Students’ Notebook: Fear stalks me

Every time a blast occurred in Delhi, Muslim youths, students lived in anxiety. Fear, too. Would the police come knocking on their door? A Delhi University student recounts the tense days
Suvaid Yaseen Delhi

It was around half past five in the evening on a Saturday. I came out of the PUDR meeting, which I occasionally attended, at the Coffee House, behind the Regal cinema.

Slowly, I walked towards the metro station with a Kashmiri friend. We chatted for about 15 minutes outside the Central park, till around 6 pm. He went into the metro station and I moved towards the Scindia House from where I usually take a bus to my home at Bhogal, Jangpura.

It was the month of Ramzan and the time of breaking the fast was drawing close. A bit tired, I decided to take an auto rickshaw. Some 10 minutes into the travel, I messaged Inam, a journalist friend, living at Nizamuddin. It always feels better to break the fast, iftar, with someone for company, especially so, when one is away from home.

"Are u ppl at hme?" (sic) my sms read. It was 6.23 pm and I was still in the auto. It was September 13, 2008.

Inam called. He was in the market, along with another friend and roommate, Suhail. I asked the driver to stop at Nizamuddin instead of Jangpura. I met them. We bought some fruits and sweets. After iftar, we went out for proper dinner. We were still in the market, when one of my friends got a call. He informed that there were serial blasts in Delhi - Ghaffar market, Connaught Place, Greater Kailash.

Soon after, I got a message from a friend from Delhi asking me if I was fine. I assured him that I was. A sudden unease engulfed us, a nervousness of sorts. Back home in Kashmir, this wouldn't happen. It would just be the news of another blast. But we were in the Indian capital. Things were different.

Earlier, while listening to the news of blasts in Bangalore and Ahmedabad, we had thanked our stars that they didn't happen in Delhi. After something like this, the police usually round up people. And, a young Kashmiri Muslim is an ideal catch, guilty or not. Isn't Afzal Guru still languish in jail?

Just the day before, September 12, I had spoken at a paper presentation competition at Delhi University's Miranda House on: Should India quit Kashmir? One of the three judges, who worked with a television news channel, praised my "passionate" speech. Then, he told me, from the dais, that I was lucky to have got the space to speak.

I had thanked the organisers after the presentation as discussing this topic would never have been possible in the Kashmir University. He continued, "In Pakistan or even in the United States you could have been even shot for speaking like that! Suvaid, you see, we do not allow people to carry guns in public. They would be frisked before entering an auditorium like this." I had been counting and he used the term 'shot' four times. He then added, "It is the greatness of the Indian democracy that we have people like Arundhati speaking so freely on Kashmir."

Just then, a friend who lived near my house called. I spoke to him trying to sound normal. He asked where I was and told me to come home fast. "There have been multiple blasts in Delhi." he said. "I know. Would you please not use the term?" I said.

It is always tricky when one gets a phone call soon after an incident. One is never sure whether to be indirect or speak clearly about the incident. The fact that Delhi University lecturer, SAR Geelani, was falsely implicated on the basis of a mere phone call is always at the back of my mind.

A little later, my parents called from Srinagar. "Are you alright? We saw something on TV," they asked. "Yes, I am good. Near home," I replied.

Soon, a Delhi Police jeep entered the market its loud siren blaring. All the three of us hurried into a lane almost together, impulsively. As if the police had come looking for us and we were on the run.

We moved towards our house. As we entered, Inam pointed towards the door of the room. Last few days, we had been joking about the words 'yahan hain' after we found them scribbled in Hindi on the door. But now it seemed serious. No longer could we dismiss it as prank played by somebody or a mark that could go unnoticed.

Then, Suhail pointed towards the shirt of my black Pathan suit, "Look at what are you wearing." Suddenly, it seemed a dangerous outfit to wear. I changed to one of Inam's kurtas and stuffed the shirt into my bag. Suhail joked, "What if someone checks the bag? Wouldn't it look more suspicious?" We had a laugh and decide to go to my place to watch the news.

Right then, another friend called. "Blasts have occurred in Delhi." He again used the word. Angry and irritated, I abused him.

We left for my home. On the way, I my cousin called from home asking me whether I was alright. "Completely fine," I told her, "The weather is great, too. It has been hot for some time but it's fine now after some rain." I barely let her speak for a minute in the hope that she gets the message. She interrupted, "There have been bomb blasts in Delhi, don't you know?" "Blasts, I know! But why do you have to spell it loud?" I shot back.

On reaching home, we switch on the TV to get an idea of what actually happened. The first blast was at Ghaffar market around 6.07 pm. I must have been at CP then. The next blast was at Barakhamba road at 6.34 pm and another at Central park. A bomb was found near Regal. It was diffused. Damn! I had been near all the three places in CP.

Continuously flipping through news channels, I stopped at one. "Eye witness can identify the CP bombers," flashed on the screen. The testimony is of a little boy who sells balloons. "Two young men, in black clothes, with beard came out of an auto and put a bag into a dustbin and fled." Minutes later the explosion had taken place. I had been wearing black, too! I tried to remember what my friend, who was with me in CP, had been wearing. He had a small beard. So do I. I boarded the auto at the Scindia House and not at Barakhamba. But there is a lane connecting the two places. Could that make a case? I feared.

We spent half the night watching news. Blast sites, frantic discussions, possible culprits. On the road, police patrols moved, too, frequently it seemed. Every time we heard a siren, we muted the TV and listened intently, trying to figure out whether they had stopped at our apartment.

We joked about a raid next morning, if the night spared us, or, may be an enquiry by the police, IB, CID and other such agencies. Delhi felt like home, only the chance of getting into an unwarranted mess seemed much more. We slept after sehri, the pre-dawn meal, before the Ramzan fast.

It was Sunday morning and I woke up first. Inam woke up after a while and started reading the previous day's newspaper.

Suddenly, there was a knock at the door. I opened it, a bit apprehensive. It was a person with a black bag slung over his shoulders. He was formally dressed. "Guest check karna hai (Have to check the guests)," he told me right away. A policeman in civvies or someone from the CID or IB, it struck me immediately. The visit was somewhat expected so I did not ask for his identity proof. We are used to showing our ID proof in Kashmir and elsewhere but had never thought of asking a policeman for his. And, this surely didn't seem the right time to practise my supposed right.

I let him in. I thought of telling him that my friends do not stay here. They've been here only for the night. But that could make things look more suspicious. Let him check out himself and I will answer whatever he wanted to know, I thought. He glanced casually at Inam, who still had the newspaper in hand, looking intently at both of us. The man moved into the other room where Suhail, jobless then, was in deep sleep. The man didn't seem to bother much about him.

He moved into the open space in the rear of our apartment and entered the kitchen. I was confused. "Wahan kya karna hai, Bhaiyya? (What do you have to do there, brother?)" I asked him. He showed me his identity card and said, "Gas check karna hai (Have to check the gas)." He was an agent from some gas agency. I felt stupid but hugely relieved.

Six days later, on September 19, 2008, Batla House killings took place. We relived the anxiety. It continues to be the same. At that time, even writing this article seemed fraught with risk of being accused of some kind of 'confession'. So, I write, only a year later.

The writer is studying political science in the University of Delhi