RD: So Mr. Lakshman tried to ban the sloganeering?
GS: Along with all the other things I mentioned. Agree to the conditions, he said, or no march; my good friend the stern cop here will withdraw police permission for your procession. And I nodded, giving my sinister smile. It was a bluff, but they couldn’t take the chance that it mightn’t be. So they agreed. And then Lucky pulled out a sheet of paper and a pen and asked the leaders of all the main Hindu parties to give us these commitments in writing. Bugger-all good that did, as it turned out.
RD: So they didn’t keep their promises?
GS: Lucky seemed to think it would make a difference if they signed something. But frankly, I never thought it would amount to a pisspot full of spit. Someone who doesn’t intend to keep an oral promise doesn’t suddenly become more trustworthy because he puts it in writing. Their signatures weren’t worth a rat’s fart on a cold day, if you’ll pardon my Punjabi. So I planned an extensive police presence anyway. Throughout the route of the bleeding march — cops at every corner and crossing, more in front of the mosques and sensitive neighborhoods, plus pickets of the Provincial Armed Constabulary, called in from neighboring districts where they’d been dealing with the same sort of crap. We really did everything we fucking could, Mr. Diggs. But it wasn’t enough.
RD: Tell me what happened.
GS: Well, the procession began as scheduled. And it was bloody apparent that it was going to be a problem. I’d never seen anything like it myself–
RD: You mean in size?
GS: Size, passion, militancy. Lucky and I were there, of course. He was clutching the piece of paper these bastards had all signed. Bhushan Sharma, Ram Charan Gupta, the whole lot of them, bloody hypocrites to a man. All their written assurances weren’t worth the cost of that single sheet of paper. They weren’t worth the sweat on Lucky’s hand that dampened that sheet every time he disbelievingly reread the undertakings they were openly violating. Restraint in sloganeering? Forget it — the most vulgar and vicious slogans were screamed out by the marchers, initiated by some of our precious signatories. No weapons? The procession was swarming with trishuls and naked daggers, which they flashed and pumped up and down as if practicing for a fucking javelin-throwing contest. Tie those bastards to a hydel generator, and you could have powered the pissing town for weeks. All this was bad enough, but then the leaders suddenly tried to steer the procession into the heart of the Muslim bastis. Just to provoke a reaction. Mind you, this was something they had specifically promised not to do, the sons of bitches. But I hadn’t trusted their promise anyway, so my men were in place, and we stopped their little attempted detour. We firmly pushed the slimy sisterloving marchers back to the agreed route.
RD: So you were able to keep things under control for a while.
GS: Yeah, for a while. But how the fuck do you control thirty thousand people on a hot September day if they’re determined to make trouble? The sun was getting higher, and so was the temper of the mob. By noon our shirts were soaked with sweat.
Here, have another drink. I could certainly use one.
RD: Thanks.
GS: It was tense, man. Tense. Want me to paint a picture for you? A seemingly endless procession, winding its way slowly, tortuously damned slowly, through the narrow lanes. Dust swirling upwards from their tramping feet. Chauvinist slogans rending the bloody air. Get it? Imagine the scene: The heat. The noise. The confusion. The hatred being spewed. The bloody adrenaline flowing. Those blasted blades flashing in the sun. People pumped up, thirsty, hoarse. Shouting.
RD: Then what happened?
GS: As it passed the main mosque, the procession paused, as if to attack. Lucky’s executive magistrates and my police had to physically push the frenzied young buggers onward. In case they forgot they were here to march and turned on the mosque instead.
RD: And the Muslims of the town? Where were they while this was going on in their neighborhood?
GS: At this point, they were all barricaded in their bloody homes. No Muslim was seen out of doors. Not even a circumcised mouse.
RD: Go on. What happened next?
GS: By midafternoon about two-thirds of the procession had passed by the Muslim bastis. Lucky and I began to believe we were going to get away with it. Without the explosion we’d both feared. We should have known we were as likely to escape untouched as a whore at a stag party. Ah! — some fresh soda at last.
Where were we? Yes, we were standing at the crossroads before one particular mosque. Not the main one. A smaller mosque, which had been the site of several communal battles in the past. The Mohammed Ali Mosque, I think it’s called. Doesn’t matter. In fact that was the mosque where we predicted the frenzy of the procession would reach its climax. That’s why we were both there. Bloody DM and twice-bloody SP. Pushing the crowd forward. Acutely alert for a clash. That’s the damnedest bloody thing, Mr. Diggs. We were there, prepared for the worst. We weren’t even taken by surprise.
RD: You can call me Randy.
GS: Only when I’ve seen you with a woman. But go on, have another. Soda’s okay now. You can’t let me drink alone.
RD: Thanks. Actually, it’s short for Randolph. But please go on.
GS: As I said, we were prepared. We had prevented an attack on the main mosque. We thought we were seeing this through. Then, suddenly, a bunch of young men came running, in absolute panic. Running from the opposite direction, that is, towards our part of the procession. They were shouting. At first we couldn’t hear what they were saying. I even thought they might be Muslims charging the marchers. But they were Hindu all right. And the agitation on their faces suggested something else. They were screaming, “They’re attacking us! Bomb maar rahen hain!” — they’re bombing us. Who? we asked, and of course the answer came, the Muslims. The Muslims had thrown a bomb into the crowd and a Hindu processionist had been killed. Shit — this was it, the moment we’d feared. Lucky and I ran immediately to the spot. It was barely a hundred meters away. The enraged crowd had gathered round a young man who was lying bleeding on the ground. His chest had been torn open by a crude bomb. His life was quickly ebbing away. People were screaming their fear and rage. The mood was uglier than a hijra’s crotch. Lucky quickly lifted the youth into his car, which was waiting nearby, and told the driver to rush him to hospital. He died before he got there.