Visions of 26/11, Delhi and Hyderabad in Paris attacks

I got the first message at 10.45pm, Paris time. It came from a journalist friend in India. Was I fine? It took a couple of minutes to figure out what was happening. Bombs at the Stade de France. I was far away from St Denis, sitting in my studio almost in the centre of Paris. Then I heard that there had been shots fired in rue Charonne in the 11th arrondissement. Suddenly it became very real. That's where I went to school every day.

That's the neighbourhood many of my classmates lived; a lot of them would be out on a Friday night.

I got a message from one group. They were all fine. What about the rest? A classmate had posted on Facebook and people were checking in. Relief. One, part of the Magnum course in my photography school, was going to the Bataclan to shoot. I had a live stream of the news on, friends from the US and India were messaging. More news trickled in. There was shooting on another street near my school, rue Faidherbe. A classmate had heard gunshots. A friend's sister was visiting a friend on Boulevard Voltaire, right in the middle of the shooting. One friend was unreachable, and I knew, on the move, his path might or might not go via Place de la Republique.

Were networks down or was it something else?

Then a new report, there was shooting at Les Halles shopping centre. That was five steps from my front door.

I had a quick vision of Mumbai and 26/11, terrorists finding guests all over the Taj Mahal Palace and Towers. Should I go out? Should I switch off the lights?

I remember hearing a bomb go off on Barakhamba road in Delhi in 2008; there were five blasts that day. I was working on the next road; I had heard and felt the blast. So here I was once again, watching the news, wondering whether this was it.

The dedicated Twitter feedreported that the news was unconfirmed. Ok. I could listen to the sound of helicopters without my previous alarm. I updated Facebook as the easiest way to get the word out that I was fine. Messaged family and friends who might wake up to the news.

My friend was reachable again, and he was fine. By 1am, all the terrorists were dead; no new attacks were being reported. But it was hard to think of sleeping.

I received calls through the night, as friends and family heard about it in different time zones. I was fine, I assured them.

This morning I could hear people going in and out of the building. Wasn't there a curfew? No, it turned out. People had only been urged to stay indoors. I live in one of the busiest areas in Paris; at 11am, it's chock-a-bloc with people. I went out to buy milk; it's the banal things that show you that life just goes on inexorably. The shop downstairs selling leather jackets was open, and the one opposite selling posters too. The construction work at Les Halles was on. Cranes and workers were moving. There were a few people jogging, a couple browsing books. But mostly the area was empty.

"It's Daesh (ISIS)," said the man selling me milk. Last time he had greeted a Middle-Eastern shopper with a Salaam Alaikum. Today, he looked sad. I knew what he felt. It becomes just a tiny bit harder to say you're Muslim after every attack. Or wonder what something termed an Act of War could mean since you can find the roots of this in the War on Terror.

Newspapers are full of how this has been the worst attack since the Second World War. Then I think of Mumbai, Delhi, Hyderabad… so many places in India. Wouldn’t it be amazing if we could actually feel the loss of 158 people just as deeply?