I was practically brought up in Delhi, my father having moved in there in 1978, following his transfer.We moved into a house in West Delhi, an area called Janak Puri and I still remember the house in every detail. Green and blue walls in the two rooms that we had and a small kitchen which my mother, who is passionate about neatness and order, had arranged in the most user friendly way possible.We were admitted into a popular school nearby and life just seemed the way it should be with four of us in the family playing our roles to perfection.
It was October 31,1984, and doordarshan was the only channel available.We came back from school and there was a rumour that something had happened to Mrs.Indira Gandhi.She was killed - "assasinated" was not a term very popular then because the only assasination that we knew till then was of the Mahatma.I was 10 years old and only thing on my mind was -hopefully I wont have to attend school the next day.My parents had been trying to know more by catching the news on the radio but all that they could gather was that Mrs.Gandhi was shot at and critical.
At 6 pm, my father switched on the the black and white "Crown" tv we had with us and we all were gazing at the now very famous logo of doordarshan beginning to roll on the screen.And then the news began and the news reader finally confirmed the death of Mrs.Gandhi.We kids were glad that the holiday was confirmed.But how long the holiday would extend and that it would be embedded in the memory as the worst nightmare was not something we knew.As the night approached, the mood got darker.The rumour got thicker that Hindus were angry at the happening and the Sikhs were in danger of being attacked. But the mind always thinks that such news and violence are not something that you would become a victim of.And so we thought this would be something we would read in the newspaper the next day and everything would pass off.But it was not to be.
It was a bright sunny day but we had no clue of the dark clouds that would hover on us later that day. I think, it was around 10:30 am when we started hearing the shouts and a cacaphony of voices with a lot of anger in it.I remember my mother immediately making efforts to check that all the latches were secure. We were in a locality where we had bungalows in a circle and a park inbetween where we used to play. It was an area dominated by Sikhs and there were lots of Sikh families in the houses around us.I still remember vividly a group of people attacking the first house in the row opposite to ours on the right............ they broke open the gates and men started running away with VCRs and TVs , making the most of the oppurtunity in hand.And then the angry mob pulled out the Sikhs in the house holding them by their turbans and started beating them mercilessly.A mob has no mind of its own and so they were guided by the heat of the situation and in moments,the victims were bleeding from every part of the body.
In some time, the mob became uncontrollable and started searching for every house which had a sardar inside.Unfortunately, with the symbol of Sikhism adoring every house which they occupied, the task was only made easy for these rogues.In some time, we suddenly started seeing flames rising from the houses .......the houses were just mercilessly being burnt.........and suddenly there were blasts .....loud and ear shattering.......the mob had resorted to an easy way to set things on fire......they were opening the gas cylinders and setting fire.The number of houses in flames just kept increasing......the shrieks and cries for help and mercy were ringing in the air.......even as i write this, I can clearly hear those voices of pain and agony.Also, the sound of bursting cylinders became more and more frequent and we were told later that the Sikhs were being tied to the cylinder to make sure that they were killed along with the blasting cylinders.How true was this..is something I never came to know .......and would never like to know because the devil is not what I want to remember any human being as.
One particular sight I clearly remember, is that of the house of the Handas which was close to the market area being attacked.The lady of the house was on the terrace with a cordless phone in her hand and kids of my age with her and shouting "bachao... humein maaf kar do..in bachchon ko maaf kar do" while the mob with no feelings set the house and curtains in flames........while her wails of pain and fear kept growing with the flames which wrapped their once beautiful house.
We were now experiencing real fear.My father asked my mother to pack all the money,jewellery and valuables in a small bag and all of us were holding each other fearing the worst to happen.We had suddenly and unknowingly become a part of one of the worst violence to hit Delhi.God had mercy and we realised it that day when the mob moved away after 12 long hours but somehow we were left untouched.
We faced fear and violence in the bare naked form........and believe me its not something anyone wants to face or recall.
Time has passed and 25 years down the memory lane .....I see that many wounds have healed......the houses have been reconstructed with no evidence of the damage done.........but the scars of the wound remain hidden deep inside ............forever!
