Heroes At The Taj

Commentary

Michael Pollack 12.01.08, 7:40 PM ET
My story begins innocuously, with a dinner reservation in a world-classhotel. It ends 12 hours later after the Indian army freed us.

My point is not to sensationalize events. It is to express my gratitude andpay tribute to the staff of the Taj Mahal Hotel in Mumbai, who sacrificedtheir lives so that we could survive. They, along with the Indian army, arethe true heroes that emerged from this tragedy.

My wife, Anjali, and I were married in the Taj's Crystal Ballroom. Herparents were married there, too, and so were Shiv and Reshma, the couplewith whom we had dinner plans. In fact, my wife and Reshma, both Bombaygirls, grew up hanging out and partying the night away there and at theOberoi Hotel, another terrorist target.

The four of us arrived at the Taj around 9:30 p.m. for dinner at the GoldenDragon, one of the better Chinese restaurants in Mumbai. We were a littleearly, and our table wasn't ready. So we walked next door to the Harbor Barand had barely begun to enjoy our beers when the host told us our table wasready. We decided to stay and finish our drinks.

Thirty seconds later, we heard what sounded like a heavy tray smashing tothe ground. This was followed by 20 or 30 similar sounds and then absolutesilence. We crouched behind a table just feet away from what we now knewwere gunmen. Terrorists had stormed the lobby and were firingindiscriminately.

We tried to break the glass window in front of us with a chair, but itwouldn't budge. The Harbour Bar's hostess, who had remained at her post,motioned to us that it was safe to make a run for the stairwell. Shementioned, in passing, that there was a dead body right outside in thecorridor. We believe this courageous woman was murdered after we ran away.(We later learned that minutes after we climbed the stairs, terrorists cameinto the Harbour Bar, shot everyone who was there and executed those nextdoor at the Golden Dragon. The staff there was equally brave, locking theirpatrons into a basement wine cellar to protect them. But the terroristsmanaged to break through and lob in grenades that killed everyone in thebasement.)

We took refuge in the small office of the kitchen of another restaurant,Wasabi, on the second floor. Its chef and staff served the four of us foodand drink and even apologized for the inconvenience we were suffering.Through text messaging, e-mail on BlackBerrys and a small TV in the office,we realized the full extent of the terrorist attack on Mumbai. We figuredwe were in a secure place for the moment. There was also no way out.At around 11:30 p.m., the kitchen went silent. We took a massive woodentable and pushed it up against the door, turned off all the lights and hid.All of the kitchen workers remained outside; not one staff member had run.The terrorists repeatedly slammed against our door. We heard them ask thechef in Hindi if anyone was inside the office. He responded calmly: "No oneis in there. It's empty." That is the second time the Taj staff saved ourlives.

After about 20 minutes, other staff members escorted us down a corridor toan area called The Chambers, a members-only area of the hotel. There wereabout 250 people in six rooms. Inside, the staff was serving sandwiches andalcohol. People were nervous, but cautiously optimistic. We were told TheChambers was the safest place we could be because the army was now guardingits two entrances and the streets were still dangerous. There had beenattacks at a major railway station and a hospital.

But then, a member of parliament phoned into a live newscast and let theworld know that hundreds of people--including CEOs, foreigners and membersof parliament--were "secure and safe in The Chambers together." Adding tothe escalating tension and chaos was the fact that, via text and cellphone,we knew that the dome of the Taj was on fire and that it could movedownward.

At around 2 a.m., the staff attempted an evacuation. We all lined up tohead down a dark fire escape exit. But after five minutes, grenade blastsand automatic weapon fire pierced the air. A mad stampede ensued to get outof the stairwell and take cover back inside The Chambers.
After that near-miss, my wife and I decided we should hide in differentrooms. While we hoped to be together at the end, our primary obligation wasto our children. We wanted to keep one parent alive. Because I am Americanand my wife is Indian, and news reports said the terrorists were targetingU.S. and U.K. nationals, I believed I would further endanger her life if wewere together in a hostage situation.

So when we ran back to The Chambers I hid in a toilet stall with afloor-to-ceiling door and my wife stayed with our friends, who fled to alarge room across the hall.

For the next seven hours, I lay in the fetal position, keeping in touchwith Anjali via BlackBerry. I was joined in the stall by Joe, a Nigeriannational with a U.S. green card. I managed to get in touch with the FBI,and several agents gave me status updates throughout the night.

