It's
true I want to gauge their sensibilities in conversation as we sit in
enforced intimacy. They, however, get rather expansive; there is the
typical Gujarati businessman, who tells me, "it was a natural
reaction to over fifty Hindus who were burnt on the train at Godhra",
but was he not mouthing what Chief Minister Narendra Modi had said?

From the top berth a voice rings out. His legs swing down, his voice
has an uplifting beat, "My wife has a business partner, Adil*. We
asked him to move to our house, but he wanted to stay on in his own.
We got a call from him on the 28th of February; his house was being
attacked, by a mob of about 2000 people. I telephoned the Police
Commissioner's office, but all the senior officers were in a
'meeting'." Nikhil gives a helpless shrug. He continues, "Adil kept
on calling for help. Then we got a frantic call from him, he had been
hit by a soda water bottle and needed to be taken to a surgeon
immediately."

Everyone is all ears in the train, it seems as if the entire
compartment is listening to us. "We took a car to a friend's house,
then changed to a Kinetic Honda, because we could manoeuvre it
easily. We called him on his mobile 'Can you step outside?' By that
time the crowd had somewhat dispersed. We swooped down and carted him
away. Some members of the mob saw us and came after us, but they saw
my 'maala'-chain (gestures to his neck)-and said 'yeh to Hindu lagta
hain'-'he looks like a Hindu'-and left. Adil went into surgery for
two hours and after that he moved to our house ...."

I filmed Nikhil, on the train, serene that a fellow Indian had done
the right thing, gone to rescue a Muslim brother, faced a mob and
protected him. 'Just as it should be,' I murmured, unaware of what
awaited me as the train pulled up at Kallupur station, in Ahmedabad.

How does one explain the anguish and shame I felt when I met Mohammad
Maroof, a resident of Naroda Patiya, at Dariyakhan Gummat relief
camp? He has two children left. Qamar is six and Ayesha Banu eight.
Both are badly burnt. When I ask Qamar who did it, he lisps 'Hindu
ne'-'a Hindu did it'. I hang my head, pretend I am not one and
stoically ask them to tell me all. It's hard to hold back your tears
in front of the children. Ayesha has her back burnt and her hair cut
short, to prevent infection. But beyond 'powder daale'-'they put
powder'-there are no coherent descriptions.

It's when their father speaks that the accounts of black riders from
an unfathomable hell, unfolds. "It was around 9:00 am on 28th
February, they came in two vehicles. A tola (gang) of about 15,000 to
20,000 men gathered. Pehle unho ne masjid shaheed ki-first they
destroyed the masjid-by blowing it up with gas cylinders. We started
pelting stones in self-defence, but the police started firing and
throwing tear gas shells at us, instead. When 20 of us fell, we
stopped stoning. We ran to the Police Headquarters, with our women
and children, for protection.

"It was here that one of our neighbours (name withheld) of Gangotri
Society came. He said, 'You must be hungry and thirsty, come to my
house.' He was after all our neighbour and he used to come to our
weddings and functions. We thought this was bhaichara-brotherhood-so
we all went. He took us to a large godaam-storage space. He said-'Sit
here, nothing will happen to you here.' Then he called his son,
'Beta, jitne hain unko bulao-son, call all those who are there.' We
found we were surrounded by people who were armed. They had
talwars-swords. We ran. From the other side, another neighbour (name
withheld) came. We were surrounded from both sides and trapped in a
gali (alley). We couldn't escape.......
"They had some powder with which you don't have to strike a match,
you just throw it; it burns. They also threw petrol, kerosene, black
oil and black tyres on us.... I was below in the heap, which they set
fire to. There was a young girl, her father's name is Kabir, they
told her-'Beta, hum tumhe kutch nahi karenge, bahar aa jao-we won't
do anything to you, dear, come out.' She did. Phir uski izzat
looti-they raped her, maata jaat nanga kiya-stripped her naked-and
pushed her into the fire.

"There was another girl, she was hiding in the corner. They pounced
on her, raped her and struck a sword through her below (points to his
genitals) and up to here (points to his throat). She only screamed
one word 'Chacha' (uncle). I heard that and got up. My three clothes
were soaked in oil......... Those people started running away (this
account of how the mob started moving away is unclear, he does not
explain it in his testimony).

"We (the survivors) started taking out the people from the burning
pit. The police came much later. They (the police) said we have come
for your rescue. We took 65 people out of which 26 were still alive.
The rest were all dead. The dead included my wife, my daughter and my
brother's wife (he says this blandly, in a matter of fact voice).
Maine khud laashe nikaali-I took out their dead bodies myself. The
police said leave them here or the others will also die. So we left
them and took the living to the hospital. (it is here he breaks down)
Sister, till now, I haven't received their dead bodies or a post
mortem report. Out of the 26 who were living, 10 died in the
hospital."

