I was scared too. A fact that I hate to admit. 7/11 was the worst day of my life. A day I would rather have died. I have not been able to step into a train since then without carrying my heart in my throat.
I returned by road that day. Only to feel terrorised on the way as we got stuck for hours in the jam. For hours, I could not get in touch with my mom or just about anyone. Just darkness all around. And people walking on the roads. Crowds and crowds. In spite of that I was alone, almost on the brink of hysteria.
I did manage to tune into FM though. And all I heard was confusion about the number of bombs, about the number of the dead. Ambulances were trying to tear through the jam. Sirens of police vehicles and fire brigades shrieked through the night. Nothing, nothing had terrorised me so much before.
It became worse as it just brought back awful memories of the ’93 blasts. Of the communal riots that followed. Of hatred and of fear. The same fear I had experienced when the rioters threw bottles at our windows, in the 1984 riots. I was younger then, but very scared.
And I can barely write about anything else since then. My heart still hurts as it bumps inside when I think of that evening.
Will it ever stop? This terror?
Or will I become immune to it too? I wonder.