The Mumbai Mirror this morning carried a picture today of the last terrorist to be smoked out of the Taj yesterday. Without the caption it would have taken me a few moments to realize it was a human body. Seeing these images, what induces people to continually subject themselves to years of rigorous training finally to end up in a heap of unloved and uncared for flesh and bones. Maybe unloved is too mild a word. They got people to hate them, despise them and wish them dead.
I know I speak for most people when I say that the mere thought of being hated by anyone is definitely not a very pleasant thought. And these guys work hard for it. Really hard. All their lives, in camps, without their families, with a lot of death, or the idea of death. And of course, religion. But that’s a different story.
Is any feeling so strong that it can overpower every other need? The need to love, the need to be free, the need to be happy and not angry?
I often wonder what they did in there, holding fort for so many hours. Beyond a point there was no television, no communication with the outside world. They couldn’t have known for sure what was going on outside. Imagine being in such position.
There are hundreds of soldiers, armed, just waiting to kill you. All around you are dead people, and their blood. You killed them. Some of your partners are dead too. The place is on fire. How do you keep from going insane? How do you ever prepare for that?
Does a terrorist feel the terror? Did they feel really scared, sitting there with enough ammunition to blow up the city? And what did they do then? Pray? Cry? Regret? Or just the all consuming passion to go on?
I probably will never know. Nobody will. Except them.