The dome of the temple of Kali rose from the mess of alleyways, residences, hovels, stores and rest houses. Hundreds of shops surrounded the temple with a rope of multi-coloured stalls that sold fruit, flowers, imitation jewellery, perfumes, devotional objects, gilded copper utensils, toys – even fresh fish and caged birds. Above all the activity, the smoke of the funeral pyres and the smell of incense mingled with burning flesh. At the temple of Kali, the most vibrant life went hand in hand with death.
Sometimes Govinda’s father took him on unpredictable outings, and it was not unusual for them to go to the Kali temple.
‘We need a well-deserved break from packing,’ said Sunil Seth.
Govinda stood by the railings and watched the pilgrims climb the steps beneath the brightly painted eaves, brushing past the garlands of marigold and the strings of tinkling bells. Passing pilgrims offered sweetmeats and spices for Kali. A rich family laden with gifts of fruit and food wrapped in gold paper pushed past a western tourist dressed in white cotton. A ragged beggar jostled for money from the pilgrims. Saffron-robed yogis with their hair tied up and knotted on the crowns of their heads mingled in the crowd. Govinda felt contented as he watched the motley throng mill about in an atmosphere of festivity, until he observed a small wooden block in the courtyard and a goat being led to it. On the ground he saw stale blood. He knew the goat was about to be sacrificed. It reminded him of the elephant. He looked for his father who was talking to a priest. Govinda turned quickly and ran outside the temple.
Outside, kirtan wallahs sang songs of praise to the goddess. As Govinda passed by, the kirtan wallahs called to him as they sang. He went along happily now, relieved to be out of his father’s grasp and away from the animal sacrifice. He joined in with the musicians, who played harmoniums, fiddles, flutes, trumpets, bells and drums as they sang and clapped and blew and beat and drummed.
And as she turned away
I saw a diamond in her eye
And naturally I marvelled why
I asked why
An answer came
Surrender yourself
Lie still like a dead body
Roll forward like a wheel
The spirt regenerates.
They sent her away
Was only yesterday
And naturally I marvelled why
I asked why
An answer came
Surrender yourself
Lie still like a dead body
Breathe and breathe again
She will come home back to me
Roll forward like a wheel
The spirit regenerates.
And we will be together
Yes, we will be!
The answer came to me
Sing we will be
Sing we will be.
No more duality.
Yes, we will be!
Yes, we will be!
Roll forward like a wheel
No more duality
The spirit regenerates.
As their song built to a crescendo the kirtan wallahs began to dance and call out the various names of the goddess Kali: Bhowani Devi, Durga. Govinda started to repeat after them. Sati, Rudrani, Parvati, Chinnamastika, Kamakshi, Uma, Makakshi, Himavati and Kumari. They repeated the names over and over again. The crowd joined in the chanting. The pundit, who led the singers, gave them no break to rest. Only the music and chanting could be heard. A group of uninhibited men adorned with garlands, carrying bows and arrows, broke into a wild dance.
Govinda’s heart pounded with intoxication to the rhythm of the drums. It was not possible for him to think. He clapped his hands and thrust his heels into the ground.
Then Govinda saw his father desperately looking for him in the heat of the day. He apparently had experienced enough. He looked tired but Govinda did not want to leave, so he decided to ignore him and kept singing.
Sunil Seth spotted Govinda and pulled him away from the musicians.
‘You worried me. Don’t ever leave me like that.’
‘I don’t want to go.’ Govinda turned back and ran. He headed for the musicians but his father dragged him away again. His father’s hair was dishevelled, his shirt collar stood out, his eyes seemed anxious and he was not in a mood to negotiate.
‘We’ll wait then.’ Together they stood and watched the musicians. Govinda held his father’s hand. It pleased him that his father had waited. His father was too impatient most of the time and he always wanted things done his way. He was never interested in doing things Govinda was interested in.
When Govinda was ready to leave, they passed old men and women crouched beside the road telling the future for a small fee. Govinda accompanied his father to one of the fortune tellers, a cheerful old woman who smoked cigarettes and sold sweets. He wondered if the fortune teller was genuinely a mysterious, powerful figure who knew the future. The fortune teller asked for a date of birth, made a calculation using a rosary and muttered mysterious words that made Sunil Seth frown.
