Why am I not traumatized by this incident?

I was assaulted and robbed couple of months ago. Nothing major – I was pummeled on my forehead, my cell-phone and all my cash robbed and my Oyster card stolen. Physically my bruises lasted a week. I had reduced hearing for another couple of weeks. Mentally, I don’t seem to have bruised at all. I am not traumatized and continue to seek an explanation for the crime. Which is why I am reminded of it today – because I finally picked up ‘Brick Lane’ that I wanted to read after I was mugged because I wanted some understanding of the socio-economic underclass in the Tower Hamlets.
I am getting ahead of myself. Let’s start at the very beginning, a very good place to start. I have always lived within the civilized confines of Zone 1 in London; sometimes south of the river, sometimes north. In my ten-odd years of on-off living in London, I remember venturing West of Zone 1 to Wembley once, to Twickenham another time which to me was the literal end of civilization as I saw it. This is of course discounting the gazillion trips West of Zone 1 to Heathrow; but Heathrow Express from Paddington made sure I saw only the airport at Heathrow, rather than Heathrow itself (barring the one time I stayed at the Radisson Edwardian on Northern Perimeter Road, Heathrow on a stop-over and counted landings on the Northern runway – one every 55 seconds).

In those same ten years the only time I went East of Zone 1 was when a friend forced me to join him for dosas somewhere in East Ham – which is more India/SriLanka than London. This friend of mine from New York – one of those Type A guys working on the Street was visiting me in London. This trader friend of mine is married to an Englishwoman who had an Indian nanny and hence the couple’s affinity to Indian cuisine. Trader and I frequent Pongal or Hotel Saravana Bhavan (HSB) on Murray Hill back in New York for their dosas. Trader was told by his wife that HSB had opened shop in East Ham and we had to go. The only thing I remember about that expedition was my fear that V. Prabhakaran was around the corner waiting to blow up HSB since that whole High Street seemed filled with Sinhalese type people. If you are wondering how my mugging and this convoluted story are related – I can only counsel patience. I am building up the story towards where you know it is probably going to proceed. Yes, my mugging did not happen in Zone 1. Why did I move me to Zone 2 then? Well, this (http://www.n-p-w.com).
The place is up and coming. It is a short walk to Canary Wharf. My apartment was on the river overlooking the Millenium Dome and East London was being rejuvenated for the Olympics; so all in all I was chuffed at the move. Yeah, it lacked its coffee shops, book shops and other day-time chill-out spots of Zone 1 – but it also did not have those gazillion tourists and as a big plus I had the river at my feet 12 floors below. The biggest attraction was undoubtedly the parking garage on-site which meant I could finally stop the nightly hunt for parking spaces in Zone 1. God was in his Heaven and all was well with the world.
I should have seen the warning signs – the tiny council estate redolent with the smells of Bangladesh just across the road from the yuppie enclave that is New Providence Wharf (NPW). NPW is a gated community without gates. Even in the freezing February winter, security patrol guarded the main, open driveway to NPW. While riding the DLR to the City, I did notice the divide across the tracks – the gentrified parts of the city facing the river and the vast tracts of council estates on the other side in gritty, harsh, poverty-struck third-world East End. I took all this in but did not ever consciously or subconsciously feel I was in any kind of danger. So, it was with this jaunt in my step and song on my lips, I stepped out of New Providence Wharf on a Saturday night to take the DLR and the tube into Mayfair. I was to meet friends over a drink at Piccadilly and then move on to Café Bollywood, a new bhanga-Bollywood night-club at Dover Street, just around the corner from the Ritz that Saturday night.
It was about half past ten as I walked from NPW towards Blackwall DLR station. There is a pedestrian underpass from NPW to Blackwall because of an A Road overpass. As I walked into the underpass towards the station, a couple walked out in the opposite direction intact. As I was reaching the center of the underpass, a young guy came up to me and asked for the time. Before I could respond, he was joined by three of his equally young cohorts who pushed me to the ground. The guys flashed a knife at me and hit me forcefully on the forehead. I remember they took my cell phone out; but never realized they had taken some money from my wallet in my rear pocket and my Oyster card from my overcoat front pocket. I must have passed out at some time when they repeatedly kept hitting me on my head for I didn’t realize that they had taken the money till much later. It must have lasted only a couple of seconds and I got up and walked back towards NPW. I didn’t have a cell-phone and didn’t want to call 999 (the British equivalent of 911) yet; so I staggered to the concierge at NPW, with a black eye and semi-bloodied mouth to get the number for the local police station. Despite the black eye and bloodied mouth, the concierge did not suggest calling the ambulance. It must have been my demeanor – I felt in control and collected. He called the local police station a couple of times from his desk; but didn’t get a response. I wanted an ice-pack over my eye, so I told the concierge to give me the number and that I would call them from my apartment.
I had a house-guest who had arrived from India that morning on his first, wide-eyed trip outside India’s shores; one of those Ludhiana-to-London types. This guy was an employee at an associated portfolio company. He had come in to London on business and due to some cock-up with hotel bookings, was to stay at my apartment for the weekend.
I did not want to scare this guy into thinking it was all crime and gore in London; so I did not even bother telling him about this incident though he was in the living room watching TV when I walked back in. I picked up the phone, went on to the balcony/deck (yup, the one with the Thames at my feet) and called the local police station. A lady police officer picked up the phone and gasped when she heard what I had to say and said she would get an ambulance. I told her no, I am only filing a police complaint so I can claim travel insurance against my stolen cell-phone. Now you know why I am in the PE industry – commerce rather than blood runs through my veins. She asked for my number to ring me back after speaking to her supervisor. I had never used the landline number and did not remember the number. After a long hunt, I eventually gave her the number. In the meantime, I wanted to call a close friend of mine who lived further south of London. This guy used to be a policeman in the Dark Continent besides being a very good friend of mine. In the era of contact lists on cell phones, I did not remember his cell number; so at midnight I sent him an email saying what happened and for him not to worry because I was safe and sound.
Then the lady officer calls me back. She said she spoke to her supervisor and the supervisor said they take this very seriously and would like to send a couple of policemen to record my statement. I said fine and that I would be out in the lobby downstairs because I did not want this house-guest from India to know (now I know I will make a good father – I’m always protecting people aren’t I , though another view might be that I’m patronizing an adult on the assumption that he can’t take care of himself )
The cops come in and the fun and games begin … (Continues)