Entering the Oberoi Trident — after it’s been declared free of terrorists — you walk into the lobby of death.

In fact, right at the entrance itself, you see it. Instead of cars, the porch is lined with hearse vans and ambulances. Instead of liveried doormen, there are policemen, members of rescue teams. All wearing surgical masks and gloves.

In the flurry of bodies being carried out on stretchers and luggage of rescued guests being wheeled out, I slip in, unnoticed. What my colleagues and I had watched all day long, from a perch of our newsroom in Express Towers, located right across, is now up close.

If you, for a moment, ignore the granite floors and the gleam of brass, newly polished, the lobby resembles a camp ravaged. The front desk is heaped with cartons of plastic food trays and crates of Coke cans. After more than 40 hours of trigger-alert tension, Army commandos sit on couches. Across the concierge desk, NSG commandos are sprawled on sofas. They sit, ringed by rubble, by empty Coke cans and heaps of their security paraphernalia, from trunk-sized ammunition boxes to cases of what appear to be lighting flares.

But what strikes you is the quantity of shattered glass, the shards that carpet the floor. The front windows, with a view of the Arabian Sea, are smashed. You can see Mumbai’s third longest night right outside. The glass doors leading to the once-bustling Opium Bar are riddled with bullet marks. An overpowering stench floats down from the mezzanine above.

... contd.