Daggers! Mr. Diggs, they had daggers!
Savagely they slashed at the Hindu boys. The others stared mesmerized for a moment, helpless as the attackers’ arms went up and down, again and again, striking our two boys in the back, arms, legs, face. They screamed as they went down, and my son Raghav and his friends rushed towards them. But it was, Raghav tells me, as in a dream, when your legs don’t carry you forward as fast as you want to go. The motorcycle engine revved and it was gone, one last flailing of an arm nearly slashing my son’s face as he ran towards Amit and Arup.
The poor boys were in a very bad way They were bleeding from cuts everywhere. Their arms and legs dangled helplessly, Raghav said, like those of a rag doll. They picked them up, rushed them to the Zalilgarh government hospital. They called me. I went straight to the hospital, then to the police. It was terrible. The boys needed many emergency operations. All through the night we waited, rage and prayer mingling in our hearts. Ram be praised, they survived. But Amit would never walk again without a limp. And Arup Singh, a handsome boy who was to get married the next month, was left with a hideously scarred face that he would have to live with for the rest of his days.
There was blackness in our hearts that night, Mr. Diggs. These Muslims could not be allowed to get away with this. We knew what they wanted — to stop our procession the next day. To thwart our Ram Sila Poojan program. To prevent, in the end, the rebuilding of the Ram Janmabhoomi temple itself. This was a victory we were determined they would never be allowed to have.
At dawn that morning, the thirtieth of last month, I was asked to go to the police station. Me? The police station? What wrong had I done? But no, they told me, it was for an emergency meeting of Hindu community leaders. Others would be there — the pramukhs and leaders of the RSS, the VHP, the Bajrang Dal. All the major Hindu groups. So I agreed, though I had no great faith in this young district magistrate or his ally, the superintendent of police. These people, they come to our districts with fancy so-called secular ideas they have learned in English-language colleges, and they try to tell us what to do. They, who do not understand their own culture, their own religion, their own heritage. Such people have no right to call themselves Indians. But they rule over us, you see.
When we assembled at the police station, the DM and the SP were already there. Lakshman, the DM is called. From the South. A good- looking man, if with somewhat feminine features, and rather too dark to have found himself a good bride here. The SP is a turbaned Sikh, Gurinder Singh. Neither Hindu nor Muslim, though his people have fought the Muslims for centuries. But with people like Lakshman and Gurinder it didn’t matter what their religion was. They had both been to the same college, I believe, some fancy-shmancy Christian missionary place in Delhi where they only talk English and eat with forks and knives. So they thought alike. That was our problem.
Lakshman didn’t waste any time getting to the point. “I know you are all concerned about the incident last night,” he said.
“Concerned?” the Bajrang Dal man, Bhushan Sharma, interrupted him, almost screaming. “We’re bloody enraged! Those boys were brutally murdered in cold blood!”
“They’ll be all right,” Lakshman said calmly. “I’ve spoken to the doctors. There’s been no murder in Zalilgarh. Yet.”
“No thanks to the Muslims,” Sharma was still shouting. “Murder is exactly what they intended. What kind of law and order are you maintaining in this city?”
“We have made some arrests overnight,” Gurinder said, smiling. He smiled a lot, especially when he was talking about deadly serious matters. “We will find the perpetrators.” He always used words like that. “The perpetrators are absconding.” Even when he was supposed to be speaking Hindi. “Perpetrators abscond kiye hain.” Still, Gurinder had a reputation for being an efficient man. And an honest one, which is rare enough in his profession.
“But I want to ensure that the situation doesn’t get out of hand,” Lakshman added. “The police will bring these assailants to justice. But I must appeal to you all to stay calm. And above all, to refrain from any action that could inflame the situation.”
“Refrain? Us refrain?” Sharma was belligerent. “Are we to sit back and take anything the Muslims fling at us? Especially today, when we have so much at stake?”
“Especially today,” Lakshman replied. “In fact, after what has happened last night I wonder about the advisability of proceeding with your march today. I suggest you consider postponing—”
But he could not get the rest of his sentence out before he was drowned in a hubbub of protest from all of us. After everyone had shouted their objections, I stood up, leaned on the table, and looked him squarely in the eyes. “That is exactly what the Muslims want us to do,” I said quietly. “They hoped to intimidate us into giving up our plans. And you want us to play into their hands? Never!”
Lakshman tried everything. Oh, what a variety of approaches he tried. Calm reasonableness. Firm advice. Earnest appeal. Passionate entreaty. Tensions were high, he said. Our Ram Sila Poojan program had awakened the fears of the minority community. They were afraid, anxious, easy prey for extremists and hotheads. We had already seen what could happen. If we marched, there was no telling what else could occur. A small spark could ignite a conflagration. Did we want that?
“They attack us, and you tell us they are afraid?” Sharma was scathing. “We want to march peacefully, and you tell us we are inflaming tensions? This is a strange way of seeing things, District Magistrate-sahib.”
After several attempts, he realized we were implacable. The Ram Sila Poojan march through Zalilgarh would go ahead as planned. We were determined not to be diverted from our long-planned course.
He changed tack. “Change your route, then,” he suggested, pulling a map out of a folder that Gurinder passed him. “The route you are planning to take for your march is dangerous. It goes right through Muslim mohallas, and in two places passes right in front of Muslim mosques. Some Muslims will see this as provocation, and I must say I can’t disagree with them. You will simply incite some of the hotheads into doing something like last night.”
“If they do, DM — sahib,” I replied, “they will be breaking the law. And it is your job to deal with them. Yours and the SP’s.” Gurinder did not react, other than to smile again. “We are exercising our democratic rights to take out this procession. You are afraid that some criminal elements will break the law if we do. Well, then, catch them. Prosecute them. Punish them. But don’t punish us.”
“There are more than thirty thousand young men, volunteers from all over the district, gathered in Zalilgarh for this march,” Sharma added. “Are you going to try and stop them, Mr. Lakshman?”
Lakshman and Gurinder exchanged glances, as if to say that this was exactly what they had considered doing. It would have led to violence if they had tried — violence between the volunteers and the police. They had clearly thought better of it.
“No, I am not going to try and stop you,” Lakshman replied at last. He did not say “stop them,” but “stop you.” He was looking at me rather than at Bhushan Sharma. “But I am relying on your good sense to ensure that your volunteers behave. And that nothing is done, especially in the Muslim neighborhoods, that threatens the peace here in Zalilgarh.”