THE SUN WAS setting on 7th March, taking down with it any residual hopes of peace and amity that the residents of Amritsar might have nursed. The pitch dark of the night seemed to cast its own grim shadow of dread on the hearts and minds of everyone living within the crowded confines of the walled city. Commercial establishments had closed their shutters the previous day and remained shut for business. The worried faces of the city’s inhabitants proclaimed their deep foreboding; something terrible was afoot. They could feel it in their bones. In the alleys and bylanes, in the streets and bazaars, in mohallas and katras, the rising tide of communal strife seemed the only topic of conversation. A call for general strike had been issued to mark the arson attacks and much of the city was observing a total hartal. Traders and businessmen could be heard making plans to temporarily move to the relative safety of Delhi or other cities.
Although one could still see people moving around in the bazaars, something had changed overnight. The Hindus and Sikhs tended to move together, and the Muslims also stayed close to their own community. The naked anger and suspicion with which each group eyed the other was stark, the kind of death stare reserved for dangerous beasts rather than a fellow human being.
The arson and destruction of the previous night had not only ignited a palpable fury among the Hindus but also among the more excitable Sikhs. Retribution! Retribution through words and deeds was the theme of every conversation. Let’s wait for nightfall, they vowed, and the Muslims will be paid back with interest. The bravado, though, was tinged with an underlying concern for an element on which they had no control. Some three quarters of the city’s police force and virtually all its officers were Muslim—many of whom were blatantly extending support to their own community—how would they respond?
But the desire for revenge was strong and they weren’t going to let worries about the police diminish their ardour. In fact, virtually every significant Hindu and Sikh organization in the city had resolved that they were now obliged to retaliate against the Muslims. Some had gone a step further and summoned their compatriots from neighbouring villages to bolster their ranks.
Preparations were underway in broad daylight and yet, there was no sign of the police. They hadn’t lifted a finger to prevent the attacks of last night and there was none of the usual hullabaloo of suspects being rounded up or culprits being arrested. Nor were they doing anything to deter the deadly groundwork that was being laid for the evening. In the absence of any action by the law enforcement authority, it was every man for himself.
The afternoon melted into the evening and gangs of armed young men could be seen patrolling the streets and bazaars of the city. Check points were being established at the entrance of every neighbourhood. Each alleyway and mohalla was developing its own security systems and residents were coming up with innovative ways to protect their life, limb and property. The rooftops were being stocked up with bricks and stones, cans and buckets of water were being stored for emergency use and some had even stockpiled jerrycans of deadly acid along with pichkaris, the water guns often used by kids during Holi to spray coloured water on friends.
Now, let’s turn to the weapons. Daggers and kirpans, sickles and scythes, staves and spears—just about everything was being collected and stashed away. Shops selling the traditional swords, kirpans, had been particularly busy over the past month, often doing the kind of business that was only seen during the Vaisakhi or Diwali festival seasons. Crowds of buyers at the entrance of each kirpan store were choking the streets. The five or six leading kirpan stores tried their best to meet the ballooning demand but couldn’t come anywhere close. A kirpan that used to sell for five or seven rupees had shot up to fifty or sixty rupees, but even the exorbitant prices failed to stem the rush of buyers. Some even seemed ready to pay for the kirpans in gold, but a point came when there wasn’t a single one left. By dusk, every kirpan store in town had exhausted its stock.
Reports about the looming shortage of kirpans only drove more buyers towards the stores, often refusing to accept the storeowners’ declaration that they were out of stock. Irate customers ransacked the stores and took away semi-finished blades, scabbards, cutting tools and anything else that might serve their lethal purpose.
The fires started by the Muslims the previous night continued to smoulder and some neighbourhoods were still shrouded in smoke. There was no sign of any fire truck. Maybe the authorities in the city were trying to protect their fancy fire extinguishing equipment from damage.
The approaching night had the air of an impending apocalypse, a lurking fear shared not just by the city’s Muslims, but also by its Hindus and Sikhs. Who knew if one’s family would still have a roof over their head by daybreak. The ominous shadow of Death lurked around every corner.
