In Connaught Place, in a pale slab of sunlight below the pavement, sat, asthough carved in granite, a band of refugees in their soiled garments. Theireyes were empty, giving them a curiously faceless look, and they were silent.The cripple who whined for alms, the small ragged boy who followed a shopper,cheerfully demanding a coin, were not of their company. They were not beggars.They seemed to be waiting with a fortitude more sculptured than human, as thoughtheir very immobility, if it lasted long enough, would lift the nightmare thatanaesthetised them. And this nightmare, too, was now a part of the many-threadedfabric of Delhi. The partition was a wound whose haemorrhage had not beenstemmed. For the people, Muslim and Hindu, who had long cherished the goal of aunited independent India, where religion would be the private concern of thecitizen, the Partition was the painful negation of a lifetime’s effort. Justas distressing was the speed with which 30 years of training in non-violence haddissolved like silver in a corroding chemical.
Delhi—17 York Road—February 1, 1948
On Friday the 30th Indi1 and I were having a late tea when suddenlySeshan rushed in with the news that Bapu2 had been shot and wasdying. We were stunned, but did not for a moment believe that he would die. Justa few days before there had been an unsuccessful attempt on his life. Weimmediately went to Birla House, and Bapu died just as we reached there. He hadbeen shot while going to prayers by a man (Hindu) standing barely a yard awayfrom him. His body was covered with blood. Indi and I controlled ourselves tillMamu3 came in and then it was impossible. He came in and knelt downbeside Bapu and sobbed. I had never seen him so grief-stricken, like a lostchild. Then everyone came in hordes. Birla House was surrounded by giganticcrowds. Bapu’s body had to be shown to the people from a balcony upstairs. Onthe 31st, yesterday, we went to Birla House at 8a.m. The procession left at11.45. Bapu’s body draped in the flag was on top of a car. Sardar Patel andMamu were to sit beside it but Mamu walked most of the five miles. We walked tooas it was the last time we would walk with Bapu. It took nearly five hours alongthe densely crowded road to walk to the cremation ground. The crowds weresomething I’ve never seen before. When we got to the cremation ground thecrowd lost control altogether. They trampled on each other to get to Bapu’sbody. I lost sight of the others completely and was dragged along. All thecordons were broken as if they’d been made of thread…Perhaps God means usnow to grow up and realise where our countrywide madness has led us. Now that wecannot turn to Bapu as we did, we will have to search our own souls, pray ourown prayers, come to our own decisions.
1. Indira Gandhi 2. Mahatma Gandhi 3. Jawaharlal Nehru
* 'Delhi - November 1947' is an extract from my novel, From FearSet Free and 'Delhi—17 York Road—February 1, 1948' is from a letterto my mother Vijaya Lakshmi Pandit, then ambassador to the Soviet Union
This article first appeared in Delhi City Limits, November 30,2005
