She reached the opening in the hedge, barely noticing the armed guard who stood at attention there. Beside him was the security booth in which another guard waited with a Sten gun in his hands. As she approached the booth, the first guard drew his revolver and emptied it into Indira Gandhi’s stomach and chest. At the same moment, the other one emerged from his booth and fired several rounds into her. By the time the turbaned guards had completed their task, twenty-two bullets were embedded in the prime minister’s small body. Indira Gandhi died at 9:15 a.m.
Also at a quarter past nine that morning, the bus carrying Satpal to Modinagar left New Delhi’s interstate terminus.
The news of the killing did not filter out until late in the afternoon. Even then, it was only a rumour of injury rather than death. All India Radio interrupted its regular programming to broadcast only music, which was limited to mournful songs played over and over again. In Delhi, busy with her class of children at the local gurudwara, Nimmo had no inkling that anything had happened to shatter the beauty of the day until the lunch break, when the head priest called them all together and told them the news. Indira Gandhi had been shot. By her own guards, both of whom were Sikhs.
“I think everybody should go home and stay there,” the head priest said anxiously. He pointed to his turban. “It is not difficult to spot one of us, and anyone looking for a fight would have an easy target. If the prime minister really is dead and if the killers were Sikhs, I am afraid there may be trouble.”
Nimmo hurried home wishing there was a way to contact Satpal, who must have reached Modinagar by now. Had he heard about the killing? Was he safe? And her children? Her daughter had gone to school as usual, and Pappu was at work. She could do nothing but wait for them.
She had barely entered her house and not yet shut the door when she heard Asha call her curtly from across the wall. “There is a phone call for you.”
Nimmo slid her feet into her slippers and hurried to Asha’s house. Not for the first time, she wished they had a phone of their own.
Asha waited in her front room, clearly irritated, and continued to stand there, arms akimbo, while Nimmo talked. It was Satpal, his voice distorted by static even though he was only three hours away from Delhi. “Listen, I heard the news. It is terrible. I will try to come home by the night bus, but if I can’t then I will catch the early morning one. I will be home by lunchtime. And don’t go out of the house. All of you, stay at home and lock the doors.”
“I was getting worried. I didn’t know where—” Nimmo’s words tumbled out.
“And tell Pappu not to air his views on anything to anybody. It is not a good time for us.”
Nimmo looked quickly at Asha, hoping she had not heard Satpal’s loud voice—he tended to shout as if doing so would lessen the distance. She replaced the receiver slowly.
“Are you done?” Asha asked brusquely. Was there a change of attitude in her voice, Nimmo wondered? Was Asha more unfriendly than usual? She decided to confront it.
“Yes, thank you,” she said. “It was my husband, to tell me he will be coming home at lunchtime tomorrow. But he will try to catch the night bus, in case there is trouble.” She paused, then ploughed on awkwardly, feeling ridiculously guilty, as if she were implicated in the murder merely by being a Sikh. “Wasn’t it terrible, how Indira-ji was killed?”
Asha gave her a veiled look and nodded. “Yes, that was no way for a person to die. Twenty-two bullets those crazy sardars pumped into her. An unarmed woman too. What is this world coming to?”
“I know,” agreed Nimmo, grateful that Asha had not lost her temper. “Crazy people with God only knows what wickedness in their hearts.”
“But your husband did not like her, did he?” Asha said suddenly, catching Nimmo off guard. “He never did, I know. And you were also angry when she sent the army into your temple! So why are you pretending to feel sad?”
“She was a defenceless woman,” Nimmo stammered, unnerved by the spite in Asha’s voice. “I always voted for her, you know that. I was upset about the army operation, but that doesn’t mean …”
Asha’s husband, a small man with a large paunch, entered the room, picking something out of his teeth with
a fingernail. He gave Nimmo an empty glance, as if she were a stranger. To Asha he said, “If she needs to use the phone, why can’t she get her own line? Or use the public booth, na? Always making use of other people, and then stabbing them in the back. And you, what are you standing here and doing bak-bak for? Is my lunch ready or not?” He turned to stare at Nimmo.