I have no words. I ask him lamely about compen-sation. Such a
cynical, cheap word-compensation. How do you compensate being
betrayed by a neighbour, watching a massacre, witnessing your wife
and daughter being burnt before you, while you lie in a helpless
heap, awaiting death? But he is a good Indian, trained to obey all
questions hurled at him; even the crass and the sordidly misplaced.
"We received only Rs 500 at the hospital; that is all." Again I hang
my head in shame, as I hear him tell me he can't buy Ayesha and Qamar
anything, as he has lost everything. And so have we all. Something
irretrievable, precious and sacred.

The Idgah relief camp is in an unfinished building without any
electricity or running water. It is estimated that there are over
100,000 people in relief camps like this. Their clothes are neatly
piled in individual corners and then their stories unfold. Mehmooda
Alaudi is dressed in black. She has a look of indefinable courage on
her face; one who has seen pain and has assimilated its lessons. Her
manner is dignified and unhurried, her Urdu chaste, "Mere dever ko
zinda jala liya-they burnt my brother-in-law alive. When the mob
came, we ran. From behind, the police fired, he fell. They (the mob)
tied him, put petrol on him and set him on fire. Voh tarap raha tha,
idhar se udhar-he was writhing in agony, from side to side. The
police kept watching. In the night, we knew someone had fallen, but
we did not know who it was. It was only in the morning that we
realized it might be our brother in-law. We begged the police with
folded hands, let us go and see the body, but they never let us. The
whole day the body lay in the sun. When they were taking it away,
they let us see him and we identified him as my brother-in-law."

The fact that the police have been both partisan and communal in its
role comes up again and again in the testimonies of the victims.
Hamida Banu says they have tried to return to their homes since, with
police protection. However, they were stoned and the police never
lifted a finger to help them. As I write this, there are reports that
the camps may be wound up, shortly. This is horrifying; I cannot see
people who have been made to become refugees in their own land,
return without their sense of security being restored.

Mehmooda ends with "if you don't want us, then put all the Mussalman
in one place and throw a bomb". Another says tearfully, "Hum jeena
nahi chahte, aisi duniya mein-we don't want to live in such a world."

Then Mehmooda Bibi tells us how her sister in-law Naseem Banu who was
four months pregnant was killed. How did it happen, I seem to word
the questions tonelessly now, benumbed by all the violence. "We ran
away when the mob came," says Mehmooda. "She must have fallen behind,
since she was pregnant. When we saw her body she had blood on her
head and below." A young girl in the group of about fifty women,
breaks down crying. No, she does not want to speak, but the others
tell me how she used to tailor clothes and go to school. To have the
will to educate oneself despite the grinding poverty is remarkable, I
say. But having lost everything, from where will she find the will to
rebuild from, they ask me? I have no answers, only shame. I hang my
head in sorrow and feel ashamed to be a Hindu. I cry. Seeing me cry,
Mehmooda Alaudi asks me, "Aap Mussalman hein-are you Muslim?"
My profession teaches me to be objective, so I visit the Kallupur
relief camp, a Hindu camp. The man at the desk wants to know my name.
He seems satisfied and nods vigorously, after all I have a Hindu
name. I want to know if anyone has died? 'No one has died here, but
houses have been burnt.' He asks Lakshmi, a camp worker, to take me
around. Outside the houses lie a huge pile of stones. How did these
get here? "We broke them ourselves, so that we could throw it at
them," she replies. And the burnt houses?-I question. "Come, I'll
show you."

She beckons me and I follow her up a flight of four floors. There is
one wall indeed, that is damaged by a petrol bomb, it is burnt, but
can one even begin to compare the damage? They are rather aggressive,
when I say so. They insist I film it. I do. When I question her
closely on her views, which range from "veh Pakistan jaave"-let them
go to Pakistan-to "we have changed the name of Ahmedabad to
Karnavati", she whispers "yeh unki laage"-she looks as if she belongs
to them.

That is the tragedy, almost everyone in Ahmedabad, at the moment,
assesses you as either with the Muslims or the Hindus. Either you are
with us, or against us. Our driver will not drive us to a Muslim
neighbourhood, he abandons us; we have to call the agency and ask for
a "Muslim driver".

We are filming in Behrampur when a full-flegded riot breaks out.
People are running helter-skelter and I can see a raging black fire
with sounds of shots. We climb up to a roof-top to film, this is a
full two months after February 28, so I wonder about the government's
boast of bringing the riot under control within 72 hours? When we
emerge, trouble has occurred on our side of the road, a large gang is
roaming with knives and lathis (sticks) and we hide the camera, below
my dupatta, lest it get smashed. "Mobs don't like cameras," another
resident, Khanjel, who had witnessed the looting, had warned me,
"they tend to smash them because they can be identified." He had told
me how he had witnessed the looting of the well-known shop, Akbar
Ali. "After looting it, the crowd probably wanted more excitement, so
it set fire to it. When the fire brigade arrived, the mob chased the
fire brigade, they (the fire brigade) just turned back." Khanjel is
now volunteering with the Red Cross to do his bit for the victims.

