November 1, 1984, a day after the assassination of India’s Prime Minister Indira Gandhi, has been perhaps the darkest in recent memory. As the State machinery stayed comatose, the members of a particular community, targeted by vigilante mobs, were brutally murdered on the streets of Delhi. On the day of the assassination, fifteen-year-old Dilmeet had been her usual bubbly self. Her father had picked her up early from school, along with her two brothers, aged five and seven. There was palpable tension in the air. Once home, the children settled down on the carpet. Dilmeet loved to dance. As soon as she would return from school, she would switch on the National Panasonic tape recorder and dance to the popular Punjabi songs - Gurdas Mann’s ‘Dil da maamla hai’ being her favourite song. Her father encouraged the motherless child’s passion for dance. However, that day, as she switched on the tape recorder and started dancing to the peppy music, her father came running into the room and snatched the tape recorder from her. She looked at him with moist eyes, demanding an explanation. Her father called her into the room. From the tone of his voice she realised that something was terribly wrong. However, she innocently blurted out, “Give me my tape recorder. I want to dance.” Her father clasped her hands and said, “Not today. You can dance later. Indira Gandhi has been assassinated by her Sikh bodyguards. That is why I came to fetch you from school early. I have a premonition that we may be attacked.” He then briskly stepped out of the room and placed a heavy cupboard at the entrance, to prop up the rattling wooden door. When Dilmeet heard violent sounds outside, she took her two brothers to another room. Through a small window hole in the first floor room she could see the narrow street – without being seen from below. A mob was being led by a pan-chewing politician…whom she instantly recognised. He had been in the area many times before. The mob of around ten men was dragging an old Sikh man by his beard. He soon became unconscious. One of them then doused him with kerosene and set him on fire. Dilmeet stifled a cry. Two more Sikh men were stabbed to death by the mob…while the politician just watched. She rushed to her brothers and motioned them to keep quiet. She wanted to explain to them what was happening outside. Like a dancer depicting sorrow, pain and agony, she contoured her face and animatedly threw up her hands - all in silence. They instantly kept quiet, presumably understanding what their sister was conveying to them.
Soon the mob started banging on their door, and pounding it with iron rods. The door ultimately gave away, pushing the wooden cupboard down with a thud. Dilmeet hid her two brothers in a trunk, and crouched over them. She could hear her father’s wails as he was pulled out to the street. She never saw him again. His charred body was found a few days later. The mob searched the house thoroughly and finally relented, finding no one else and nothing ‘worthwhile’ to loot. Smashing glass panes and breaking furniture, they moved on, knocking and breaking open other houses. Shops owned by Sikhs were burnt, the women molested and children beaten up, as the police watched nonchalantly. Two days passed. The children had not eaten a morsel of food. Whenever there was a sound, Dilmeet would put her brothers into the trunk and crouch over them, hoping that they would not be found. However, on the third day, the sound of heavy boots echoed in the hallway…and into the room. Before she could react, Dilmeet was facing three men in uniform. She begged them to spare her brothers. The men cradled her and her brothers, explaining that they were army personnel, who were there to help. Outside, Dilmeet witnessed a horrific sight. The entire area was littered with charred dead bodies and burnt houses and shops. The children’s next few days were spent in a Gurudwara, guarded by security forces. The riots had been controlled, but the scars were to remain forever. Dilmeet had to leave school. With assistance from the Gurudwara, she took up a tailoring job. She was barely fifteen, and had two young brothers to feed. She never danced again. Every time she looked at the tape recorder, she could hear the wails of her father being dragged out by the mob.
Twenty years later, the judicial commission probing the riots summoned her as a prime witness. Dilmeet recognised the politician and the perpetrators of the murders. She had a photographic memory. She related the entire incident in detail, while boldly looking into the eyes of the mobsters. She told the judge, pointing to the cowards, “Yes, these were the killers of three Sikh men and also my father. How can I forget that dreadful day?” With tears in her eyes and her voiced choked in emotion, Dilmeet testified, “They also killed my dance”. The judge got down from his chair, and in a rare display of emotion, hugged her and said, “Justice will be done.” As the news of the conviction of the accused flashed on TV channels a couple of days later, Dilmeet felt immense relief and release. She picked up the tape recorder and dusted it. To her surprise, it was still working, though the sound on the old Gurdas Mann cassette was weak. She got up, slowly, the years of pedalling a sewing machine having weakened her knees. She smiled…and as her two brothers looked on in amazement, she broke into a slow dance.
The Writer is a renowned Kuchipudi Danseuse and Choreographer
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