Light

L. B. Chhetri

Place: Godhra Gujarat, India

Year: 2002

A train was waiting for passengers at Godhra railway station.  It moved at around 8:00 in the morning. Someone pulled the chain in a while as it left the station and it stopped. Some people sprayed kerosene and petrol and set fire on one of the compartments which was crammed with pilgrims. The blaze spread rapidly. Amidst heartrending sounds, 59 people lost their lives. This event of 27 February 2002 was documented among many other inhuman events in the world. It was indeed a black day in the history of human civilization. The consequence of this event was even dreadful. The entire state of Gujarat was set on the blaze of racial riot.

The Babari Masjid  had been displaced from Ayodhya. The devotees had a plan to build a temple of lord Ram there.

Thousands of Hindu devotees used to go to Ayodhya, the birthplace of lord Ram from different places of India. They used to be called kar sevak. They used to return to their respective homes after months-long worship, but nobody had imagined the outrageous event of February 27.

In the nation where there was a religious freedom, the lanes and the roads of Gujarat were full of sounds of retaliation, groan and bereavement. A Hindu would murder a Muslim and vice versa. Whoever was killed, a human would be killed. This horrible scene ran for many days. Humans, the most beautiful creation of god would be slaughtered with swords, and would be thrown into the furnaces to be charred to death. 

There was no account of how many buses and houses were set on fire, and shops were looted. There was frightful situation all around.

Though one could identify the Hindus and the Muslims out of the dead bodies lying on the road, it was impossible to differentiate them on account of the blood that was congealed. The corpses that were charred were all black.

Rajani Devi, whose husband Rabindra Sharma was burnt and was killed by the terrorists in the train, had her home in the same city. She was living a panic-stricken life with her two daughters. At times, she would get carried away reminiscing her husband, but then would control herself considering her daughters’ future and would prepare food to feed them.

At around midnight, a group of ten or twelve people with torches in their hands were running after a group of about twenty or twenty-five people comprising elderly, children, women and men. They were rushing to kill them. All of a sudden, the police started firing and people of both the groups dispersed.

When there was silence after the gunfire, the night slithered on its own pace. There was still some time left for the dawn to arrive. Someone knocked at Rajani’s door. She shivered with fear. She got up from the cot and asked- Who is there?

“It’s us. Open the door, otherwise we will break it.” The sound came from outside.

She opened the door. From their accent, she identified they were Hindus. She got a bit assured.

“Did you notice any Muslim coming here?”

“No one has come.”

“Are there any menfolk at home? If there is any one, tell him to come out?”

“My husband has passed away. Nobody else is here.”

“Who are those sleeping over there in cots?”

“In one of the cots, my two daughters are sleeping, and in the next, my elder son. He is sick. I am taking him to hospital tomorrow.”

The visitors went away. Rajani closed the door and walked slowly up to the cot and stood still. Both the daughters got up quickly, embraced their mother and wept. The mother consoled them. The elder daughter said, “Who is the one sleeping in the bed, mother?”

Rajani could not speak. Tears rolled down her cheeks. The boy sleeping in the bed removed the blanket and got up quickly. He moved close to them. He was a boy of about twelve or thirteen years. He embraced Rajani, and said crying, “You gave me a new life, Ammi.”

“What is your name?” asked Rajani.

“Karim.”

“Today onward you are no more Karim;  you are Karan. And call me Aama not Ammi.”

Rajani embraced Karan tightly and Karan said, “Aama!

The light drifting outside had been embellishing the room. 

(Trans. Pushpa Raj Paudel)

[Chhetri is a noted storywriter and a poet. His published works include three anthologies of short stories: Trishankuko Deshma, Indramayako Deshma and Bratbhanga, while Bhidma Harayeko Manchhe is his maiden collection of poems. He chairs Kavidanda Sahitya Samaj, a national literary organization with its head office in Chitawan.]