Terrified pigeons caught amidst human madness in Bombay

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http://www.telegraphindia.com/1081130/jsp/frontpage/story_10185744.jsp

Sunday , November 30 , 2008

Pigeons flock back to plundered home

SANKARSHAN THAKUR An NSG commando feeds pigeons near the Taj after the

siege ended on Saturday. (PTI)

 

*Mumbai, Nov. 29: *The pigeon lay on the side of the street, curled, forlorn

in the frantic footfall of jawans, and quite dead — a singed, soot-ridden

ball of fur. Like at Park Circus, when it was still a circus of traffic, or

at Trafalgar Square, pigeons are intrinsic to the grandeur of the

Taj-Gateway vista; this one had become part of its devastation too, felled

either by a bullet, or a flash of fire, or probably just by the shock of

explosion.

 

All of yesterday, through the recurrent gun-bursts, they were flying off the

Taj's façade like violent pins off a cluster device. But each lull, they'd

flutter daftly back to what's been home to generations of this flock — the

hotel's ornate eaves and the Gateway square.

 

They were indifferent to danger and quite uncaring that for days nobody had

put out any feed to peck at; it was their space they seemed to jealously

want to hold against waves of invasion — troop carriers and armoured cars,

fire tenders and ambulances and, of course, the media garrisoned with its

elaborate wares on the sidelines of action. The more they were pushed and

pressed, the more obdurately they hung on, as if asserting rights.

 

This morning, as the final assault geared up to thunderous velocity, they

were back to see it to the finish, weaving through the air rent with bloody

battle. It seemed a miracle in the end, they'd suffered so little collateral

damage for hovering so close along the line of fire for so long.

 

It seemed equally a miracle that the proud crown of the Taj — its emblematic

central dome — stood defiant and Romanesque after the hurly-burly was over.

Its torso had been pulverised by grenade fire, its luxurious interiors had

become a ripped and charred killing field, the Crystal Ballroom gutted to

flaming ribbons, its flanks still spewed smoke from the scars of engagement.

But the dome itself had withheld and rose above the pall of this morning's

last rites, as if burnished by the test it had been put to.

 

Two nights ago, when an ominous mushroom of fire and smoke had erupted over

it, this seemed an unlikely tiding; collapse had suddenly become imminent.

9/11 and the horrific implosion of the twin towers was the image that

flashed remorselessly overhead.

 

But this morning, it became clear the dome had dodged both assault and fate;

it had survived and probably become a little more iconic than it has thus

far been — the Hero of Ground Zero, the latest hotspot of terror-tourism.

 

It wasn't too long after the last shots had been fired that the first

spectators of the scene of war began to arrive — droves and droves of them

allowed through the barricades a little unthinkingly, a little too soon.

 

The Taj had been reclaimed from its marauders, but it hadn't been secured

yet. Securitymen were still pell-mell, a little unsure whether the job was

done yet. In the forecourt of the Taj, a clutch of what looked like western

intelligence operatives stood taking and exchanging notes with plainclothed

Indian officials. The scene was hurriedly being cleared for ambulances and

fire tenders to move in, but much more remained to be achieved.

 

There were explosives littered about the maze, undefused. The dead awaited

dignified evacuation. There was heat and smoke preventing access, not to

speak of the fear that yet another gunman might be lurking in the chaos,

about to spring a last manic surprise.

 

And here were the unleashed hordes, darting vicariously about the disarray,

like vultures thirsting for their share of gore. A hundred mobile cameras

had been pulled out of pockets and were jostling for instant loot off the

bedlam — a Black Cat poised with his weapon, a grenade tossed in the porch

awaiting expert attention, a burning window, a pounded piece of wall, a

coffin being carted out — anything, just anything, to tear away and keep

from the smouldering ruin.

 

A grim mop-up was under way around the main lobby and the emergency

side-exits — firemen were struggling to reach upper-storey infernos, NSG

guards were warily ensuring the enemy had been silenced, the bomb disposal

squad was gingerly carting out planted ammunition and conducting controlled

explosions, the injured were being hurried to care and the dead were in

sombre handover to kin.

 

And barely metres away, an unseemly voyeurism was exploding to tumult:

people falling over to get a peep into the hearse, people calling out to

troops who had more pressing tasks this morning than answering unsolicited

yelps for attention, people raring to tear into the lobby itself.

 

But if not that, a photo with the singed Taj in the backdrop, another with

Black Cats scurrying behind, yet another with that famous television anchor

as she reports live! " Call home, call home! Tell them to switch on the TV,

I'm on camera, in a green shirt and baseball hat, just behind the reporter,

can you see me yet? "

 

The daft pigeons were far better behaved.