My grandfather

My grandfather, a short, wiry and highly disciplined man, who came from a small town in, moved to Delhi when he was promoted to the central logistics department of the Indian Railways. Now, in spite of his seniority, which he very much believed in, he had to make do with a dark and depressing flat, in place of town bungalows, and, instead of being driven around in a jeep, he was forced to take the train each morning. I mention these complaints, which will certainly seem frivolous, because, as my grandfather claims that, on the morning of October 31, 1984, they were at the top of his mind.

The same morning, the Prime Minister, Indira Gandhi, was shot dead by her two Sikh bodyguards, revenge for her decision to attack the Golden Temple, which ‘Khalistan’ freedom fighters or separatists had militarized. My grandfather had heard about the assassination on All-India Radio, but it did not greatly trouble him. He was perusing a stack of daily reports as the train drew into a station. The brakes screeched but were then lost in a human roar, as yet indistinct, pressing on the windows. His ears were inured to the noise of the city, but he heard the fury in the voices and felt fear spread upward from his stomach.

Before the train had stopped, someone began to pound on the door. A man standing in the hallway opened it and the voices, now distinct, spread in. My grandfather looked up, and finally realized what would happen in the blank face of the Sikh, bearded and turbaned, sitting across the table. A man, whose appearance and words my grandfather has forgotten, quietly walked into the compartment. The passengers began to take out passports, tickets, anything with their names on it, and the man walked down inspecting their documents and nodded at them. Before he reached my grandfather’s table, two other men ran past him, and seized the Sikh by his arm. They dragged him across the floor and towards the other door. He was crying silently and belatedly tried to kick out but they subdued him. As they reached the door, my grandfather stood up and began to ask the most pointless questions possible, ‘What are you doing? Where are you taking him?’ The men, smiling, ignored him until they reached the door, when he began advancing towards them, now yelling insults. They finished throwing the Sikh off the train and, without a word, took hold of my grandfather and threw him out as well.

The platform, astonishingly, was empty, except for a small group of men in a circle, holding weapons. Two of them were holding the Sikh down. The man who had thrown my grandfather off the train asked another, ‘Him also?’ The man walked over, unperturbed my grandfather’s screams. He was at least six inches taller than my grandfather and came close enough to be able to look straight down at his face. After a second of silence, he began to laugh. Then he became serious. ‘This stick-man a Sikh?’ he said to his partner. He turned to my grandfather. ‘Sir,’ he said, ‘get back on the train. We’ll do what we have to.’ My grandfather’s throat stopped with impotence and he began to collapse, till the man supported him. The Sikh, moaning quietly, was pulled along the platform, behind the terminal.