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Today I am coughing, choking in smoke. I see human eyes peering at me through wide angle cameras where once I’d see children with balloons, lovers soaking in the sea breeze close to the Gateway. Today I hear feet pounding on my head. I hope the commandoes have come. My inside is burning. Gunshots ruining my lovely skin of wall to wall Persian carpets. My skull of chandeliers cracked. A few days and all will be quiet. Images of me burning just a curious click on the web. And the rich folk of Mumbai will return to my caresses of chicken tikka masala served by men and women who lost their colleagues and close friends today.