It was a feverish night. In a small hotel room in Faizabad, I tossed and turned on my bed all night. Sleep had deserted me. My mind was crowded with thoughts of the previous day, December 6, 1992, which had left me heartbroken. I felt deep within me that the demolition of the medieval-era mosque had struck at independent India’s soul, and changed it irrevocably. The demolition of any place of worship, whether it’s a temple, a church or a mosque, would have had the same devastating effect on me. And I had witnessed a mosque being razed to the ground in a hate-filled atmosphere. We had also seen the beginnings of the aftermath: burning tyres strewn around, the rising smoke and the militant kar sevaks ready to beat up photographers.