Incredulty has given way to anger. Anger that blazed all morning and afternoon. And the evening brought with it nausea and grief. Stories of chefs and trainees massacred in the kitchens of the Taj; of a couple of floors at the Oberoi littered with bodies; of policemen no longer with us, who braved the battle with archaic weapons and without bullet proof vests; of a woman weeping for her husband who could not be traced; of a man waiting for news of his Dad; of a brother desperately seeking his sister; of a couple waiting to receive the wounded daughter of a friend; of hotel guests helplessly signalling to the crowds below; and, of a schoolfriend (my schoolfriend) whose husband is waiting for her outside the Taj, but no news of her-not yet.
Crushed. If any one uses the phrase 'Spirit of Mumbaikars', I swear I'll scream. Right now the only way my spirits will lift is if I storm into the hotels and beat the terrorists to a pulp. With my own fists. Oh, how I wish!