She looks up with her tear-stained eyes. ‘You want to see it with your own eyes? Come up on the roof and look.’ She takes my hand and heaves herself up from the sofa. We climb up the four storeys of my apartment building and go on the roof. She points northwards towards Connaught Circus. The sky is aglow: not with electric lights but with flames. In the dusk I can see clouds of smoke rising from different points. I look around in other directions. There are bonfires and smoke on many roads. ‘Sikhs’ taxis and trucks,’ Bhagmati informs me. The evening breeze wafts across the voice of crowds roaring in unison, ‘Indira Gandhi zindabad (Long live Indira Gandhi). Sikh hatyaron ko khatam karo (finish the murderous Sikhs).’ A mob is moving up the road towards my apartment. Bhagmati panics. ‘Chalo, chalo,’ she screams. ‘I’ll cut your hair and beard quickly. Then we can get out safely. All they can burn will be your books. They are of no use to Dilliwallas.’

‘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).’