<p>It was December 10, 1992, 3.30 am. My colleague and I were returning after a night shift in our newspaper office carpool. As per our roster, I began my week-long night shift the previous Sunday, December 6, the day Babri Masjid was demolished. All journalists were handed a pass from the police department because a curfew was imposed on Calcutta. It was relaxed for a few hours on December 9 as the city had become wiser and saner (unlike many towns during that week). The sparks had evidently not died down, as there were stray clashes in the city’s Kidderpore area.</p>.<p>“I think you must get down first as your house is on the way,” I suggested to my colleague.</p>.<p>“No. Our news editor has asked all male colleagues to ensure the women are dropped first,” he said.</p>.<p>As our car navigated through the deserted thoroughfare, a crowd stopped our vehicle.“They are carrying axes,” whispered my colleague. I froze and as my trembling hands rolled up the window glass, I noticed another weapon. “They have a flail as well,” I gasped.</p>.<p>“Don’t you know there is a curfew?” a man in the crowd shouted, his eyes and voice sending a shiver down my spine.</p>.<p>“We are heading back home from work,” said my colleague, his voice steady, though I could sense his trepidation. I rested my ice cold hand on his. The thick air of suspicion and hatred was blowing on my face across the semi-open window on my colleague’s side.</p>.<p>“Iyaarki na ki (are you fooling us),” taunted another man in Bangla, who by now had casually raised his hand.<br>“He…..KNIFE,” my whisper tumbled out more as a shriek.</p>.<p class="bodytext">“Which newspaper?” another one asked.</p>.<p class="bodytext">The driver pointed towards the press sticker and told them the newspaper name. I turned around to my side and saw a few men trying to paw down the window glass. I clutched my bag tight.</p>.<p class="bodytext">An elderly man soon asked his “protectors” to make way for the car.</p>.<p class="bodytext">A few metres ahead, we confronted another group, wielding axes and knives and asking similar questions. We were stopped again, for the third time. “Dada, amra night shift theke phirchi. Please jete din (brother, we are returning from our night shift. Please let us go),” I pleaded in Bangla, surprised that my voice <br />was steady, despite the fear that the crowd could metamorphose into a mob anytime.</p>.<p class="bodytext">“We got to know about riots in the next locality. So we are here,” said a man, and asked his “army” to make way. It was the “parting of the Red Sea moment” for us as the few streaks of purple had begun colouring the dawn sky.</p>.<p class="bodytext">“Can you imagine what would have happened if they had asked our names?” my colleague asked.</p>.<p class="bodytext">Till today, his question haunts me, as our names would have been a giveaway. With our families following different faiths, either way, one of us may have been on the line of hatred! </p>.<p class="bodytext">Over time, so many riot victims have seen those eyes of hatred!</p>
<p>It was December 10, 1992, 3.30 am. My colleague and I were returning after a night shift in our newspaper office carpool. As per our roster, I began my week-long night shift the previous Sunday, December 6, the day Babri Masjid was demolished. All journalists were handed a pass from the police department because a curfew was imposed on Calcutta. It was relaxed for a few hours on December 9 as the city had become wiser and saner (unlike many towns during that week). The sparks had evidently not died down, as there were stray clashes in the city’s Kidderpore area.</p>.<p>“I think you must get down first as your house is on the way,” I suggested to my colleague.</p>.<p>“No. Our news editor has asked all male colleagues to ensure the women are dropped first,” he said.</p>.<p>As our car navigated through the deserted thoroughfare, a crowd stopped our vehicle.“They are carrying axes,” whispered my colleague. I froze and as my trembling hands rolled up the window glass, I noticed another weapon. “They have a flail as well,” I gasped.</p>.<p>“Don’t you know there is a curfew?” a man in the crowd shouted, his eyes and voice sending a shiver down my spine.</p>.<p>“We are heading back home from work,” said my colleague, his voice steady, though I could sense his trepidation. I rested my ice cold hand on his. The thick air of suspicion and hatred was blowing on my face across the semi-open window on my colleague’s side.</p>.<p>“Iyaarki na ki (are you fooling us),” taunted another man in Bangla, who by now had casually raised his hand.<br>“He…..KNIFE,” my whisper tumbled out more as a shriek.</p>.<p class="bodytext">“Which newspaper?” another one asked.</p>.<p class="bodytext">The driver pointed towards the press sticker and told them the newspaper name. I turned around to my side and saw a few men trying to paw down the window glass. I clutched my bag tight.</p>.<p class="bodytext">An elderly man soon asked his “protectors” to make way for the car.</p>.<p class="bodytext">A few metres ahead, we confronted another group, wielding axes and knives and asking similar questions. We were stopped again, for the third time. “Dada, amra night shift theke phirchi. Please jete din (brother, we are returning from our night shift. Please let us go),” I pleaded in Bangla, surprised that my voice <br />was steady, despite the fear that the crowd could metamorphose into a mob anytime.</p>.<p class="bodytext">“We got to know about riots in the next locality. So we are here,” said a man, and asked his “army” to make way. It was the “parting of the Red Sea moment” for us as the few streaks of purple had begun colouring the dawn sky.</p>.<p class="bodytext">“Can you imagine what would have happened if they had asked our names?” my colleague asked.</p>.<p class="bodytext">Till today, his question haunts me, as our names would have been a giveaway. With our families following different faiths, either way, one of us may have been on the line of hatred! </p>.<p class="bodytext">Over time, so many riot victims have seen those eyes of hatred!</p>