‘What?’ Govinda asked.
‘Silly superstition,’ his father said affronted.
At Kwality Chai café, men and women were eating curry and chapattis; otherwise, most people were drinking tea. Sunil Seth ordered two bottles of Thums Up. Sipping their cold drinks he and Govinda sat quietly on wooden stools. A nearby radio’s broadcast seemed to grow in volume. Govinda listened carefully because the voice was foreign. The voices in the café continued to drone on as the man on the wireless said, ‘This is BBC World Service...’
Govinda watched as the men and women stopped eating and paid close attention as the announcer on the radio said, ‘Indian Prime Minister Indira Gandhi has been shot by her Sikh body guards...’
His father gulped his drink and spilt some on his shirt. People started talking animatedly. Voices rose. ‘Turn up the volume,’ cried his father.
‘A curfew has been imposed,’ said the broadcaster. ‘Complete censorship is being enforced.’
People in the shop began talking animatedly. A large man in a white kurta stood up and instructed everyone to be quiet as he adjusted the volume on the wireless, turning it up loud for all to hear clearly.
‘The Indian Prime Minister, Indira Gandhi has been assassinated,’ the foreign voice on the radio explained, ‘at 1 Safdarjang Road in New Delhi, the Prime Minister’s official residence.’
The people in the chai shop roared in anger.
‘What is this?’ said the proprietor.
‘Shut up,’ the large man dressed in a white kurta said forcefully.
‘Listen,’ another man interrupted, lifting his hands in the air in an attempt to subdue everyone.
The broadcaster described the Prime Minister’s personal lodgings where she lived with her son, Rajiv, her daughter-in-law Sonia and their two children, Rahul and Priyanka. He said, ‘Indira Gandhi was in fine health and ebullient spirits as she prepared to seek a fifth term as Prime Minister of the world’s most populated democracy.’
Govinda was alert. He feared people could be dangerous. The men in the shop seemed very angry. Some were cursing and swearing. There were people everywhere now. They had come out of the kitchen and the backrooms. They flooded in from the street.
‘Who did this?’ a voice demanded.
‘Listen, you piece of shit and we will find out,’ shouted a tall, stout man, dressed in a red Adidas tracksuit, with a cigarette in one hand and brandishing a thick stick in the other. He seemed to be taking over the subdued crowd. ‘We Hindus must stick together.’ He had what seemed to be a band of thugs gathered around him who nodded in agreement.
‘The Prime Minister was on her way to conduct an hour-long interview with Sir Peter Ustinov,’ the broadcaster said.
‘Who did this? Who committed the treacherous act? Those mother-fucking bastards must pay for this,’ shouted the man in a red Adidas tracksuit, wielding his stick.
‘Listen, you piece of shit,’ said the man in a white kurta. ‘We will make them pay.’
Govinda held onto his father’s hand. He was scared now. He had never seen men and women angry like this before. They seemed capable of hurting others. They looked as though they wanted to inflict a terrible violence on someone, anyone.
‘The assassins were two khaki-uniformed bodyguards wearing beards and turbans that identified them as Sikhs. One of them, Beant Singh, she had known for ten years,’ the man on the radio announced.
‘Treacherous fucking traitors,’ somebody roared. ‘There will be consequences for such actions. We will teach them about karma.’
The people in the cafe started to smash furniture and break glasses.
Govinda wished he was invisible, he stood very still, then he noticed a Sikh man, who tried to make his way out of the shop silently but was stopped by a group of irate men at the door. They pushed the Sikh into a corner. One of the men grabbed a bottle, smashed it and shoved the glass in the Sikh’s face. Govinda felt pain between his shoulders. He gasped for breath and no longer heard the radio broadcast. He had not seen violence like this before. It was so shocking that he had to bite his hand and push into his father, to get hold of himself so that he could remain standing. The Sikh was bleeding from his face. He tried to hold onto his wound and stop the blood with his hands but the blood ran down his arms, onto the floor and created a pool at his feet. The men pushed the Sikh outside. They grabbed at his dastar and pulled at it. As it started to unravel, the Sikh’s hair loosened and fell over his shoulders. They hit him in the chest and head and nose. Over the clamour and din in the cafe, Govinda heard bone and cartilage crack and the man’s sobs. The sound of the angry men got louder as they tried to beat the Sikh to death. They sounded like ferocious dogs grunting and yelling. They hit and pulled at the bloody body that flopped in front of them. The radio was turned up to full volume now and Govinda could again hear bits and pieces of the broadcast.
