September 20 was my third experience as part of a story, rather than being on the spot for the story after the event; in May 1994, while heading a TV crew near Pule Khumri north of Kabul, we got caught up in an intense cross fire between soldiers of Ahmed Shah Masood, and Gen.Rasheed Dostum. The second time, only two days later, we went through the ordeal of abduction in a western district of Kabul, which, at that time, was a war zone divided among several warring factions. Our Hazara abductors twice fired past us to scare us and then asked for money. We had little to offer, and eventually after over five hours, they let us go. By then, Anwar Hussain, our cameraman had begun crying of the pain; shortly before our abduction, a sniper bullet had pierced through his left foot right in front of the ICRC run hospital in Karte Se.
September 20, however, was a different experience.
We had hardly begun our dinner after breaking the fast, when the deafening explosion struck us. The next few seconds were blinding, accompanied by human cries and pangs. For a while it looked as if hell had broken loose, since the roof of the marquee hotel came tumbling down from various spots.

Between 200-300 people, largely families with women and children were dining and had just begun enjoying their post-Iftar dinner when the tragedy struck. What followed at around 1955 was a mayhem; for a few seconds I thought we were all done with. One of my friends, Khurram, was groping in the dark. SO was I, when I finally felt his hand. The other friend Hassan had by then gone quiet, probably, had moved to the other corner, where scare-stricken women and children had begun crying, some of them without shoes.

When we finally managed to get out from under the rubble of the Marquee, what we saw sent shivers down our spine; glass and steel shrapnels scattered all around, the pool reflecting the debris at its bottom, the gym lay in tatters, its machines upside down, and glass littered all over. Around us were a few injured being nursed on the spot by friends and relatives, as no medical aid was available in those first minutes of the carnage; Neither did we expect any to arrive because dust all over, particularly from the main entrance, obscured the vision for the first several minutes.
Along with dozens of panic-stricken Pakistanis, and several foreigners – Germans, Americans and Arabs -- we waded through the kitchen, where raw chicken, bread, and vegetables lay buried under debris, with smoldering stoves. The entire staff apparently had left, either injured or for safety. I saw many foreigners holding towels and pieces of clothes to their heads, trying to stop the bleeding.

 Many children and women walked bare-foot through the piles of glass that lay around.
  When we finally found our way out from the back of the hotel, only then could we imagine the extent of the damage; the front walls of the hotel, dozens of concrete blocs, and about two dozen cars were destroyed and charred beyond recognition, including mine.

When we drew close to the huge crater where the Marriott entry gate had existed, the images of about ten security guards flashed through my mind me because most of them had just begun breaking their fast, and two of them – young Pushtoons with small beards - - got up to clear the way for me as soon as possible. No trace of those guards was visible.

The impact from the deadly blast had not only decimated the human beings present on the front of the hotel but also burnt most of the non-concrete structures into ashes. Until this, I had covered such incidents, even in war zone Afghanistan, only after the incident. But being in the middle of such a dastardly act was an altogether different and shocking experience. A new lease of life, though no words would compensate the loss of human lives in the attack.