‘Don’t be silly,’ I snap, ‘Nobody is going to cut my hair or beard.’ I follow her down the dark staircase back into my apartment. There is no time to unscrew my nameplate; I get an iron rod, stick it in the space behind the door and the plate and wrench it off. It breaks into two. ‘Now no one will know who lives here.’

‘You are a stupid Sikh!’ she exclaims angrily. ‘They will ask your neighbours. Do as I tell you. Let me cut your hair and beard and we can go to some hotel or something.’

‘No,’ I yell back stubbornly. ‘Let them do their worst. I’ll kill one or two before they get me.’

‘And me. You stupid, old buddha bewakoof!. Will you ever get sense in your head?’ I am not used to being abused by Bhagmati. My temper rises. Our argument is silenced by the mob yelling somewhere behind my back garden. We slip out into the dark garden and watch through the thick hibiscus hedge. The mob is composed of about fifty young boys armed with iron rods. Some have canisters of petrol in their hands. They surround the gurdwara and storm in. They drag out the Bhai and beat him up with their fists and rods. He cries at the top of his voice: ‘Bachao! Bachao! Police!’ They shout back: ‘Bhindrawale key bacchey (son of Bhindranwale)! Ask your father to save you now.’ They bring out the Granth, its canopy, carpets and durries, heap them up in a pile and sprinkle petrol on it. One puts a match to it and the heap bursts into flame. The Bhai’s hair is scattered over his bloodied face but he pleads, ‘Do what you like to me but don’t dishonour the holy book. Rab da vaasta (for God’s sake).’

‘Let the bastard go with his holy book,’ shouts someone. They pour petrol over his hair, splash it on his beard and push him on the flaming pile. He shrinks and crumples into a flaming corpse. They yell triumphantly: ‘Indira Gandhi amar rahey (Indira Gandhi is immortal).’

My knees buckle under me and I sit down on the wet grass. I cannot hold my bladder. Bhagmati sits down beside me and massages my back. After a while she helps me stand up and whispers in my ears, ‘Let’s go indoors before they spot us.’ I stay rooted to the ground and peer through the bush. I see a fellow reading something from a paper in his hand. He points to garages owned by Sikh mechanics. The mob moves to the garages. Cars lined outside for repairs are set on fire. Garage doors smashed open. People watch them from their balconies. Someone pleads, ‘These cars belong to Hindus; the Sikh mechanics have fled. If you set fire to the garages, the whole building will catch fire. We are only Hindus, Muslims and Christians here. Why don’t you go to the taxi-stand?’