Rasika and Meenakshi, were caught in the crossfire at Leopold, where they had gone dining. Pandemonium broke out when two men, seated right next to them got up and started firing. “We just ran helter-skelter. I somehow managed to cross over to the other side of the road when suddenly a searing pain shot up my leg. I felt numb seeing blood all around,” says Sarika.
Anamika too tried to run but got shot thrice in her stomach, while splinter injuries almost made her legs go numb. Yet gathering courage, she managed to run away and remained hidden for a while before passing out. Their two other friends escaped to a safe corner.
When they came to their senses, the girls found themselves in St George’s Hospital and were later shifted to JJ. “Those were the worst eight days of my life,” says Sarika, who was discharged within a week to make way for the more grievously injured. Anamika, however, had to spend nearly 50 days in the hospital but it was months before she could lead a normal life. Rasika and Meenakshi got away unharmed, but the incident left a deep impact. Rasika, an aspiring actress even went into depression for a while, and tries not to talk about the incident at all.
LIFE AFTER
But as always with any tragedy it was the aftermath that was more painful. Their physical condition prevented them from undertaking any strenuous work while personal relationships too underwent a lot of stress. For Sarika, who used to work as a life insurance advisor, it was a double whammy. “I had to take care of my younger brother and an aged mother. It’s very difficult to stay at home after being a working woman. Plus I was worried about my son’s future,” she says.
The Tata Trust, set up after the tragedy to help victims, then became their biggest hope. The Trust not only foot their bills, but is also helping them explore their talents. Gradually, they started rebuilding their lives. While Sarika is being trained to become a masseur, Anamika hopes to start a beauty parlour. “Throughout the tragedy, more than family, friends have stood by me,” says Anamika who now stays in a tiny one-room space in Worli.
Both girls have put the tragedy behind them and are gearing up for a better future. But the scars remain – physically at least, if not emotionally. But Anamika still looks at the positive side. “I have gained so much weight! But thank God, it was my stomach they shot at. I’d have been crippled if I had hurt my leg! But we are not afraid, you can’t live in denial. These things happen,” she says.
However, the night changed their outlook towards life forever. “Only those who experience it will understand how we lived these months,” says Anamika. Sarika perhaps sums it up the best: “Earlier we would watch terror attacks on TV and thought these things only happened to others. Now we are talking to you as a victim.
‘I will survive’
One year ago today, Karuna Waghela’s world came crumbling down. Her husband, government sweeper Thakur Waghela, was gunned down by terrorists in their very own home, leaving her to care for their three children alone. She was asked to leave her inlaws’ house without warning, and they refused to give her any part of her dead husband’s compensation. In these 12 months, however, the 32-year-old has picked up the pieces: from being a meek housewife, she has grown into an independent woman who can support not only herself, but also her schoolgoing children.
“A year ago, I’d never have thought I’d be able to manage so much myself,” says Karuna. “Initially I couldn’t concentrate on anything, but I knew I had to get a grip for the sake of my children, so I persevered, and to a great extent, I have succeeded.”
But her journey has been nothing short of a heroic tale. Recalling the fateful night, she says, “I was at my sister’s place with our two older children, Roshni, 7, and Dhaval, 10. My husband, who worked with GT Hospital, had got word of the attacks. Before going to our home at the hospital quarters in the lane next to Cama Hospital, he cautioned passersby.
“Our son Neeraj, 5, was with him at home, and they had just settled down for dinner when Ajmal Qasab and Abu Ismail stopped to ask for a glass of water. When he reached out for a glass, Qasab rushed in and shot him dead, as Neeraj hid behind the door and watched in horror.
“When my mother-in-law Jamnabai, who lived next door, saw the two men walk in with their AK-47s, she screamed, asking them to spare her son. Ismail fired at her, but she ducked and escaped the bullet.”
Karuna only got word of the tragedy the next morning, and rushed home. She was devastated.
Shortly after the tragedy, her in-laws decided she could no longer stay with them as their son was no more. They kept all of the Rs 5-lakh compensation awarded by the government.
But all was not lost. Fortunately, Karuna had been allotted a MHADA flat in Pratiksha Nagar, Sion by the government, so she shifted there with her children and her father. Soon after, she was offered her husband’s job as a sweeper at GT Hospital, where she now works a daily eight-hour shift. “I am grateful for the job; I earn Rs 3,000 a month, and it is not much, but it has bailed me out of my financial woes. Thankfully, many kind souls have come to our aid,” she says.
All she wants now is to ensure the best possible education for her children and ensure that they lead successful lives. “Neeraj studies in the English medium, while Roshni and Dhaval are still in the Marathi medium. Just like my husband wished, I too want them to study in English-medium schools and settle well in life,” she adds. “Whenever my children come to meet me at the hospital, I never take the broom in my hands. I don’t want them to feel bad that I do such a job, though I have no qualms because no job is big or small.”
