December 6, 1992 was a special Sunday for the Lokhandwala-Mantri family at Firdaus Apartments in Kurla. Six families in two adjacent apartments were preparing for a wedding during Christmas. My mother had gone to Karachi, her maiden visit to Pakistan, to meet her only sister.
There were few TV sets those days. But by noon, there was a commotion in the building. In the 21 flats, whoever had a TV was watching the news. In my house, there was no TV. The news trickled in through my father, my uncle and my grandfather. My sisters were told that there would not be any college or school for a few days. The Masjid in Ayodhya had been demolished and the situation was tense.
I was a student at Somaiya College of Science and Commerce in Vidyavihar, and I had a project to complete. However, I was certain that as I had classes in the morning, I would be back home by noon. But it was not to be. The morning saw angry protests, and by afternoon, the streets we-re filled with stone pelters.
A group of boys ran with sticks and stones. A police van on the main road did not cross to our side of the lane. My only view to the incidents was a single window of our home that was kept open. The rest were shut tight and no one was to venture out.
There was a commotion as men ran up and down the building. There was a Masjid opposite the building. The lane adjacent to it had small settlements and the men were all crowded in the front homes. A group of men stood on the terrace situated of our building to keep an eye.
For a Bombay-bred girl, this was the first-hand experience of violence up-close. The annual family visit to Godhra during summer vacations had a strict set of rules to be followed, in which we could not venture out without an escort during the day to the other side where the Hindus lived. After 6 p.m. it was an absolute no.
But that was Godhra and this was Bombay. How come we were witnessing this behaviour in a civil-ised and modern city? A naive thought. Huddled in the house, the narrative of violence came in the form of expression. My grandfather, who had witnessed such incidents in his life, was standing guard at the apartment gate. Night was critical and scary.
Every morning, my neighbours who had their extended family of eight in Madanpura, South Mumbai, called to inform that they were alive, and vice-versa. We could not call my mother as international calls would raise doubt. Night vigils became the order of the day.
On December 10, the Kurla office of the local corporator, Firoze Mantri, blasted late at night. Our building was the residence of his family and cousins. My father worried the building would be targeted. The compound gates the building gates were also locked. The ten-day ordeal was only a glimpse of the turmoil brewing across the country.
The Christmas wedding celebrations were cancelled. My mother was back in town. The New Year in 1993 came with a new set of riots. January was the month of burnings. The wood scrap-yard in Kurla depot, Kapadia nagar and Hall Road were burnt. Bottles were filled with petrol and fired with rags or sent like rockets from one locality to another. We were not sure if we would see the next morning. It was the beginning of the change in mindset: From Bombay to
Mumbai.
(Kaniza Garari is Chief Reporter, Hyderabad, of Deccan Chronicle.)