The evening’s twilight had barely made way for the night when flames from several Muslim neighbourhoods could be seen rising towards the sky. Standing on their rooftops and peering into the distance, voices could be heard yelling, ‘That’s Farid’s Chowk up in flames … that’s the Phamban wala bazaar on fire … there’s Katra Sher Singh going up in smoke…’
Satnam was also on the roof, leaning against the parapet as he tried to focus his eyes on the direction of the flames. He was flanked by his mother on the one side and their manservant Kanhaiya on the other. Kesar Kaur let out an agonized scream the moment she heard someone speak of Katra Sher Singh. Satnam saw his mother’s face go pale and beads of sweat form on her forehead. ‘Our shop! That means our shop’s also gone up in smoke. What do we do now, O Waheguru …’ she wailed before collapsing to the floor in a silent heap.
A couple of neighbours quickly came across the parapet to his side and helped him carry his mother to her room downstairs. Some ladies also came over and sat by her bedside to comfort her. ‘Come on, Bebe! What’s come over you? Why are you entertaining such terrible thoughts? Just because someone spoke about Katra Sher Singh? How do these guys know the exact areas that are on fire? There are so many bazaars there. Who knows which area of which bazaar? Be patient…’
Worried about his mother’s condition, Satnam sat near the foot of the bed and murmured, ‘Bhabo! Why are you fretting without reason? Aren’t we a part of this community in which so many are suffering today? Even if the shop has been set on fire, it isn’t the end of the world. We’d insured the shop and we’ll at least get something to cover our loss. Look at the ones who could count their fortunes in lakhs of rupees till yesterday. Today, they are penniless and out on the street. Think of their fate!’
Kesar Kaur had regained her consciousness, but his words did nothing to calm her distress. Her throat felt dry and knotted as she rasped, ‘Hai! We’ve lost a lifetime’s earning! Hai! All those precious goods! We’re left with nothing.’
Satnam was trying his best to soothe his mother’s frayed nerves even as he struggled to keep a rein on his own emotions. He silently thanked his father for having the foresight to insure the store for ten thousand rupees. But the goods in the store were worth at least fifty or sixty thousand and the insurance would cover a mere fraction of the loss.
‘Maybe the fire wasn’t in Katra Sher Singh … maybe it was at an adjacent…’ That slim hope again drew him towards the rooftop, leaving Kanhaiya and Narinder to tend to his mother.
The fire near Katra Sher Singh seemed to have grown tenfold in the hour or so that he had spent with his mother. He could also see clouds of smoke billowing over several other neighbourhoods, new fires that hadn’t been there an hour ago. There was little doubt now that not just his own store but all of Katra Sher Singh would soon be reduced to ashes. Heaving a deep sigh of pain, he lay down on a charpoy that was nestled against the parapet. His mind started to drift. He’d received that consignment of new radios just a few days back. He had paid thirty-five hundred rupees in cash to get the papers cleared with the bank. He might as well have waited for a few days if he had known ... And the table fans that he had spent all day assembling. He could have brought a few dozen of them home if he had known … And those cabinets in the store filled with 40-watt bulbs, 150 rolls of electrical wire and all kinds of plugs … And the papers for the table lamps that had just arrived…
He got up again and allowed his eyes to scan the horizon. Thousands of people had gathered on rooftops like his own to view the carnage unfolding before them. The stars were still shining bright in the sky but there was something menacing in their flicker. The eastern side of the city was ablaze at multiple locations and the fires appeared to be raging out of control. Smoke could also be seen rising at several places on the western side, including a few spots that were relatively close to his own home. The arsonists, he concluded, were still active and were moving swiftly from one location to another.
The small clouds of smoke that could be seen at multiple locations had grown rapidly and begun to merge into one another to become a giant shroud that was casting its shadow across entire neighbourhoods. The noise from the streets around him had risen to a crescendo in which it was hard to distinguish between the fiery slogans of the men and the terrified screams of women and children, between shouts of support for the victims and calls denouncing the perpetrators. People were running helter-skelter in the bazaars, some carrying hastily packed bundles on their head, while others had commandeered push carts to haul rolls of textiles; one had tucked a bunch of umbrellas under each arm, while another had slung a sack of new shoes and sandals on his shoulder and a third was dragging a large gunny bag filled with odds and ends from a haberdashery along the dusty street.
