Tragically, three of those Taj casualties came from one South Mumbai family of four who had been eating out at the Taj, celebrating a birthday. The mother, father and son had all been shot and killed, while the daughter's condition was unknown. The mother's sister was in tears. She had been joined by members of the extended family. Their emotions alternated from shock to outrage to helplessness to an absolute, consuming grief.
Here, too, dead bodies were laid out on blood-soaked mattresses on the floor, hidden away from public gaze behind a large partition. Periodically, family members went behind the curtain to try and identify their loved ones; their faces reflected the terror of anticipation.
We are forbidden from speaking to recovering victims -- the chief doctor has passed a strict order applicable to all media, on the grounds that reliving the trauma was inappropriate this soon after the tragedy.
Without intruding, we walk about among some of the wounded. There were at least five wards full of victims, including one devoted entirely to women. Some were old, some were young. Some appeared badly hurt but stable, while others showed little outward sign of being injured.
Blood was everywhere -- blood, and more and more names in white chalk on black board.
Doctors led a tour for some politicians and what appeared to be other doctors, describing the victims and their wounds. One man from Calcutta spoke neither Hindi nor English, and appeared to be in great pain. He gripped his hospital bed sheet in both hands; his eyes spoke for him, testifying to pain, pleading for relief.
In this photo: A family grieves the loss of loved ones at JJ hospital
Photograph: Reuben N V
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