At Kwality Chai café, men and women were eating curry and chapattis; otherwise, most people were drinking tea. Sunil Seth ordered two bottles of Thums Up. Sipping their cold drinks he and Govinda sat quietly on wooden stools. A nearby radio’s broadcast seemed to grow in volume. Govinda listened carefully because the voice was foreign. The voices in the café continued to drone on as the man on the wireless said, ‘This is BBC World Service...’

Govinda watched as the men and women stopped eating and paid close attention as the announcer on the radio said, ‘Indian Prime Minister Indira Gandhi has been shot by her Sikh body guards...’

His father gulped his drink and spilt some on his shirt. People started talking animatedly. Voices rose. ‘Turn up the volume,’ cried his father.

‘A curfew has been imposed,’ said the broadcaster. ‘Complete censorship is being enforced.’

People in the shop began talking animatedly. A large man in a white kurta stood up and instructed everyone to be quiet as he adjusted the volume on the wireless, turning it up loud for all to hear clearly.

‘The Indian Prime Minister, Indira Gandhi has been assassinated,’ the foreign voice on the radio explained, ‘at 1 Safdarjang Road in New Delhi, the Prime Minister’s official residence.’

The people in the chai shop roared in anger.

‘What is this?’ said the proprietor.

‘Shut up,’ the large man dressed in a white kurta said forcefully.

‘Listen,’ another man interrupted, lifting his hands in the air in an attempt to subdue everyone.

The broadcaster described the Prime Minister’s personal lodgings where she lived with her son, Rajiv, her daughter-in-law Sonia and their two children, Rahul and Priyanka. He said, ‘Indira Gandhi was in fine health and ebullient spirits as she prepared to seek a fifth term as Prime Minister of the world’s most populated democracy.’

Govinda was alert. He feared people could be dangerous. The men in the shop seemed very angry. Some were cursing and swearing. There were people everywhere now. They had come out of the kitchen and the backrooms. They flooded in from the street.

‘Who did this?’ a voice demanded.

‘Listen, you piece of shit and we will find out,’ shouted a tall, stout man, dressed in a red Adidas tracksuit, with a cigarette in one hand and brandishing a thick stick in the other. He seemed to be taking over the subdued crowd. ‘We Hindus must stick together.’ He had what seemed to be a band of thugs gathered around him who nodded in agreement.

‘The Prime Minister was on her way to conduct an hour-long interview with Sir Peter Ustinov,’ the broadcaster said.

‘Who did this? Who committed the treacherous act? Those mother-fucking bastards must pay for this,’ shouted the man in a red Adidas tracksuit, wielding his stick.

‘Listen, you piece of shit,’ said the man in a white kurta. ‘We will make them pay.’