Violence is also a form of communication, I wonder what message are
the mobs trying to send across, in the month of May, over two months
since the riot broke out. Some privately feel they are telling
super-cop K.P.S Gill, who has been appointed by the Centre, who is
actually incharge, here. Eleven persons are killed within the next
few days. Gill asks for a battalion from the Punjab police, but his
request is turned down. I talk to the CRPF men posted outside the
Idgah mosque which is burnt. Namaaz is being held inside this burnt
mosque as I walk in. There are some gas cylinders lying inside which
they tell me were brought in by the mob in an attempt to detonate it.
"They used seven gas cylinders; they didn't succeed in exploding the
mosque, but everything is burnt inside, including our Koran. They are
so intent on building their temple, they could have atleast spared
our mosques" says Ayubbhai Rahimkhan Pathan, a trustee of the mosque.
Masoombhai whose scooter repair shop was burnt, confides that they
feel safer with the "outside" (CRPF) police.

Noorjehan is in her early twenties and is beautiful in a quiet,
serene manner. She has large expressive eyes and chiseled features.
She is recovering at one of the relief camps. "They (the mob) hit me
with a pipe on the head and threw me on a burning heap they had made
of our vehicles. They also told me, 'Ram bolo'-say Ram, I refused.
Maine kaha, 'hum kyu Ram bolenge, tum bolo-why should I say Ram, you
say it.' She pleaded with them, 'humne tumhara kya bigara-what wrong
have we done to you?'" They left her to burn. Her mother and brothers
rescued her. She goes on to recall, "We called the police atleast
fifty times, but they said 'apni raksha aap karo-protect yourselves'."

This is what is so disturbing, the complete abdication of any moral
responsibility by any of the law-enforcing agencies. By the Police
Commissioner's office, the very embodiment of power, Muslim shops
have been burnt. A huge restaurant housed on the first floor,
'Tasty', is completely burnt, but bang in front of it is a police
chowki. The burning is so complete that obviously gas and high tech
have been used. A mammoth shop in the Shivranjani complex is also
burnt but what is truly heart breaking are the residential areas in
Paldi, a posh colony of Ahmedabad. There seems to be a pattern here;
first they stone the residential flat, (Tarana and Delite apartments)
then throw a petrol bomb in. The residents have a diabolical choice;
rush out and face a mob or remain inside with a fire raging.....

Systematically, Muslim property has been marked and destroyed. The
question is, could this planning and systematic violence have been
done overnight? My perception, after witnessing the remnants
first-hand is; it needed preparation. A spontaneous mob can only
wreak havoc; the systematic, meticulous destruction of Muslim
property including the Idgah mosque, which still has remains of the
gas cylinders brought to detonate it, compares with Krystal Nacht, in
Nazi Germany, when Jewish property was systematically destroyed.

As I film burnt residential areas, I come across a building on which
workers are raising a boundary wall. I realise they wish to increase
their security and peer inside. The house inside the compound is
partially burnt. Two women from within the compound agree to my
request to enter, but I have to go around to a side entrance. There I
am stopped by a man.
"Who asked you to come in?"
"Two women......," I venture to explain.
"What are their names?"
"I don't know...."
"Then I can't let you inside."
" See, I've come from Delhi to film....."
"Do you have a press card?"
"No." I know now, I sound rather unconvincing.

"Look, I don't want any further trouble," he says. He is a slim man,
mild almost effete in his manner. Slender built and soft spoken. As
if explaining why he can't possibly allow me in, he describes how he
was hit by a soda water bottle and called a friend, who rescued him
on a mobike. Something about his story, conjures a distinctly
familiar image in my mind. "Are you Adil?" I ask. He nods, surprised.
I ask if it was Nikhil who rescued him and now he is taken aback.
"Yes," he says. When I tell him, I met Nikhil on the train, he
discreetly steps aside, calls him on the mobile and cross-checks my
story. Entry granted.

Adil agrees to be interviewed but with his back to the camera, so as
not to be identified, because "we have to live here". What is most
disturbing is that two of his neighbours were also attacked by the
mob. One was hit by a petrol bomb and damaged his eye, another by a
pipe and is facing memory loss. None of these upper class Muslims are
ready to face the camera, nor have they lodged an FIR.

I have always been proud of my heritage; being born an Indian enabled
one to be heir to so much plurality. Hinduism is a way of life;
walking on the banks of the Ganga, subverting the myths and Gods, was
a treasure trove for my creative spirit and fantasies.

The secular space was like a moonbeam falling slanted, through
filigree, onto a mosaic floor. On the intricate patterns of this
mosaic, you could dance the Bharatnatyam (invocation to the Gods) or
kneel and say your namaaz. What the fundamentalists did was to smash
the filigree into a black, gaping hole, flood a searing searchlight
onto the mosaic floor, now painted one colour; saffron. They
transformed Hinduism; its intrinsic irreverence with its multiple
lewd and lusty Gods, Krishna-the divine lover, making passionate love
to his gopis; multiple texts and myriad myths, into a serious
die-hard religion with a singular agenda; 'hum mandir vahi
banayenge'-'we'll build the temple just there'!

They destroyed the mosaic floor, they tarnished Hinduism. Will we let
them, or will we stoop down, with head bent low, on our knees and
rebuild the mosaic?