I switch on my radio and tune it to foreign stations. All give detailed news about Indira Gandhi’s assassination at the hands of her own Sikh bodyguards. And very briefly talk of anti-Sikh violence. Only Radio Pakistan talks of hundreds of Sikhs massacred and hundreds of gurdwaras burnt in Delhi. The telephone rings: ‘Is that you?’ it asks. ‘Yes.’ The caller proceeds to abuse me. ‘Bloody bastard you murdered your mother.’ I hit back. ‘Bloody mother-fucker, bastard yourself. You murdered your Bapu Gandhi, who are you to buk buk?’

The abuse upsets me. The telephone rings again. This time it is someone very polite. ‘Don’t drink water out of your tap. It’s been poisoned by the Sikhs.’ He puts down his receiver.

A few minutes later another ring. ‘Trainloads of dead Hindus massacred by Sikhs in Punjab have arrived in Delhi. Hindus will avenge these killings.’ Again the receiver is put down before I can say a word.

I sit and wait for the phone to ring again. It is dead. At midnight there is another hubbub. Slogans, yelling, people running from somewhere to somewhere. Everyone is awake. Another truckload of boys arrives. They burn another couple of cars and disappear. People peer through their windows to see the conflagration. Policemen armed with rifles stop by for a few minutes and then walk away.

Fatigue overtakes me and I doze off in my chair. I am woken up by the sound of shouting coming from the side of the gurdwara. I get up with a start and run out into the garden to see what is going on. It is early dawn but everyone seems to be on their balconies and at their windows looking at the gurdwara. Bhagmati comes heaving herself along as fast as she can and shouting at me.

‘Get inside,’ she screams. I ignore her and peep through the hedge.

I see Budh Singh in the gurdwara courtyard beside the smouldering ashes of the Granth and the Bhai. He has a kirpan in one hand and is whirling about like a dancing dervish, yelling abuse at a gang of young men armed with steel rods who have surrounded him. ‘You madarchods, you bahinchods, may your seed be destroyed! You burn our holy book. May your Vedas and Shastras be burnt!’

The young gangsters play a cat and mouse game with him. They take turns prodding Budh Singh in the back with their rods. The old fellow is getting tired. He can’t fight so many men. As he pauses for breath, an iron rod crashes on his shoulder and brings him down. His kirpan falls out of his hand. One fellow picks it up and pokes it in his bottom. Two lads pounce on him and pin his arms behind his back. One takes out a pair of scissors and begins to clip off budh Singh’s beard. Budh Singh spits in his face. The fellow slaps him on the face, catches him by his long hair and cuts off a hunk. They’ve had their fun. They get down to serious business. A boy gets a car tyre, fills its inside rim with petrol and lights it. It is a fiery garland. Two boys hold it over Budh Singh and slowly bring it down over his head to his shoulders. Budh Singh screams in agony as he crumples down to the ground. The boys laugh and give him the Sikh call of victory: ‘Boley So Nihal! Sat Sri Akal.