It didn’t take Satnam long to discern the pattern. The homes and shops of Muslims were being ransacked. The thousands of men who had streamed in from neighbouring villages appeared to be leading the pillage. Some had clearly come prepared with tools that were used to break doors and locks, along with carts to haul the loot back to their villages. Mobs of young men were roaming unchecked through the city’s bazaars. Any shop with a Muslim owner’s name was fair game and the modus operandi was simple. Break the lock, plunder anything of value and set the store on fire, unmindful of the fact that the flames would also spread to adjacent stores owned by Hindus and Sikhs. Not that they cared. They had come with the intent to plunder and the fact that they came with bullock carts, horses and even camels provided sufficient evidence of their motives.
The city had been without electricity since the previous night and the pitch-dark streets were tailor-made to facilitate the marauders. They moved around like faceless shadows, the darkness giving them an added sense of impunity as they went about their unholy business through the night. Like thousands of others, Satnam spent that night on his rooftop, leaning against the parapet and observing the unfolding mayhem.
His vigil was abruptly shattered by shouts that were coming from the gate of the narrow alley that led to his own house. A wave of fear went through the women and children even as some of the young men from the houses next door picked up their kirpans, staves, sickles, and anything else they could lay their hands on as they headed towards the alley below. Could it be a Muslim mob coming their way, they wondered.
Satnam hurried to join his neighbours as they moved towards the gate, only to discover that their apprehensions were completely off the mark. A group of rioters had come inside the gate and parked some large bundles in the alley. Satnam could see rolls of cotton, silk, and woollen fabrics, along with some carpets and rugs spilling from their loot.
‘What’s going on here?’ Satnam asked as he moved towards the intruders. They were mostly Sikhs from villages around Amritsar and they were trying to strike a deal with some of the residents of his alley. Please keep these materials in your safe custody for a while so that we can go back into the bazaar for another round, they were saying. In return, they would be happy to offer a portion of the goods. They wanted to go back because they hadn’t yet found any gold, silver, jewellery or cash and the night was still young.
‘Get back, all of you!’ Satnam commanded. Everyone took a couple of steps back, including the two or three notables from his own neighbourhood who were trying to negotiate the deal. Others who were looking hungrily at the fine silk and woollen fabrics also retreated.
‘And from where have you brought these wares?’ Satnam crackled at the villagers.
‘By breaking open the enemy’s shops, where else,’ one of the looters responded testily.
‘Which enemy?’ Satnam quizzed.
‘The bloody Muslims,’ came the response.
‘It isn’t the Muslims who are the enemy. You are the real enemy. You, who have come and sullied the atmosphere of our city,’ he raged.
‘And how is that?’ one of them queried.
‘I’ll tell you how. You guys will go back to your villages with all the stuff that you’ve looted. And we’ll be the targets for the next reprisal attacks. Nobody’s going to ask you anything. Nor will you be around to defend us. Things were already bad enough and now you’ve come to add fuel to the fire. I won’t let you do it. Enough!’ he roared.
Satnam turned around to face the neighbours who were trying to strike a deal. ‘And you folks! Do you have any idea what you are trying to do? Do you realize the consequences? You seem happy that you’ll take some of this nice stuff into your homes without paying a penny. But what happens if there is an investigation, if the police come and search your homes? I’ll tell you what happens. You’ll be scrambling to dump these things into the nearest well or burn them in your tandoor. Maybe you’ll dispose of them but who is to say you won’t face the long arm of the law.’
His rebuke left them frozen. The thieves and the buyers, both knew that Satnam was right even though a few murmured half-heartedly, ‘Why spurn goods that have already landed at our doorstep?’ But Satnam’s words had struck a chord and most of the residents nodded vigorously in support. There was no way that the deal could go through.
‘So be it! We’ll take this stuff back with us,’ said a couple of the villagers as they reached out to collect the bundles. Satnam leapt forward and grabbed the arm of the one in front. ‘You won’t be touching any of this. If you don’t want to get hurt, I suggest you head straight back to your villages,’ he said and signalled to his neighbours.
The coward that lies beneath a thief’s bluster is exposed the moment he is confronted and in minutes, the group was pleading that they should be allowed to take away at least some of their goodies. But Satnam and his compatriots would have none of it. ‘Get moving or we’ll lock this gate and keep you here till we can hand you to the police in the morning.’ Left with no option, the looters reluctantly dragged themselves away from the gate and slunk into the darkness.
That left Satnam and his friends with the awkward question: what should they do with the stolen goods? A healthy debate ensued, several alternatives were explored before they arrived at the decision that the material should be distributed amongst the refugees. With that sorted, the goods were temporarily stored in one of the houses.