A Riot Remembered

For those of us who were materially unaffected by the riots, who lost no family or property and aren8217;t still waiting to be compensated, the findings of these commissions are as immaterial as the protestations of innocence made by the men and women behind the riots. Us Sikhs have a way of dealing with these issues anyway: where will the culprits go? We know who they are and they will pay, in this world or the next. We don8217;t forget.

I was 12 years old when the riots happened. My memory of that time is fractured, episodic; some things stand out, stark, like columns of smoke against the sun, others are softer, like my mother8217;s hair against my face as we watched a video for the tenth time. I remember the lights of Lodhi Road flying by as I crouched in the well of the backseat of my mother8217;s car, my hair open around my own shoulders. I dont know why I remember those lights so well, the hypnotic strobing glimpsed through the curtain of my open hair as we passed from one pool of light to the next; but I do. I remember the first night spent in Sujan Singh Park with one Hindu friend of the family; a week spent with another one in Sunder Nagar. I remember video films and hours spent putting golf balls into glasses and the tangible, physical boredom of the confined 12-year old. I remember standing at the window and peeking out through the blinds and wishing for a game of football with a longing that I dont even feel for sex, these days.

The first day I was allowed out on the terrace, I could have screamed with joy. What I remember, finally, is kindness, and courage. The contention that the riots were a spontaneous upsurge of anger and grief was as tenuous and incredible in 1984 as it is, now, in Gujarat; the spontaneity of the human and humanitarian response, however, is documented fact. Relief supplies poured in, colony committees were formed, sardar neighbours taken in. Every act of treachery was balanced by many more acts of kindness. A riot is a cruel, inhumane sequence of events; we tend to remember the cruelty and inhumanity of the people involved. Many, many more people were involved at the other end of the moral spectrum. I remember them.

My fathers old driver, a Haryanvi Hindu, drove us to our havens. He stayed at our home in Delhi and misdirected the rioters, saying that the sardars who lived here were gone, and anyway it was rented from a Hindu 8212; why hurt him? My family8217;s servants, all Hindus with their own families in the quarters behind our home, helped the driver send the rioters on their way. My father8217;s college friends took us in at great risk to themselves.

I remember the families we stayed with, the meals we shared and the determined efforts made to keep our spirits up. One of my hosts told me story after story and tucked me into bed at night because that8217;s what he did for his own younger brother. Never tuck the quilt into the bed, he said. It must be open and unencumbered and go under your toes for the real tuck-in effect. I still remember that lesson in sleep-inducement. I still use it when the weather8217;s right.

The driver knew where we were but never told anybody, the servants didn8217;t have to lie, my father8217;s friends didn8217;t have to take us in; but they did what they did and they didn8217;t count the cost and that story was repeated all over Delhi. There were plenty of villains loose in the city in those few murderous days. There were many heroes as well. There are innumerable accounts of atrocity, and so they should be, because the evil that lurks beneath needs to be recorded when it surfaces. It should be remembered that the clear light of day revealed kindness and courage as well.

One of my friends walked up to our servants8217; quarters every single day and asked whether I was okay and when I was coming back. The day we returned, there he was, a football under his arm, a forlorn figure at my bedroom door. He sat down next to me, a stiffness between us that had never been there previously. What8217;s up? I asked, finally. I am just so, so sorry, he said, and that8217;s all he had to say. It was as if nothing had ever happened and we went off to the garden behind my home to have a game.

This commission will nail no villains and nobody will really suffer in proportion to the pain they caused all those years ago. It doesn8217;t matter, at least to me, because I know that somewhere, somehow, the ones that were individually and collectively responsible will pay.

But I do know this: when Sikhs like myself start to feel aggrieved and want to vent our frustrations against the people behind the riots and the people that are now protecting them, it behooves us to remember the men and women that did stand up to be counted. We Sikhs stand up for ourselves and for each other. That is the Sikh way. During the riots and their aftermath, others stood up for us as well. Those stories are worth remembering too.

The writer is a journalist and novelist, currently living between Delhi and Goa. His next book, Sammy8217;s Last Chance will be out from Penguin India shortly

PART II