Diya

We sit there on the floor for a long time, trying our best to be invisible. Some people are crying. There is a continuous soft murmur of people praying to their gods, pleading for help. The old lady has got her breath back and is sitting quietly in a corner. We are all waiting to know what’s going to happen to us.

Then the leader comes back in and tells us to move.

We are all herded into the electronics department. Dozens of television screens are mounted from floor to ceiling. They are all tuned to the same thing: breaking news. Every channel is covering the terrorist attack on the police convoy that had been taking Salim Mukhtar to Yerawada. That’s the name of the grey-haired man. I realize I know who he is. I listen with a sinking heart.

‘An accident was engineered to block traffic while the rescue was carried out. Terrorists then ambushed the van that carried Mukhtar and managed to free him. However, they were unable to get away as a roadroller engaged in road work had been left parked, so that it blocked a side road.’

There is blurry footage from a mobile phone that shows a traffic jam and men with guns running between cars. There is the sound of gunfire. Then shots of a police van with the door gaping open. A roadroller sits squat in the middle of the road.

The presenter has a sombre expression as she says, ‘The terrorists are now inside Luxore Mall. Police have cordoned off the area. It is currently unclear how many hostages are being held. There are unconfirmed reports of more casualties inside the mall.’ The reportage switches to shots of the outside of the mall. Crowds are milling around. Police are struggling to control them. A policeman tries to make a statement while the press mobs and jostles him.

Salim watches it all, smiling. There he is, blown up in colour on every screen. The TV shows a gaunt, intense-looking man scowling at the camera. The image has little resemblance to the man who stands calmly beside us. The years have not been kind to Salim. He has spent the last three in a prison, waiting for a death sentence.

He turns the sound off. The presenter continues to mouth silently on the screens behind him as he turns to face us.

‘As the lady told you—you are hostages. A good hostage is one who stays alive. I have more than enough to spare. So here are the rules.’ He looked around at the numb people in front of him. ‘There is only one rule. You will not be a hero. In real life, heroes die.’

No one can take their eyes off him. ‘You will not try to escape. You will not try to do anything foolish. You will not move at all until you are told to. You will shut up. You will stay in one place. You will do what you are told.’ He smiles. ‘Only then you might stay alive.’

Nobody moves. Nobody says anything. Nobody tries to be a hero. ‘We are going to make this easy for everyone,’ Salim says. ‘We have some demands. If the government meets them, you go free.’

A little murmur runs through the hostages. He makes it sound so simple. ‘I know what you have been told. That we are dangerous, violent people. We are not. We are people with a wound. It pains us deeply, and no one will hear our pain. All we want is for them to listen to us.’

I guess it’s simple irony that, at exactly that moment, the dozens of screens flash gory images of mangled bodies scattered among the wreckage of a train.

‘We are not terrorists. We seek healing. We seek justice.’