Silent spectators

But none of it was heart-rending enough to feel all choked up. I checked for signs. Vision clear, breathing easy, emotion in balance as I stood in the courtyard of the house in small-town Loharu, district Bhiwani, Haryana. Till I saw Sultana’s half-opened baksa (trunk).

A red, sequined duppatta tangled with a plain green one was spilling out of it, dusty at the edges, torn in some parts. Orbs of bangles in almost all colours in one corner, some spheres still intact. Postcards of Hindi film heroes, a note book filled with scrawly writing in Urdu and ‘‘Sultana Hassan’’ written in English. A half-chewn pencil, three round stones and a chipped diya, made up the remaining contents. Sultana’s treasures. Nothing of value there.

But it took me back to a ‘‘safe’’ middle-class colony in suburban Bombay on the night of January 8, 1993. When a group of 50 youths, some recognisable, decided to burn down a shoe shop. Rehamtullah’s shop. It was around 1 am and the mob was carrying mashaals and iron rods with which they forced open his shop. After the 50-odd had selected footwear for themselves, their wives, children, parents and neighbours’ grandparents, the pile left was doused with kerosene and the bonfire was lit.

We saw everything. Our window opened into that road. So did those of others living on the floors above and below us, living across the road opposite us. Everyone was watching. The 50 knew they had a rapt audience. A quiet audience that wouldn’t squeak. Nor would it miss the action. An audience whose shoerack could produce at least four pairs of shoes per family from Rehamtullah’s shop.

An audience which knew that the quiet Irani was getting married in two months time. He had been working harder. In the past few months his shop had been offering such good choices that our aunts and cousins, living in another part of the city, insisted we buy them a pair or two. Rehamtullah had his finger on the pulse of people’s feet.

He knew everyone in the colony. He had bought the shop when the colony had been constructed in 1983. Ten solid years and he had amassed scores of acquaintances, dozens of friends and very loyal customers. The fact that two aunts, one grandmother and five cousins of mine, living 35 km away from us, were wearing assorted footwear from his shop was proof enough.

But that night, the scores and dozens chickened. They didn’t stop the mob’s looting and arson. They were just 50. We would have been 200. By simple arithmetic, the odds would have been in our favour. But we didn’t budge.

Instead, I called up my cousin, who was at that moment wearing house slippers from the Irani’s shop, as was I and gave her a blow by blow account of what was happening.

‘‘They have managed to break the locks, Sonu… That street Romeo who sits by the nukkad panwalla has managed to pinch so many pairs of shoes… The pile is so tall!… Oh God they are going to burn down his shop as well!… I don’t think anyone is going down from our building.’’

We didn’t see or hear of Rehamtullah after that day. The next morning, those who had front row seats the previous night, described it frame by vivid frame, with appropriate sound effects. But no one felt humiliated about not helping a long-time friend. Of simply not having the guts to protest against a violent wrong. In time we stopped talking about Rehamtullah. We also stopped buying footwear in bulk for the entire family.