Life is obviously difficult for the children, especially Neeraj. “He has seen his father die right before his eyes, but he is young and harbours the hope that his father will come back. He keeps saying his father’s name in his sleep, and repeats the same lines: ‘Mat maaro, daddy ne kaha… phir bhi who gande logon ne maar diya’ (Don’t kill me, daddy said. Still, those terrible people killed him).”
And the single mum finds it equally hard to come to terms with this reality: “I get furious when I read or see anything about Qasab in the news. Why are they keeping him alive after knowing all that he has done? I don’t know what I will do to him if I ever get to meet him.” Quickly regaining her calm, she says, “I still miss my husband more than ever, but I have learnt to accept my loss and have got my life back together.”
Celebrating the braveheart
The Unnikrishnans, a retired couple settled in the quiet neighbourhood of ISRO Akash Vihar Layout in suburban Bangalore, are propelled by a new energy which has become a lifeline. K Unnikrishnan, retired ISRO official, and Dhanalakshmi Unnikrishnan, are parents of Major Sandeep Unnikrishnan, an NSG commando deployed from the seventh Bihar regiment who lost his life fighting terrorists inside the Taj Mahal Hotel in Mumbai on November 27. The couple has been travelling to Kanpur and other places since the middle of November to meet their well-wishers; by the end of the month they will be in Mumbai. "We wish to be at the Taj Mahal Hotel, Mumbai, on November 26 and 27 just to be with him," says Unnikrishnan, emphasizing that it remains the most accursed day of their lives.
KEEPING THE MEMORY ALIVE
Pictures of Sandeep Unnikrishnan dominate the showcase, a centerpiece in their living room. Dhanalakshmi points to the portrait every now and then to say, "He is always here, guiding us." Except for that, not much has changed in the living room. On the other hand, two big trunks containing Sandeep’s belongings are arranged at the foot of his bed. His uniforms are neatly hung inside the wardrobe and his different caps - the NDA one, another from the Bihar regiment and one from the NSG have been arranged on a table near his bed - and a collage of photos from work and at leisure rest against the wall over the table.
Dhanalakshmi comes to the room every day, "to arrange the books so that I can pack them up to give away to the needy, or to just neatly stack them, but I am never able to finish the task as I get emotional".
Being on the move keeps their minds occupied. "The support and love we have received from the people all over the country has been overwhelming. We have kept ourselves busy with memorials and programmes in our son’s honour and met the people he had known in his lifetime; talking to friends, close associates… that is what has kept us going," says Unnikrishnan. A few months ago when the they were out of town, a teacher from Delhi Public School, Kanpur, SVG Menon, dropped by and left a huge bundle of cards made by the students, conveying their condolences. "My only solace is when I see people, known and unknown, praising him for his brave deed. That is why I make it a point to attend all functions organised in his honour. That is the only thing that is keeping me alive," says a tearful Dhanalakshmi. A few months after the terror attacks, at the Art of Living Foundation’s campus near Bangalore two ladies came up to them to say that Sandeep had saved their lives. They were at the Taj Mahal hotel during the attacks and were rescued by Sandeep. The couple has been practicing Prana Yoga for 10 years now, which has helped them in mind control.
FAITH FLOATS
It is a giant leap of faith. For last year, even as their son’s body was being prepared for the last rites, the couple had locked themselves up in their room and momentarily decided to end their lives. "But we soon shook away the thought, as we did not want people to say that Sandeep was such a brave guy while we are such cowards." The couple subsequently created a trust in their son’s memory and is building a corpus fund from the money they received from the government and other private agencies, which they plan to use for charitable causes such as education, housing and children’s health. They have donated Rs 20 lakh to the CM’s flood relief fund, from their personal savings. "After his death we asked ourselves, who would speak for him when the need arises? Now, our life’s mission is to do what he did all his life, help those in need. When he was in the Army, we had asked him not to send us money. We thought he was enjoying life. Only after his death we realised that he was spending most of his salary helping the needy," says the father.
But the pain does not go away. "My son has given his life for the country and that makes me proud. But if he had lived it would have been better not just for us but for the country... after all, he was so dedicated to his work. He would have continued in the Indian Army for at least another 30 years," says Unnikrishnan, adding "as a father I sometimes wonder whether his sacrifice was necessary."
"We try to act as if everything is going on as it was before Sandeep’s death. People ask us whether we are okay or we have recovered from our grief. But the word ‘normal’ does not exist for us anymore,” says the grieving father.
26 - 11 --- The heroes in common men Part I
Source : MM
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