:: Shobhaa De

Colaba to Colombo: Such a short journey

By Sobhaa De

Feb 28 : It was yesterday once more as I found myself stuck in the crowded ballroom of a glittering five-star hotel, with a low flying plane swooping past the enormous glass windows encasing the hall and dropping its lethal cargo (a bomb!), just a few hundred metres from the venue. Oh no, I groaned. Not again. The Mumbai terror attack was not even three months old and here we were, enduring something eerily similar in distant Sri Lanka. I could as easily have been in Colaba, not Colombo. Those chilling few seconds of déjà vu, as anti-aircraft guns went into overdrive and the night sky lit up with flares, will haunt me for some time to come. An aerial attack? Isn’t that what Mumbai ought to be preparing for next? Why Mumbai — every city in the world is equally vulnerable. But even the most fortified and fully prepared destination is a soft target when dealing with suicide-bombers. What is "safe?" Who is "safe?" Nothing and nobody.

Pandemonium ruled in the ballroom. It was a surrealistic scenario. There we were, attending an innocuous, glamourous event — the Colombo Fashion Week. It was the second day of showings. The mood in the ballroom was upbeat and electric. Most of the men were seated at the edges of their chairs, tongues hanging out, lust pouring out of their beings. Why? The next show was the much-awaited, highly-anticipated Triumph lingerie extravaganza. The compere was working the crowd to get people drooling some more. Models strutting their stuff in skimpy panties and push-up bras?? Yesssss! Just then, the lights went off. Worse, the power died. No sound, no illumination. No announcement. Was it for dramatic effect, someone giggled? I was seated next to Robert O. Blake Jr, the very popular, very gregarious American ambassador, who is a permanent fixture on Colombo’s rocking social circuit. I’d heard his Blackberry beeping seconds before the power failed. Did he know something the rest of us didn’t? He showed me the message. It was an alert warning about the possibility of an aerial attack from the sea. He seemed calm and unperturbed as he continued to remain seated. I figured he definitely knew something the rest didn’t. Finally, one of the organisers made a brief announcement saying the shows would resume shortly. Just that. Nothing else.

I stayed put, along with approximately 300 others. When the lights came on abruptly (hotel generator), everybody cheered, the music pumped once more, and the models resumed strutting from where they’d left off. They’d barely taken a few strides down the catwalk, when we heard the first huge explosion. It sounded like it had taken place in the garden down below. It was that powerful. Seconds later we heard the unmistakable sound of anti-aircraft guns pounding away. It was time to pray! Or run like hell. Mr Blake’s sister-in-law grabbed my arm and said, "Follow us…" They were gone in seconds… escorted out swiftly by their minders. The rest of us were stuck on the seventh floor with nobody taking the lead or issuing any directions. Except for my friend Judith, who in her best school teacher voice commanded people to stay calm and march out in an orderly fashion. Like hell anybody was listening! People fell over chairs and each other as they scrambled towards any exit they could spot. Since I was dressed in a flowy caftan, I had two choices — to take it off and run, or walk really, really slowly… and get blown up. I am not saying which option I took! Keep guessing.

By the time we made it to the lobby via a narrow fire exit in pitch darkness, it was clear the worst was over. By that time locals had accessed the news that the attacks had been carried out by kamikaze LTTE pilots in Czech-manufactured aircraft, which fly at tree-top level to avoid radar detection. They are like pesky mosquitoes that require a powerful zap from a specially designed fly-swatter rather than heavy duty fire from anti-aircraft guns that often miss them because of the low altitude. This factoid was of zero help to us, especially since there were rumours of three more such "mosquitoes" in possession of the rebels, which had come in to attack Colombo but flown back over the sea. Would they refuel and return? Someone added helpfully that a rogue submarine was trawling the waters right outside the hotel. Thanks buddy. That was a reassuring nugget. Meanwhile, the lobby was swarming with confused guests who were being given brilliant advice by any and everybody — chefs, waiters, bell boys, even the models! "Go there to the coffee shop… it’s safer. No, let’s all head for the basement… where the bloody hell is the bloody basement?? Swimming pool!! Guys… we’ll be better off outdoors. No way. Stay under the beam… Not the chandelier, dummy! The BEAM!"

One or two of the models had fainted (Yup, still clad in fancy underwear). It could have been dehydration, anorexia and the wine. But I’m not saying. Soon, gallant volunteers formed a protective wall around the semi-clad beauties as they hastily wrapped themselves in whatever fabric was available — mainly tablecloths. One of them had a huge pink bow over her butt. She resembled a yummy gift package but in a bizarre setting. An elderly lady was gasping for breath and some people were stuck in the elevator. Panic? Hah! What’s there to panic?? A couple of bombs dropped by guys without night-vision equipment…? Pilots who could so easily miss their target by a few metres or even miles (they did!)? Piece of cake. Life in a metro. The year of living dangerously. No big deal. That Blake bloke was smart. And swift. He was home and safe. Here we were — idiots! Colombo was still enveloped in darkness. How long would the blackout last? Anybody’s guess. The guns were silent. For now. Most invitees were minus shoes — they’d either lost them in the melee or had sensibly removed them for better mobility. Mine were new. And sexy. I was going to die with my boots on — that’s for sure! It was time for morbid humour. Prasad Bidapa, one of the organisers of the fashion week was clad in his customary dhoti, and quipped, "I was all prepared to jump out of the seventh floor window… I had my parachute on me!" The models were ever ready to party — bless their sweet, little hearts. I was ready to flee. Which is exactly what I did.

After spending the night at the palatial villa of our gracious hostess, Georgina Hirdaramani, my children and I staggered back into the lobby of the hotel at 11 am the next day. The party looked like it had just ended! The relaxed general manager Saurabh Rattan of the Taj Samudra, greeted us with a big grin and said, "We missed you. The disco was rocking till dawn and we resumed the banquet service right after the government sounded the all clear". Wokay. That’s the spirit. That’s the Taj. But the irony of it all is that in Colombo, the highest security zone where the Taj Samudra stands, is also it’s most targeted one — the Army base is a compound wall away, the Indian high commissioner lives just down the road, the naval base is next door, the Presidential Palace is round the corner. And yes — the inland revenue department building that got bombed (by default?) is right behind the hotel’s swimming pool! Sounds familiar? Brings back ghastly memories of 26/11?? "Same same but different" as they say in Singapore. The million dollar question is: Why did India play this attack down? I have a few guesses. Does anybody have the answers??

There’s no place left to hide in the world. Stay home in Colaba and you’re dead. Travel to Colombo and you are still dead. Take your pick. I did. No regrets.

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