That Day In 1984

It was a pleasant day in the middle of the week. My husband and I had all the reason in the world to be happy. We had spent one week in our own little cottage in Kodaikanal. In two hours we will be with our friend Ishmeet in Madurai. Tomorrow evening was Maha’s  (my brother-in-law) engagement ceremony in Bangalore. Everything seemed perfect as we came to the bus terminus. It was late in October and Kodai was really chilly. Our large suitcase was heavy with woolens and blankets. We had two more bags and a camera bag. Dressed casually and rather fashionably in denims and cardigans for the Kodai winter, we were dreaming about how we would pretty up this country cottage.

Our euphoria was a little dampened when we reached the terminus. There was something in the air. People were restive. They had gathered in clusters in the corners. There was an eerie silence. They were talking in hushed whispers. Snippets of their conversation “Indiramma”, “Hospital”, “shot” reached our ears. My husband quickly whipped out our tiny radio to listen to the news. With one spontaneous move 3 groups converged into one encircling us. Gruff voices shouted “Louder, louder! "

'Let us all hear.'

'Keep quiet. '

'What did they say in Hindi?'

We pushed our way out of the crowd and loaded our bags into the bus. We caught a two- seater near a window and felt a little more secure. We took out the radio once again. It was half past ten in the morning. The bus should have left Kodai one hour ago. Once the bus is full the bus should start its climb down to Madurai without a problem.  The drivers and conductors had collected around the Inspector’s cabin. They evaded our questions and looked quite unsure.

' We are waiting for a phone call from the head office.'

    ' We cannot leave here till we get an okay from Madurai. '

At 11 a.m. a sudden stir among the khaki clad staffers indicated that some action was to take place. The conductors, brisk and business- like got on to the buses. With a long drawn whistle we were off. The bus was carrying extra load now because of the delay.

We sat back and relaxed relieved that at last we were moving. The invigorating landscape of green, green, Kodai flew past our window.

The radio was spluttering. The Prime Minister Smt. Indira Gandhi was shot at by her guards at 9.30 a.m. this morning. She has been taken to the All India Institute of Medicine where doctors are attending to her.

The scenery outside was distractingly beautiful. Somehow, that day we could not enjoy it. Our hearts were filled with sorrow and anger. What a shameful cowardly act. The nation felt betrayed by this breach of trust. It is a frightening situation when one could not trust the very men we look upto for security. As we speculated on the events that may take place in the next few days it never occurred to us that our Prime Minister would succumb to her injuries. All India Radio had fooled us into believing that the situation was not serious.

The bus screeched to a halt at Batlagundu, the normal midway stop. My husband stretched himself and got down from the bus. He dashed right back into the bus and whispered,

' Oh no! she is dead! '

His whisper was drowned by a loud crash and the sound of splintering glass.  A group of young men rocks in hand were forcing shop owners to close down. Everything was shut. Teashops, restaurants and even the paan beedi stalls. Sorrow was writ large on every face. For them it was a personal outrage. Indiramma was a beloved figure among villagers in the south. It was their mother who had been shot. Newspapers were snatched from the boy who sold them. Many did not bother to pay him. My husband bought one in Tamil and asked me to read it. It was a special edition. The headlines screamed that she had been shot down by her Sikh guards. They had also been shot and captured. She was walking from her home to the office some yards away. It was terribly disappointing that all the security around was of no avail. The young men whom she trusted with her precious life had themselves riddled her body with bullets.

Ram went out again while I sat alone in the bus worried and fearful. We had reached here two hours ago. It was now 4p.m. There was no indication that our bus would move. There was nothing to do except twiddle the knobs of the radio and read the paper again. For three hours Ram did not return. I was worried sick. There was no way I could leave the seat or our bags unguarded. It was becoming dark. News was trickling in about riots in Delhi and other cities. Sikh shops and homes were the target of unbridled fury of the mobs.

Batlagundu town was yet quiet, but the tension was palpable. We were both most unsuitably dressed in western clothes and stuck out like sore thumbs among the dhoti clad men. Worse, Ram was in a red and black jersey, colours of the local opposing political party. A sitting duck! For once I desperately wished I was in a sari and not my jeans. These thoughts were overcome by a desperate urge to attend to nature’s call. There was no sight of Ram. The increasing pressure on my bladder made me squirm uncomfortably. It had been a whole day. It was now 9 p.m. Ram suddenly appeared, haggard and tired. He had been trying to convince the local taxis to take us down to Madurai or back to Kodai. Three other gentlemen with families had walked into the town with Ram to see if they could get a mini bus. They were prepared to share the exorbitant fare they quoted. None of the drivers agreed.  Next they looked for food. They knocked on doors of restaurants. No one was prepared to serve them. Finally Ram went to the back door of a small eatery and pleaded with them to serve something to eat. He handed me a packet of idlis and wadas.

As we were talking, the bus had become packed. There seemed some confidence that the bus will leave around midnight. I had controlled myself with superhuman effort. Now that it was dark I felt more confident that my dress will not attract too much attention. I pushed my way out of the bus and made my way to the public toilet.

