A few months back, I had to travel to Mumbai for work. I applied for my visa and the people at the High Commission very efficiently took my application and told me to pick the passport on the designated day and time.

When I was going to go pick it, my daughter had a couple of errands to run at a nearby mall so I got her to drop me off and told her I’d call her once I was done, and she could pick me on the way home. 

At the Indian High Commission, there were other people standing outside awaiting, like me, to go in. I had a quick look at everyone, and one lady stood out to me. She was wearing a rather warm hoodie in the heat that afternoon. She also had a medical mask on so in my mind I assumed that perhaps she’s unwell, hence the hoodie and the mask. 

I saw a space to sit and asked the gentleman sitting there if he could move up a bit and give me space. He turned out to be the friendliest stranger I have met and soon we were chatting as though we had known each other for ages. We even exchanged Instagram handles! Just as we did that, the security guard opened the gate and people started walking in. 

No sooner had I barely stepped in, the lady in the hoodie had removed her mask and was screaming at everyone to get down. I was confused. Then, I saw a gun in her hand. Next thing I hear is gunshots coming from across the road where the Diplomatic Police Station is. I’m still not reacting. In my mind, I’m inside the Indian High Commission and I felt completely safe. 

That feeling was soon to turn around because I saw a couple of men push their way through into the secure compound and started yelling at everyone to lie down and then it hit me hard. We were being attacked. I had my phone on me because I hadn’t yet had the chance to deposit it in the lockers provided. The first thing I did was call my daughter and tell her there’s a terror attack and that she should stay put and be safe. While I was yelling incoherently into the phone, a gentleman from the High Commission tapped me and urgently reassured me not to worry. This was a drill. 

After relaying this to my daughter, I hung up and then came the flood of tears, falling as fast as my heart was beating. They wouldn’t stop flowing. I was probably at the High Commission for around two hours, and I didn’t stop crying until I sat in my car. 

But I’m getting ahead of myself in this story. There’s more. No sooner had this been sorted out, I was very kindly informed that there was now going to be a fire drill. On cue, I heard the sirens and my body just froze. We were to evacuate the counter area, but I was too numb to walk out and participate. I just sat there, and I must say every member of staff from within who passed me, checked up on me to see if I’m okay. One gentleman who was behind the glassed-off counters allowed me to use his phone to call my daughter. He was very patient as I tried to recall her number. I could only recall the first six digits, and my mind was blank after that. I didn’t have my phone because after the first drill, things supposedly went back to ‘normal’ and I had submitted my purse and phone to be secured in the locker. I was shaking badly, and the tears kept blurring my eyes as I tried to access my contacts list on my smart watch.

Eventually after many attempts I managed to get the number, and I called. She answered and I assured her that I was okay. The concern in her voice was evident and I promptly burst into tears again after I hung up because by then my body was in flight or fight mode. 

I was recalling the trauma from when I felt I had nearly lost my children during a terrorist attack. Visions of that day and the present day sounds kept intertwining, and I don’t think I was coherent at all. The High Commission staff kept checking up on my asking me if I needed water or a cup of tea. Every person who stopped to check on me had nothing but kind words of reassurance. I am welling up as I write this because I am reliving that moment as I recount it. 

I eventually got my passport, and I went home with my daughter who was very concerned about my well-being. In the evening, she asked me what my plans were for the next day so I said I would just stay at home and take it a bit easy. She then told me that I would be receiving a mystery visitor. I managed to muster a grin and pressed her for more details. Both children were evidently in on something as they were talking cryptic with me then eventually, I was told that I would have a visitor from the Indian High Commission in the morning. My first thought was I probably overstepped my mark with protocol by using my phone in a no-phone-zone. Then I thought that cannot be the case. Was it something to do with my visa? Was there some problem? 

Come mid-morning and a very smart gentleman is at the doorstep with a bunch of flowers in hand. I’m a bit taken aback. Is this how visas are issued nowadays? I nervously giggle to myself and usher Captain V. Shirdikant in and instantly get taken aback because he came to check up on me and see if I’m okay. I was most pleasantly surprised as he went on to explain that the drill had been scheduled earlier but unfortunately, because it ran late, we ended up being a part of the drill. I assured him that I fully understood the need for drills and other security measures. I have seen enough carnage to know that any security measures that have been put into place are there for my, and others’, safety. 

Each day, I deal with PTSD at different levels. I’ve found that tolerance for what people go through is a privilege for the one experiencing it because people get fed up of your deregulation. It’s not something in your control, but it’s there, and not everyone is going to understand. 

It’s a long journey, and it’s best dealt with one day at a time.

By the way, Mumbai was as beautiful and welcoming as I’ve always imagined it to be.