Diya

My name? I can’t tell them my name. I just make up another surname. The first thing that comes into my head. Diya Shourie. I realize I have my college ID in my bag. I take it out and shove it up the leg of my churidar. That’s all I can think of on the spur of the moment.

They take our mobiles and our bags next. Make us empty our pockets. One well-dressed lady says, ‘I simply cannot let you have my handbag. It’s brand new and very expensive.’

A man snatches it from her, flings it on the ground, and stamps on it twice. ‘Now it isn’t,’ he says. After that, everyone hurries to hand over whatever they’re asked for.

We sit quietly on the floor, wondering what comes next. We are a mixed lot of odds and ends. There are several salespeople from the shops. A few cleaners. Several security guards. The early-morning shoppers who have ended up among the prisoners seem to be mostly women. There’s one old and cranky-looking man. Everyone is keeping their heads down.

Except this old lady. She stands up and says, ‘Excuse me!’ all crisp and clear. The leader doesn’t look around. ‘I want to know what is going on. Who are you people?’

The leader continues to ignore her. But the old lady isn’t the kind to take that lying down. ‘I’m talking to you, young man,’ she says.

The leader turns around and kicks her in the stomach. It’s so unexpected and so brutal that several people scream. The old lady doubles over without saying a word. She grabs her stomach and stuff starts leaking through the buttons of her kurta. I can’t see what it is, but it isn’t blood. She lies on the ground, the breath knocked out of her, white in the face.

The leader reaches down and rips her kurta open. Packets begin to fall out. There is dal and rice and even a box of tea leaves. It is dal that is bleeding out of her. She is a shoplifter.

I think the terrorist will kill her. Instead, he starts laughing. ‘So sorry to interrupt your shopping,’ he says. ‘Anyone else have any questions?’

Nobody says a word. The only sound is that of the old lady wheezing as she struggles to get her breath back.

Sitting right next to me is this little kid, about six years old. He’s terrifically excited. ‘Who are they, Ma? Why do they have guns? Are they the bad guys? Who are they going to shoot?’

His mother is struggling with the small toddler she holds in her arms. The toddler is shrieking and crying, and she can’t get him to shut up. She keeps trying to get the older boy to be quiet and sit still, but he jumps up for a better look.

‘What is it?’ I ask. ‘Don’t let him cry. They won’t like it.’

‘My baby is hungry,’ she says desperately.

The leader yells without even looking in our direction. ‘Shut that child up or I will do it with a bullet.’

The mother tries to put her hand over the kid’s mouth. He only screams louder and starts kicking. I take my dupatta and begin fanning him. The little boy whines and whimpers and slowly winds down into silence. We can all breathe again.

‘Are the police going to come?’ asks her older son. ‘Are they all going to shoot each other? What’s going to happen?’

‘I don’t know!’ snaps the harassed mother. ‘Nobody knows.’

Surely the police know what’s going on by now. Surely somebody is doing something.