She mumbled her thanks, left five rupees on the table, as she always did, and hurried out of Asha’s house. Her prime minister had been killed by men who were strangers to her, so why was
she
feeling so frightened? A group of young men drifted past and Nimmo shifted to the side. They turned to stare at her and then turned back with a laugh. One said something that made the rest burst into crude laughter. They were talking about her, about Sikhs, she was positive. Nimmo rushed into her house, the black dog of fear that had stayed low for so long rearing up again, full-grown and monstrous.
Kamal was there, in the kitchen, making a cup of tea and rummaging through the shelves. She turned in alarm when her mother rushed in. “Mummy, is there anything to eat in the house? I am so hungry. And did you hear? Indira Gandhi was shot! Twenty-two bullets! Everyone in the bus was talking about it.”
Nimmo slapped her hard on her back.
“Ow!
What did I do? Why are you hitting me?” Kamal wailed, trying to soothe the spot where her mother’s hand had landed.
“Why do you leave the door open?” shouted Nimmo. “Any goonda, thug or murderer can walk right in and there
you are, memsahib, making chai without a thought in your head. Stupid, stupid girl.”
“The door is always open, Mummy,” Kamal protested. “You left it open just now. Where were you? Why are you so angry?”
Nimmo took a deep breath to calm herself. “I was in that Asha’s house. I wish we had our own phone. That was your father calling from Modinagar.” She looked at her daughter and was filled with a surge of tenderness. “Kamal, why don’t you stay at home tomorrow, putthar?” she said in a gentler voice.
“Okay, if you want.”
“You are sure?” Nimmo asked anxiously. “Your teacher won’t be angry with you?”
Kamal laughed. “Mummy, make up your mind, na? You want me to stay at home or not? Besides, there are a hundred students in my class. The teachers don’t care whether we are dead or alive. They don’t even know our names!”
“I wish your brother would come home soon,” muttered Nimmo, glancing anxiously at the clock.
Kamal returned to the kitchen, emerging a few moments later with Nimmo’s tea. “Calm down, Mummy. If there is trouble he will just stay where he is, won’t he? You worry for nothing. What can happen?”
What can happen? What can happen? Nimmo wanted to cry:
You can lose everything in one single day, your past, your present and your future.
But she controlled her agitation and sipped the tea her daughter handed her. Then she checked the containers of rice and dal and flour to make sure there
was enough food to last for a few days if necessary. There were two cauliflowers in the refrigerator and a few potatoes.
“Listen,” she said. “We need some kerosene for the lanterns in case the lights go out, and some onions. I will go to the shop round the corner, okay? And you stay inside here, did you hear me? Hanh?
Inside,
not even an eyelash out the window. And I will lock the door from outside and go, so people will think nobody is at home.”
“Mummy, why are you saying these things? You are scaring me. What will happen to us? Why should anything happen? We didn’t do anything wrong.”
Nimmo stroked her daughter’s hair away from her face. “No we didn’t do anything wrong. And nothing will happen, don’t worry. I am just being careful. At times like this, in a big city like Delhi, there are always people wanting to create trouble.”
“I want to come with you.”
“No, you stay here and be very quiet. I’ll be back soon.”
Half an hour later Nimmo returned, lugging a can of kerosene, a bag of potatoes, onions and a few other vegetables. She was ashamed that two men from her community had murdered an unarmed old woman and was convinced that every single person she had encountered on her brief journey had looked at her in anger, as if they knew she was a Sikh, a killer of Mrs. Gandhi. She worried about how that spark of anger could become a fire without warning.
A few minutes after she entered the house, to her great relief Pappu returned. He had more news. “They beat up
some Sikhs near the hospital where Indira Gandhi’s body was taken,” he said.
“I knew this would happen,” Nimmo said. “Pappu, your father phoned this afternoon. He said you should keep your opinions to yourself. Don’t say foolish things. You never know how people will react in such times. I wish it was anybody but a Sikh that had killed Indira Gandhi.”
“There was a good reason, Mummy,” Pappu replied angrily. “Look at how she insulted us.”
“There is never a good reason to kill an unarmed old woman.” Nimmo glared at her son. “And I am hearing stories that you are involved with those Khalistani boys. Is this true? Haven’t I told you to stay out of all that nonsense? Listen with both ears open, Pappu. Some of those men are violent, and violence does nothing but breed more violence.”