He heard a mention of Sikh guards. Then the broadcaster spoke of a decision to have the Indian army root out Sikh extremists at the Golden Temple in Amritsar, the Sikhs’ holiest shrine.
‘Has this man killed the Prime Minister?’ Govinda looked up at his father but his father refused to return his gaze. His father seemed sick and said nothing, though his grimace made him appear to be hurt. When he had first witnessed the violence, Govinda thought that this was against the law and the police would appear. But no one seemed to be calling for the police. No one mentioned the word, ‘police’. Not even his father. He worried his father would leave him there at the shop with the violent men. He wondered if they would go to jail simply for witnessing this disgraceful act. He couldn’t stop a stream of unrelated thoughts running through his head. He felt anger towards the men who were attacking the Sikh and he wanted to hurt them in return but he knew he was too small. He wondered if his father would do something. He wondered if the Sikh deserved what he was getting. He felt bad for watching, the fear and anxiety he felt was immense but he could not turn away and he hated the fact that he was helpless. All the time he wondered what would happen next. Would the attackers turn and hurt him and his father? He thought of Mumbles. Surely they would attack him. He wondered if his mother was okay. He hoped no one in his family would ever get hurt like this.
The people in the shop continued to beat the Sikh even though he was already badly wounded. Govinda’s father was trying to get him out but there was no clear path. The exit was blocked.
Govinda thought he recognised the Prime Minister’s voice but he knew the Prime Minister had been killed. The news was sketchy. They were playing old stories about the Prime Minister. ‘When I have Sikhs like this beside me, then I don’t believe I have anything to fear,’ she said. ‘How can we claim to be secular?’
The man on the radio mentioned another Sikh name: ‘Satwant Singh had been assigned five months earlier to Mrs Gandhi’s detail.’
This made the angry crowd in the shop increasingly furious. ‘Treason,’ cried a man as he tried to spark a match that wouldn’t light. Another man ran into the kitchen. He came out with a bottle of kerosene and poured it on the battered and bleeding Sikh.
‘The two men were no more than seven feet away as she greeted them. Beant Singh drew a .38 revolver and fired three shots into her abdomen. As she fell to the ground, Satwant Singh sprayed thirty rounds from his Sten automatic weapon into her body.’
Someone picked up a chair and threw it across the room. The man on the radio continued saying the same thing over and over again, ‘Separatists will not be tolerated.’ All semblance of control was lost.
On the wireless people talked about sectarian violence, socialism and the need for capital. This made no sense to Govinda. ‘A curfew has been imposed,’ repeated the foreign broadcaster. ‘Complete censorship is being enforced.’
A string of experts commented on each other’s remarks. The crowd in the cafe was no longer listening. They watched as the Sikh man was hit and at the same time pushed on the street. They continued beating the Sikh until one of the men succeeded in lighting a match and set him on fire. A sudden rush of flames ran over his skin and clothes. A woman holding an infant looked on in tears.
‘Is he damaged like the elephant?’ Govinda asked his father.
‘Yes, he is,’ Sunil Seth wept too.
‘The world as we knew it is finished,’ said a voice in the crowd. The air was filled with smoke. This confused and frightened Govinda, and he wondered what the Sikh had done to be killed like this.
‘People are good,’ Sunil Seth said, ‘and in the end goodness comes through. I believe that, I really do.’ And with that he dropped his gaze to the floor and repeated the word as if it were one he had never heard before. ‘Good,’ he said, ‘Good...’
‘Bullshit,’ said a waiter. ‘You tell me tomorrow if you think people are good. Take your son home now.’
Govinda raised his hands and rested his head on his father’s shoulder. He breathed in and out deeply, trying not to think about the angry men, the burning Sikh and the bad things people did to each other.