I was first exposed to the rot that lies deep within our country a couple of decades ago, and have never forgotten it
People take part in a protest to mark the 26th anniversary of the demolition of the Babri Masjid, in Mumbai on Dec 6, 2018. Pic/AFP
I was a teenager when the Babri Masjid came down, bringing the lie of a peaceful nation down with it. Social media didn't exist at the time, and Internet connections were spotty at best. There were no 24-hour news channels either, so much of what happened during those days spread across the country by word of mouth. It's hard to say whether this was good or bad, given that there were horrific consequences nonetheless, but I shudder to think about what could have been if we all had access to WhatsApp in 1992. The only thing I am sure about, when I try and make sense of those days, is the fact that no young person should be exposed to that kind of unbridled, illogical hate.
A few things come to mind almost immediately whenever that dark period in our country's history is mentioned. There were bodies on the street, for one, which is never a sight one can get accustomed to, no matter how often one steels oneself. As a journalist, I would eventually be confronted with more bodies than the average person but, as a teenager, the image of victims covered in white sheets casually along the sides of busy streets is one that has never really gone away. This happened in Malvani, Malad, a place that tore families apart and left scars that may never fade.
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Another thing that stands out are the patrols. Neighbourhoods were turned against each other overnight, compelling people to turn their backs on those they had known forever. Rumours of armed gangs walking the streets flared up every other night, prompting vigilante groups to walk the perimeters of building compounds and terraces. I remember the kindness of strangers, thousands of whom refused to fall for the divisive propaganda pushed by certain political parties, and rallied around members of minority communities, staying up late for consecutive nights to make sure they wouldn't be attacked.
As I grow older, I realise the extent of that riot's damage, and how it went far beyond the official figure of 900 victims. I see how my city changed irrevocably, pushing people into unwanted corners for no fault other than their religious beliefs. I see how the children of those riots grew up with feelings of otherness, and insecurities too deep to fathom. I think of the indignities they must have witnessed their parents suffer, and how this coloured their view of a place they were taught to call home.
There is no point evaluating why things happened the way they did, given that the events of those months have been documented and regurgitated for years. There were movies made on what happened, books and research papers that attempted to rationalise how millions of us could descend into madness that easily, and court cases that dragged on fitfully without leading to serious repercussions for those who perpetuated what were undoubtedly acts of terror. It says a lot about who we are as a nation that policemen as well as politicians, who were indicted at the time, continue to hold positions of significant power today. That many passed away without ever having to pay for their sins ought to have appalled us, but we appear to have accepted that injustice without question either.
According to a report filed by the Justice B N Srikrishna Commission half a decade later, what caused the riots was economic competition, the decline of employment, changing political discourse, class conflict and population density. Going by that particular logic, it would seem as if we are perpetually standing at the edge of a precipice, waiting for the smallest of nudges to tip us over.
Today's Bombay, like the rest of India, is a suspicious place. Divisions, like rot, run deep. It is a once charming city that has become a place of anger rather than understanding. A city where your surname now matters more than ever before, and where the religion you practice defines where you can and cannot own a home. We no longer have localities with character. All we have are townships and ghettos.
It reminds me of a rather pertinent question once posed by the late journalist Aroon Tikekar. "How," he asked, "have we gone from a city where Mohammad Rafi sang songs in praise of Hindu Gods to a place where Muslims are denied houses?"
The politicians who currently rule us have answers to that powerful question. Bombay may forgive them all at some point, but some of us will never forget.
When he isn't ranting about all things Mumbai, Lindsay Pereira can be almost sweet. He tweets @lindsaypereira Send your feedback to mailbag@mid-day.com
The views expressed in this column are the individual's and don't represent those of the paper
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