I cannot even begin to explain the level of adrenaline running through mysystem at this point. It was this hyper-aware state where every sound,every smell, every piece of information was ultra-acute, analyzed andprocessed so that we could make the best decisions and maximize the odds ofsurvival.

Was the fire above us life-threatening? What floor was it on? Were thecommandos near us, or were they terrorists? Why is it so quiet? Did thecommandos survive? If the terrorists come into the bathroom and to thedoor, when they fire in, how can I make my body as small as possible? IfJoe gets killed before me in this situation, how can I throw his body onmine to barricade the door? If the Indian commandos liberate the rest inthe other room, how will they know where I am? Do the terrorists havesuicide vests? Will the roof stand? How can I make sure the FBI knows whereAnjali and I are? When is it safe to stand up and attempt to urinate?Meanwhile, Anjali and the others were across the corridor in a mass ofpeople lying on the floor and clinging to each other. People barely movedfor seven hours, and for the last three hours they felt it was too unsafeto even text. While I was tucked behind a couple walls of marble andgranite in my toilet stall, she was feet from bullets flying back andforth. After our failed evacuation, most of the people in the fire escapestairwell and many staff members who attempted to protect the guests wereshot and killed.

The 10 minutes around 2:30 a.m. were the most frightening. Rather than theback-and-forth of gunfire, we just heard single, punctuated shots. We laterlearned that the terrorists went along a different corridor of TheChambers, room by room, and systematically executed everyone: women,elderly, Muslims, Hindus, foreigners. A group huddled next to Anjali wasdevout Bori Muslims who would have been slaughtered just like everyoneelse, had the terrorists gone into their room. Everyone was in deep prayerand most, Anjali included, had accepted that their lives were likely over.It was terrorism in its purest form. No one was spared.
The next five hours were filled with the sounds of an intense grenade/gunbattle between the Indian commandos and the terrorists. It was fought indarkness; each side was trying to outflank the other.

By the time dawn broke, the commandos had successfully secured ourcorridor. A young commando led out the people packed into Anjali's room.When one woman asked whether it was safe to leave, the commando replied:"Don't worry, you have nothing to fear. The first bullets have to gothrough me."

The corridor was laced with broken glass and bullet casings. Every tablewas turned over or destroyed. The ceilings and walls were littered withhundreds of bullet holes. Blood stains were everywhere, though,fortunately, there were no dead bodies to be seen.

A few minutes after Anjali had vacated, Joe and I peeked out of our stall.We saw multiple commandos and smiled widely. I had lost my right shoe whilesprinting to the toilet so I grabbed a sheet from the floor, wrapped itaround my foot and proceeded to walk over the debris to the hotel lobby.Anjali and I embraced for the first time in seven hours in the Taj's groundfloor entrance. I didn't know whether she was dead or injured because wehadn't been able to text for the past three hours.

I wanted to take a picture of us on my BlackBerry, but Anjali wanted us toget out of there before doing anything.

She was right--our ordeal wasn't completely over. A large bus pulled up infront of the Taj to collect us and, just about as it was fully loaded,gunfire erupted again. The terrorists were still alive and firing automaticweapons at the bus. Anjali was the last to get on the bus, and sheeventually escaped in our friend's car. I ducked under some concretebarriers for cover and wound up the subject of photos that were latersplashed across the media. Shortly thereafter, an ambulance came and drovea few of us to safety. An hour later, Anjali and I were again reunited ather parents' home. Our Thanksgiving had just gained a lot more meaning.Some may say our survival was due to random luck, others might creditdivine intervention. But 72 hours removed from these events, I can assureyou only one thing: Far fewer people would have survived if it weren't forthe extreme selflessness shown by the Taj staff, who organized us, cateredto us and then, in the end, literally died for us.

They complemented the extreme bravery and courage of the Indian commandos,who, in a pitch-black setting and unfamiliar, tightly packed terrain,valiantly held the terrorists at bay.
It is also amazing that, out of our entire group, not one person screamedor panicked. There was an eerie but quiet calm that pervaded--one morething that got us all out alive. Even people in adjacent rooms, who werebeing executed, kept silent.

It is much easier to destroy than to build, yet somehow humanity hasmanaged to build far more than it has ever destroyed. Likewise, in a periodof crisis, it is much easier to find faults and failings rather than tocelebrate the good deeds. It is now time to commemorate our heroes.
Michael Pollack is a general partner of Glenhill Capital, a firm heco-founded in 2001.