As the policeman was trying the control room and the hospital staff debating my possible gangster status, I was writhing in pain and Kishor was requesting for an early treatment for me.
“What happened,” an authoritative yet hopeful female voice came from behind. After some discussion she said,” Let’s treat him we are no one decide his profession.”
She along with others removed my shirt and pressed below my shoulder touching my wounded ribs. A copper coated bullet fell off. She moved gracefully around assuring the staff helped me bandage, saline and injections. “It was mayhem in CST,” came the sleepy policeman running.
A group of policemen came into the out patient’s department ward of St George hospital where I was sitting. There were a few dead bodies and many injured lay on the floor all breathing heavily.
The lady ordered all the doctors, nurses and medical students to come into action. I could watch at least one policeman stopped his breathing before being treated. I found my way to a ward and shared a bed with three others. Holding my saline I could see a small child almost breathing his last on the same bed I was, a bearded old man was crying “Oh Allah-the-merciful,” all the while.
The night unfolded more of human tragedy, helplessness, cries, prayer and silence. I was breathless, (which I later discovered was due to the broken ribs pressing against my swelling lungs) silent and largely blank minded unable to acclimatize with speed with which the world around me was changing.
In between the graceful middle-aged lady doctor came to me and said, “You will survive for sure.”
Kishor, in the meanwhile was helping fellow victims in the Mumbai attack.
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