Those of you who have never travelled in the interiors of the country may not know what a public toilet here looks like. A woman sat outside and collected one rupee per person. There was a two feet wide passage which leads to a concreted rectangular clearing. A ditch alongside the four high walls around this area is where you have to squat. There are no rooms, doors, partitions or even water.

As I entered the long passage I could see in the dim light a stout woman squatting in full view of the entrance. There were two young boys outside around 18 or 19 enjoying this scene with voyeuristic pleasure. I gingerly stepped past her and saw puddles of urine and mounds of excreta all over the place. Doesn’t matter where, just finish the job and get out, I said to myself. Outside the buses would leave any moment. I must hurry back and push myself into my seat.

Just as I unbuttoned and squatted I saw that the lady had left. Suddenly all lights went out. My blood froze as I noticed that the two boys were entering the passage. Terror struck and caught in an enclosed place, my mouth ran dry. In utter darkness and caught literally with my pants down, suddenly I panicked. The boys were almost on me when I started screaming. I screamed and screamed. I ran out almost pushing them aside not even bothering to button up. I didn’t look back and ran blindly to the bus.  In my panic I could not find out which one my husband was in. I climbed the wrong one. I called out Ram! Ram!

‘I am here in the next one’, I heard Ram’s shout.

Tension was building up and I clambered up the bus pushing those who had crowded the entrance. The curses   flew freely and loudly. 200 people in a bus that should carry 75! I shoved and pushed and reached the seat at last. And on that winter night, I perspired freely, relieved that I had escaped a bizarre situation.

Our trials were not over yet. The conductor instructed us to maintain absolute silence. All the lights were put off. At a given signal, a minute after midnight the first bus left. The drivers drove at demonic speed. We reached Madurai at 2 a.m. The worst was yet to come.

When we got down at Madurai the air was eerily silent, the acrid smell of smoke filled the air. The roads were glistening in the darkness with splinters of broken glass. The roads were empty. No traffic and no one in sight. The few that stood in groups eyed us defiantly but with a kind of spent energy. Nobody was willing to take us to our destination a good five kilometres away.

At last a plucky, bare bodied youngster boldly agreed to tread his cycle rickshaw all the way. He must have been barely sixteen years old.

Realisation came in very late. We remembered with alarm that our friend Ishmeet is a Sikh! It was dangerous for him and for us. We had planned this day a fortnight ago. Here we were caught in a delicate situation! Vulnerable as we were in the open rickshaw, we were so thankful to this little boy who kept reassuring us saying, don’t worry, and don’t be scared. The tension and fear was excruciating as we drove down in the open rickshaw

On the road were the litter of the riots, stones, glass, broken bottles, sticks, blood and most frightening, groups of belligerent young boys. There were huge portraits of the late Prime Minister with garlands and lamps in front of them.

The distance seemed interminable. Our hearts sank and we froze as a group of boys advanced and silently formed a circle around us. The boy turned around and whispered, give them 10 rupees. My husband whipped out a note and handed it over. They seemed unsure of what to say or do next, so Ram said in a loud local accent, ‘Let’s go Thambi.’

How narrowly we escaped once again I told myself. I had not said a word to him about my terrible experience. Many nights after this one, I would awake with nightmares.

When we approached the huge compound of Ishmeet’s official residential complex, we requested the security to ring our friend.  Our friend was flabbergasted. He never expected that we would have stirred out after the news. 

“Why on earth did you come?” He shouted.

Ram explained that the news came only in the afternoon and the events that followed were unprecedented and unexpected.

We could not take offence at Ishmeet’s attitude. He really regretted our arrival because of the circumstances.

“Well,” he said at last, “I will come to the entrance or they may not let you in.”

 It was 4 am.

There he was at last at the entrance. He hugged us, his tension relaxed. We tipped the boy guide so generously that his eyes almost popped out!

We realised the seriousness of the situation only the next morning. There had been violence against Sikhs in Delhi, Bangalore, Madurai, Coimbatore, everywhere. At a condolence meeting in the factory Ishmeet’s name had been mentioned. He had 24-hours police protection. Telephones rang incessantly. Some enquired about his safety, others brought bad news about friends and relatives who were killed, robbed, looted or attacked.

In spite of the tension and pressure the family was a perfect host. In fact our presence also gave them a certain comfort. For two days we lay cooped up in the house. Ram could go out only in the police jeep. Another friend, a high ranking official in a government post had fractured his leg. He was brought to the house. He explained later how he lay on the sofa alone yesterday watching television. He sat facing the front door revolver ready by his side.

We received news that the trains were expected to start moving. A thankful friend agreed to let us go. After a long winded dinner full of apologies, explanations and best wishes we were on the train.

 We spent a sleepless night on an almost empty train. On one hand we were stunned by the tragedy and alarmed at the events that followed. On the other we were relieved that we had escaped narrowly in spite of being in the wrong place at the wrong time!