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?

This story continues

I Was 19 Years Old When They Took Me -- Part 1

New Delhi: It’s 2100 hours and I’m standing a stone throw away from Old Delhi Railway Station. One should come here if one complains about traffic on Delhi’s roads. My phone rings and I’m told that I now need to come to Paharganj, next to New Delhi Railway Station. I protest. “Sahib, customer ne pehle wahan bulaya tha, abhi madarchod phone kar ke kehta hai udhar lao ladki ko, wahan kamra nahi mila harami ko. Mujhe maaf kare”


I agree, reluctantly.


The person I’m going to meet has not given me his name, and specifically asked me not get to a camera, he doesn’t want to give away his identity at any cost. I move for New Delhi.


In 1975 Mrs. Gandhi’s election as an MP was declared null and void by Allahabad High Court due to malpractice; she in turn declared emergency, put press under censorship, threw opposition leaders in jails. It was the beginning of Indian Democracy’s darkest period. During Emergency, the drive for population control was put in practice by Sanjay Gandhi, son the then Prime Minister Indira Gandhi; grandson of India’s first Prime Minister: Jawaharlal Nehru.


I’m meeting one of those thousands who were forced to undergo sterilization against their wishes. He now works as a Pimp in Delhi, providing girls to men who can pay a price for a woman’s body. “I didn’t want to do this” he told me. I didn’t believe him. I was told to carry a black bag and a note book in my hand for identification, “Sahib, Police ka lafda hai” he justified.


I see him, finally. He’s 5’6, dark, slim and has a bald patch on his head. He’s unshaven. His shirt is dirty and trousers look like a skirt. He told me he’s 54 but can easily pass as 65. I notice a girl with him, she’s seems to be around 23 and is pretty, but I’m not good with guessing game. So I stop. He moves forward and we shake hands, the girl looks at me wondering if I’m the one paying for her body tonight.


A car stops while we’re exchanging pleasantries. A man of around 45 comes out. He’s fat; bearded and has hair all over his body. He nods to my host, gives him some money, which my host keeps in his pocket without counting. The girl is told to sit in the car. She protests, with her eyes. “Baith sali randi” says the man who’s just paid for her body. This time she sits without any protest, and they’re gone.


“There are bastards who want girls as young as 10 years old; I don’t supply children sahib” he tells me without me asking a question. I ask him if we can go and sit somewhere, and talk. He leads me to a narrow lane and we sit in a small “chai ki dukaan”. He lights up a cigarette, and by the time our tea comes he offers me one. I refuse.


“I was 19 years old when they took me” he pauses to inhale his smoke “I ran a chai ki dukaan for a living. My father had died in 1971 because of his alcoholism. I was the oldest child of my parents. My mother had died giving birth to my younger sister, so I took over our “dukaan” after my father had died to save money for my sister’s marriage -- which was 15 years old by then”


Our tea arrives.


“I don’t remember the date but it was around 11 in the morning when this police-wallah came with some guy. They asked me for some tea” he pauses, and lights up another cigarette “After they were done, they started to move. I asked them to pay” his eyes are now almost moist and he’s short of breath “they abused me” he says. “I got in an argument with them; the police-wallah slapped me and threatened to kill me if I asked them for money once again. The other man told me to drop my gaze” he says inhaling the cigarette in anger “I didn’t do that. I looked straight in their eyes. So he hit me again and again” he’s eyes are burning with rage, almost bloody red “I abused both of them for hitting me and begged for help from other -- but nobody came”



“The other man slapped me very hard and I fell on the ground. He then kicked me repeatedly in the gut and told the police-wallah to take to me ‘there’ and teach me a ‘lesson’. I passed out after that. When I woke up: I was in a gutter. It was night then. My whole body pained. And the pain in my testicles was unbearable. I cried, begged for help, but there was no body. I some how managed to come out and made my way towards my dukaan” He’s now without a hint of pain or emotion. Coldly he resumed “The dukaan was in ruins, everything was broken. My galla was empty, somebody stole the money. Suddenly I was struck by the thought of my sister and headed for home in pain”



He stops. It’s a customer’s call. After a few minutes of bargaining, the deal is sealed for a woman’s body: 800 rupees for 2 hours. We order another round of tea and a packet of cigarettes for him, “I forgot to carry the packet I bought in the afternoon”.


We resume with his story, “Where was I?” He pleaded. I remind him and he continued “I headed for home but she was not there. Bad thoughts came to my mind. I didn’t know what to do and who to ask help for. I again went towards my dukaan, and came back again. I was desperate and angry. I felt like a helpless fellow tied with iron chains. The pain by then was unbearable. I went home again. There was no sign of my sister, I just couldn’t tolerate the pain anymore and removed my pants to see what was troubling me. My testicles were swollen. I touched them and screamed in pain. I didn’t understand what had happened to me. I was in tears because of pain but dressed again to search for my sister. I went out, far towards the other direction, but still couldn’t find her.
Then I came back home again, thinking she might have come back -- she hadn’t. I don’t know what happened but I passed out again” The Chai ki dukaan we’re at is closing down. The owner wants us out. He pays and we move out.

Continued In Part 2