“What about violence to get justice, Mummy? Look at what happened to those pilgrims at the temple. The talk is that more than two or three thousand died. And Pa-ji. What did
he
do to deserve death? He was unarmed and peaceful. Who will bring him justice? Hanh? Tell me!”
“And you think
you
will? Do you know the meaning of justice?”
Pappu set down his teacup angrily. “She got what she deserved.” He aimed at the air and said, “Phfff!”
Nimmo leaned over and slapped her son hard on his cheek. “Dirty boy, you need to have your mouth washed out with soap! How can you say such things in this house?” But her slap had stunned her as much as it did Pappu.
He rubbed his burning cheek. “Well,
she
didn’t have
any problems killing people, did she? Hundreds of them, thousands. And nobody even knows where some of the bodies are. The people who vanished. And what do you mean, talk like this in this house? What do you think Daddy-ji’s friends talk about all the time? Everybody is angry. You must be the only one saying peace this and peace that.”
“It has nothing to do with us,” Nimmo insisted.
Pappu stood up. He towered over his mother. “You don’t understand anything,” he said. “You never will.”
“You are the one who does not understand,” Nimmo replied sadly. “Have you forgotten that life is a rare privilege God has granted us? You have no right to say that it is good to take away a life, no reason in the world can justify murder.”
“What right did your Indira Gandhi have to take away lives, then? Is she a goddess?” Pappu argued.
“I don’t want to talk to you anymore.” Nimmo pursed her lips and turned away.
She would write to Bibi-ji tomorrow, she promised herself. She would ask her to take Pappu as well, far away from this fear and the temptation to do violence. She did not agree with Satpal that he was as safe here as anywhere, that no corner of the world was free from hate and fear. He had scoffed at her fears. “You think it is bad here? At least this is our own country. We have had a good life so far. Over there, in that gora country, he will not be hated for his religion maybe, but for the colour of his skin, for looking different. If you want to be safe, you have to
look
like everyone else, you have to hide yourself.”
“What are you saying? Unless you both cut your hair and beards and become munda Sikhs, you will never look like everybody else here either, will you?” Nimmo had said with unaccustomed asperity. She wondered at Satpal’s naïveté. In order to disappear in this country they called their own, they would have to sacrifice a part of who they were. Like the tiger in a story she had heard as a child, Satpal and her son would have to burn their hides to rid themselves of their stripes. She could only imagine the pain that would involve.
The day after Mrs. Gandhi’s death, the national television and radio networks confirmed the news of her murder. Nimmo stayed awake all night expecting violence to erupt out of the darkness. She could sense it lurking out there in the silent streets, in the narrow gullies, in her neighbour’s yard. But when morning arrived the city was calm.
Pappu decided to go to the shop as usual.
“Why can’t you stay home?” Nimmo appealed to him. “It is too quiet out there. Your father hasn’t come home yet, and I am not sure—”
“Nothing will happen, Mummy. Don’t worry. Besides, there is a scooter that has to be finished today, we are already a week behind on the repairs and the customer is threatening to not pay us.”
He wrapped his arm around his mother’s shoulders and pecked her on the top of her head. Then he turned to Kamal, who was piling some books neatly on a shelf. He picked up her long braid and flicked it down on her back, and she responded with a mock frown. With Nimmo at
his heels, Pappu headed for the gate, where he turned around, as Satpal did every day, and looked at his mother leaning against the doorway.
“What is it?” she asked. “Why are you looking at me like that?” She wished she could tie her son up and keep him home.
“I’m just looking, that’s all.” Pappu grinned at her. He was wearing a pale blue turban that matched his shirt—a colour that Nimmo thought made him look particularly handsome.
“Be careful,” she said, following him to the road, watching after him the way she had done for as long as he could remember. “When you are crossing the road, especially!”
Wahe-guru, keep them safe, please keep them safe,
she muttered under her breath.
From next door came the reassuring cluck of Kaushalya’s hens. Her friend looked over the wall and said in a low, urgent voice, “Nimmo, listen. My husband said to tell you that he was at the ration store yesterday and heard some men asking for the list of people in this area. He thinks they are getting the addresses of the Sikh homes here.”