It was a routine assignment—a photograph of the J W Marriott’s star attraction at their New Year’s eve do, Bipasha Basu. Only, getting to the Marriott was a task in itself. It was 11.40 pm on December 31, and an unruly crowd of people was already surging forward on both sides of the road, although things weren’t out of hand just yet. Walking the last 15 minutes, I paused only once inside the safety of the hotel. The beach is a mere 100 metres away from J W Marriott. Knowing there would be a mammoth crowd streaming out of the beach, I didn’t leave until as late as possible. The party ended at 2.30 am and, a friend in tow, I decided to call it a night. To our surprise, at the hotel gates, we heard a huge commotion and what looked like thousands of people just walking along the road in both directions. The police presence was unimaginably strong. The hotel security guards solemnly told us not to leave the hotel without a vehicle. “It’s not safe to take madam out,” he told my friend. He also offered to get the hotel’s taxi service. We declined—it was already late and waiting for the hotel cab would mean a further delay. We slipped out from the other gate. And immediately found ourselves struggling to plow ahead in a thick crowd; all men, no women apart from those emerging from the Marriott. I wrapped my shawl tightly around me, clutched my equipment bag close to my body and stuck smack behind my friend while he fought his way out of the melee. It was a sea of men; an unruly, heaving mass that was five-six men deep in space meant for two. They walked as though they owned the road, bumping into people, jeering and peeking into autorickshaws. Almost everybody was drunk—you didn’t need a breath analyser to prove that. It was only a three-minute walk at most, but an ordeal nonetheless. Thankfully, we found an empty autorickshaw. I felt safer inside. But I didn’t feel completely safe until we were well past the men peering into the rickshaw.
