I Was 19 Years Old When They Took Me -- Part 2

Continued from Part 1


We walk towards New Delhi Metro Station and settle for a cup of chai from a road side “Chai-ki-Dukaan”. This time, we both lit up cigarettes and continue with the story of his life. He surprisingly asks me to not take notes anymore. I wonder is he knows that I’m just too tired of taking such lengthy notes. I insist and he gives in. “I woke up, perhaps late in the afternoon. With my body still in pain, I was just too weak to stand up. But I made way to the kitchen to drink water; but to my utter dis-belief, my sister was sitting in one corner. Her clothes were torn, her thighs visible and her ‘payjama covered in blood’. Her breasts were covered with her torn dupatta and with clear signs of violence against her, and a wound beneath her breasts”. He’s angry again, “Maine ye sab aaj tak kisi ko nahi bataya” he tells me. “Purane dukh-dard fir se jeena bahut mushkil hota hai sahib”. I try to console him but it’s not working.



“I knew what had happened with her” he tells me while a tears roll down his red eyes. “I asked her who did it but she wouldn’t answer. She was perhaps dead from inside. I got a ‘chadar’ [bed-sheet] to cover her and thought about going to Police, but the way I was treated then, I had lost faith in them for any justice. I went outside after giving her some water to drink; she was too terrified to even drink on her own. I tried to ask my neighbors about what had happened but no one was ready open their doors for me. I got an idea that it must be the work of that Police-wallah. I then made my way to my dukkan, everything was now missing from that place. I asked from the people who had taken my stuff, but again no body wanted to talk to me. I headed for home again, but by the time I was back, there was a huge crowd outside my home – my sister had burned her self”.



He pauses, and walks away from me. I follow him, but he disapproves; tells me to go back. He can’t talk anymore, he says. I press harder, but it he’s adamant. He tells me, that he has my phone number – “Mai bataunga aapko, par abhi nahi”. Why not now, I ask? “Marne se pehle aapko ye kahani batadunga” Meri mari behan ki kasam khata hu” [I swear on my dead sister that I will tell you the complete story] I give in. I’m not good with convincing people in such situations. I make my way to home still wondering if this story will ever be completed. I wonder about thousands of faceless, nameless and voiceless victims of Indira Gandhi's emergency; and will ever be repatriated? Or shall they be forgotten like millions before them?

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