On the night of November 26, 2008, inside Mumbai's Cama and Albless Hospital for Women and Children, a ward turned into a battlefield and a young staff nurse shielded two dozen unborn lives from terrorists' bullets.

Nurse Anjali Kulthe, on night duty and responsible for nearly 20 women who were due to deliver their babies, saw through her first-floor window: Ajmal Kasab and Abu Ismail, guns in hand, storming into the hospital after jumping in through its rear gate. Within seconds, they gunned down guards Bhanu Narkar and Baban Walu, leaving their bodies in a blood-soaked pool at the entrance.

Anjali raced to slam shut the heavy double doors of the antenatal ward. With the terrorists charging up the staircase, she swiftly shepherded all the pregnant women and their families into a cramped pantry at the far end. Speaking to Mid-Day, she recalled,“Ismail fired two bullets in our direction from the window. One bullet ricocheted off the wall and grazed an ayah's hand, due to which she started bleeding profusely.”

Anjali knew that protecting the women meant keeping herself alive. She darted across the ward to alert a doctor, who immediately called the police, and then rushed the wounded ayah to the casualty ward for treatment.

For over an hour, explosions rattled the building as terrorists hurled grenades at the police. The hospital shuddered with every blast, yet the staff refused to abandon those under their care.

Just as the team clung to the hope that the nightmare was easing, a woman went into labour. A delay could have claimed two lives. So Anjali chose to risk her own.

At that very moment, on the terrace above, Kasab and Ismail held doctors hostage unaware that deep inside a dimly lit room, under a single tube light, a fearless team of nurses and doctors was quietly fighting to bring a new life into the world.

In an interview with The Indian Express, Anjali said,“Holding the patient's hand, I walked up along the stairway wall, my mind only on the unborn baby's safety.” The delivery was successful.

That night, the staff became human barricades. They switched off lights, locked ward doors, hid patients in washrooms and conducted procedures in utter silence all while relentless gunshots echoed through the building.

After 50 harrowing minutes of firing, Kasab and Ismail fled, injuring several policemen with more grenades. The siege lasted nearly 12 hours before the situation stabilised.

But the morning after brought a different kind of reckoning for Anjali. As the rest of Mumbai attempted to return to routine, she felt alienated from the world's normalcy. Speaking to LiveMint, she confessed,“I could not understand how everybody was so normal and how they could go about life as usual. I wanted to shout and tell everyone that something was wrong.”

“When I changed into my civil clothes, I realised I was as ordinary and vulnerable as any other person on the road... I also could have been killed or hurt like anyone else,” she told the publication.

A month later, Anjali faced yet another trial identifying Kasab at Arthur Road Jail. Believing her identity would be protected, she was horrified when asked to point him out publicly. She placed her hand on his shoulder. He smirked and said,“You are right. I am Ajmal Kasab.”

The encounter revived her nightmares. Yet when she later testified in court, she wore her uniform as armour. She endured the defence's grilling without flinching.“When I walked out of the court, some policemen saluted me,” she said.

More than a decade later, the hospital stands fortified with heightened security measures - CCTV cameras, guarded entrances, locked terraces, and reinforced boundaries. But for Anjali, one regret lingers: that the nurses who risked everything that night“did not receive their due share of appreciation.”

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