Powai Hostage case : Inspector’s Plea Saves Kids in Harrowing 80-Minute Ordeal

Mumbai – In a heart-pounding drama that unfolded in a Powai high-rise, a senior police inspector faced his career’s most grueling challenge: negotiating for the lives of terrified children held at gunpoint by a desperate man. With calm resolve, he offered himself as a target to spare the young captives, buying precious time for a covert rescue.

The ordeal gripped the Mahavir Classik building around 2:19 p.m. on Thursday, when Rohit Arya, aggrieved over unpaid work and financial losses, barricaded himself inside a first-floor studio with over a dozen children aged 10 to 12. The youngsters, gathered for a routine acting audition, pounded on a transparent plastic partition, signaling frantically for aid as police arrived.

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Senior Inspector Jitendra Sonawane, leading the response, immediately engaged Arya by phone after the man demanded his number. “I shouted up, asking what he wanted,” Sonawane recounted . Over the line, Arya vented his frustrations, but Sonawane countered with assurances of resolution, urging restraint. “All your concerns will be addressed—don’t resort to extremes,” he said, pressing to ascend the stairs. To build trust, Sonawane proposed binding his own hands: “Do whatever you must to me. Just spare the children.”

As Sonawane’s dialogue stretched the critical window, a tactical team moved in shadows. Two fire brigade personnel and two officers slipped through a rear entrance, unnoticed amid Arya’s threats. Deputy Commissioner of Police Datta Nalawade joined the call, reinforcing pleas to release the hostages.

Positioned outside, Sonawane felt chills retelling the episode. “Goosebumps even now,” he admitted. The fire brigade’s ingenuity proved pivotal: They extended a ladder to a bathroom window, silently severing the grill while Arya fixated on the conversation and his weapon. The officers then breached the space, sparking a brief gunfire exchange that neutralized the threat and freed everyone inside.

In the aftermath, the children reunited with anxious parents and were whisked to a hospital via school bus for medical checks. Sachin Jadhav, whose 10-year-old daughter—a budding TV star from serials like Sant Gajanan Maharaj—endured the siege, spoke of the family’s routine shattered. “We never leave her unattended at auditions; she’s easily rattled,” Jadhav said. Traveling from Kolhapur with his wife, they had lodged in Thane, commuting daily to the site. That morning, Jadhav’s 75-year-old mother-in-law accompanied the girl inside at 10 a.m., while parents lingered in the parking lot.

Lunchtime came and went without the kids emerging—unusual beyond 1:30 p.m.—prompting alarm. Shouts from within alerted them to the crisis, spurring the emergency call. Jadhav’s relative escaped with a rib-area laceration from shattered glass, requiring stitches at nearby Nirali Hospital.

Building residents in adjacent wings B, C, and D were initially oblivious, only sensing chaos as over 50 officers and firefighters swarmed with gear, methodically dismantling the barrier. Herded to C wing for safety, they watched parents’ tension mount until the children descended, dazed and speechless. “Auditions fill this place daily with kids, but this day scars us forever,” lamented an A-wing occupant.

The swift intervention averted tragedy, underscoring the razor-thin margin between routine and peril in Mumbai’s bustling creative hubs