It’s not often that you get to read your own name in the obituaries. Three days after terrorists went on the rampage in Mumbai, newspapers and TV channels included my name in the list of more than 170 people who died in the carnage.

They were wrong — obviously.

But I had a tough time fending off phone calls from anxious relatives and friends who thought I had succumbed to my injuries.

Yes, I am alive and well. And painfully aware that my first trip to the Leopold Café might have been my last. I was there on that unforgettable Wednesday night, deep in conversation with two French acquaintances — Kate, a filmmaker, and her friend Clementine. As we drank beer and tucked into prawns and chicken tikka, we talked of Kate’s debut Hindi film — a comedy about a girl in Paris who wants to marry a man with a moustache.

An hour later, as Clementine suggested we order more beer, a diner at a nearby table caught my eye. I remember thinking he bore an uncanny similarity to actor Johnny Depp in the Pirates of the Caribbean series. The next instant, his table was smashed and the diner was flung aside. I heard what seemed like a blast and something hit me hard on my back. I panicked and ran out through the nearest door.

Out on the road, I touched the wound and found it was bleeding profusely. I could hardly move my right hand. I shouted for help but no one paid any heed. I tried to move ahead but couldn’t and fell down.

... contd.