
Happy New Year. I brought in the New Year in Bombay, India with Danoosh and his family. A month earlier, just about three blocks from where we dined on moo shoo duck rolls and brought in 2009 terrorists killed nearly 200 innocent Mumbaikers. Many of them dining with their loved ones just like us. I wrote this the the twenty-four hours following the attacks on Mumbai.
People don’t just love Bombay—they worship her. Every Mumbaikar will vehemently claim that Bombay is the best city in the world—more vibrant than New York, more lavish than London, and more distinctive than Tokyo. As a first-generation immigrant with Bombay pulsating through my veins, I can’t deny it—they are right. Bombay is much, much more than a city. Bombay is luxurious ambitions, heartfelt antiquities, and joie de vivre.
My parents and grandparents were married in the Taj. My mind is salted with cherished memories of the Taj and Oberoi—a chance encounter with friends from a past life, a favorite pair of shoes, a surprise piece of jewelry, the most succulent kabob I ever bit into. These hotels were not just places for dignitaries to rest their heads; they were the arteries and aortas of this city.
In twenty-three days I’ll be landing in Bombay and inhaling her muggy, life-filled air. Am I scared? Yes. Will this stop me from going? No.
I’m scared of the gruesome, bitter, heartless, cold-blooded ignorance of these attackers. I’m petrified that people this inhumane exist in our world. I’m fearful that Mumbaikars may think twice before gallivanting across town to three weddings in one evening. I’m anxious that these bastards and their friends may still be out there. Above all, I’m scared of the scar a catastrophe like this may leave.
However, I will get on that plane. I will not let evil breathe fear into my life’s plans.
I did get on that plane. I was safe. I saw with my own eyes that nobody, no matter how filled with hate, violence, and methamphedamines can destroy a city with a heart as big as that of Bombay.

