"I feel less scared now that there are more people around me," he says. "On Thursday and Friday, these streets were empty, and that was scarier than anything I watched on television." He's thrilled there's a game on again. "For some reason, I feel more secure."

On Monday, five days after the nightmare began, Mumbai tried to wake up again, somewhat reluctant, slightly scared, with generous doses of relief thrown in.

P Ethiraj, the 7-foot tall ticket-checker at Churchgate Station (he plays basketball for Western Railways) has been smiling down at the world streaming past since his shift started. "It feels like a Monday morning. It feels good." He excuses himself to usher a ticket-less traveller to the office.

Colaba Causeway is packed. The hordes pass each other, shoulders banging as they hustle for room. And with the city getting back to breakneck speed, there's no time for such niceties as an apology.

At Café Mondegar, the manager asks a television crew to leave. "Please don't shoot here, it's a request. It's normal, it's peaceful, don't disturb that."

Inside, Jaime and Elisa, Spanish journalists here to cover the terror, placed their orders for pasta a while ago, but are still perplexed that it looks so appetising when it does arrive. They're getting used to that. They've been here since Friday, and what they can't understand is how so many people are already out and about. They were back home during the Madrid blasts. "People were scared for a while after that," they say.

But the anger, the helplessness, is simmering. It's visible in numerous, slogan-shouting peace marches around the city and in bouquets of flowers and lit candles outside Café Leopold. All around, in fact, if you look hard enough.

It's just past lunch hour at Gokul Bar and Restaurant -- bang in the middle of Leopold and the Taj Mahal hotel. Here, Mumbai comes to gulp down spirits, served by the quarter with large lumps of 'kaccha baraf'. The panwallah outside snaps when asked if he was there on Wednesday night. "Yes, I was here, I saw them run past. I'm just trying to forget." A customer asks for change for a 1000-rupee note. "Kahan se milega? Aaj hi toh khola hai (Where will I change from? I only opened shop today)."

Less than 20 paces away, Mohammad Naseer -- who left his home in Malapurram, Kerala, four years ago chasing gulf dreams -- is selling bling again. He points at the Colaba Police Station across the road. "They come every day to collect money from us, but that night there was no one."

With the cops having barricaded the road that leads to the Taj and the Gateway of India, a few college students walk down the Causeway to try their luck at the Strand Cinema end. They get closer than they expected, and see white bedsheets still hanging down from a few windows. A few pictures clicked on their camera phones, they quickly move away. Is it scary? They shake their heads. Terror up close lends itself to silence.

Leopold sneakily opens at around 2.30 pm, away from the media glare, surprising even those passing by. It fills up soon enough. The first order is, not surprisingly, chilly beef and chicken fried rice. It's a meal that does more than just satiate hunger.

Word spreads fast. The waiters skip around as the owners exchange hugs with a few regulars. "You're the first place to open again," Le Roy Peter, a Dutch tourist, tells the waiter as he picks up souvenir T-Shirts. "It's a big statement."

The waiter grins back. "No, we just feel lucky."