on the morning of June 7, when curfew had been relaxed for a couple of hours. An awful stench rose from the truck and what looked like blood mixed with viscous bodily fluids dripped from its leaky frame. I joined the several policemen who grabbed its rear wall and raised themselves to take a look at what lay inside. There were scores, literally scores, of bodies and nobody could say who was a combatant and who a devotee. But so many dead, fellow Indians, rotting under the 46-degree sun. A DSP we all knew well lost his composure and started screaming abuses, both at the army and Bhindranwale for causing so much death. To the right of the truck, under the same sun, sat about 50 suspected militants with their limbs tied while soldiers kept watch over them behind an LMG on a tripod and an officer, a Sikh, interrogated them in public. There was nothing physical about it, just an angry volley of basic questions. Possibly it was sights like this that spread stories of Sikhs being lined up and shot by firing squads.
The second was a convoy of three army trucks, weaving its way through the narrow, old-city lane called Braham Buta Akhara connecting the Temple complex. Once again, I raised myself to the back of one and found three rows of stretchers on either side, with bodies of soldiers. The one on top to the right, a boy from Garhwal Regiment, no more than 19 or 20 possibly, still had beads of perspiration on his nose. He must have just died.
Both nightmares involve my dead countrymen. Neither will ever go away.
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