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“Jehangir, let’s go to Ajwa today. Uncle’s scooter is rusting outside.”

Jehangir and I had gone to Baroda for a few days to get away from Bombay. My aunt lived there alone in a big bungalow, and her cooking was an added incentive. I didn’t want to go alone to Baroda and convinced Jehangir, my building buddy, to join me.

It was already a couple of days in Baroda. Aunty did all she could to keep us entertained. She took us to the Sukh Sagor lake, Kamati Baug, the Sayaji Gaekwad Palace, whose name reminded us of Anshuman Gaekwad, the test cricket opening batsman.

We realized we shouldn’t be troubling her to take us everywhere, so I had the idea of taking my late uncles’ scooter and going on our own. I was 19 and had recently got my scooter license and was very excited. We asked Aunty in the morning, and she agreed but told us to be careful.

Aunty found us an old printed map of Baroda and explained to us how to reach Ajwa. She told us to see the beautiful musical fountain show in the evening. Aunty tried to give me money to fill up gas, but I declined.

After an early lunch, we left for Ajwa. It is around 25 km from Alkapuri in Baroda, where we were staying. The architects of Ajwa gardens replicated the Vrindavan Gardens in Mysore. We wandered around for gardens and then waited for the musical fountain show to start. It was December and the sunset time was around 6 pm. At 6.15 pm, the show started. Since we were in the first row, we had a great view. The show lasted around 20 mins.

After the show, it was time to head back. A kilometer later, we realized that there were no street lights for the rest of the way. Since we had started during the day time, I did not check the scooter lights. The scooter lights would not turn on, and we were riding in the dark. We stopped the scooter on the side and waited for a car or truck to pass so we can follow it and get back home. Luckily, a truck went past us; we got back on the scooter and started following it.

Jehangir and I spoke little and concentrated on the road ahead. I missed a turn to go home. A few minutes later, we were within Baroda’s city limits, and the street lights were on. I decided to ask someone the directions. I could understand Gujarati but was not fluent in speaking. I asked a man walking on the street where Alkapuri was, and he had no idea. I then asked him the direction of Baroda station, which he knew. I was confident of finding the way from the station to Aunty’s house.

We reached Baroda station and asked one of the hawkers for directions to make sure. The Hawker seemed in a hurry to close his shop. I asked him in my broken Gujarati, the reason he was shutting down so early.

He looked at me, his eyes frightened. He told me, didn’t you hear the riots have erupted near the airport road. The Kar Sevak’s demolished the Babri Masjid. The airport road was the one turn which I had missed earlier while following the truck. We didn’t wait; we rushed back to Aunty’s house, where she was pacing outside the bungalow waiting for us.

Her face showed relief. She knew we had gone to Ajwa and was praying all along that we would be safe. There were no cell phones in those days to contact us. We got back in the house; she served us dinner, which we had on the small table in the living area in front of the television. We could hear Mr. Vajpayee condemning the incident. Advani, Ashok Singhal, and Uma Bharati looked triumphant. My dad called us at night from Bombay and told me to stay in Baroda till everything was fine and not to travel.

Aunty was not feeling safe in Baroda and wanted to take us both and drive to Ahmedabad at her son’s place. She decided that she will call her son in the evening and ask him. We heard a doorbell ring early evening. Her son had instead come from Ahmedabad to Baroda with his family as the situation there was much worse.

Aunty’s son (my cousin) had grown up in Baroda and had many of his school and college friends still in touch. There was a curfew all over Baroda, but his friends came every day after breakfast at his house. There was nothing else to do except playing cricket on the lawn outside.

It went on for around a week. We still couldn’t leave for Bombay. There were rumors that rioters offloaded some passengers from the train in Surat and slashed them with swords. There were calls every day from my family and Jehangir’s family. The situation worried everyone.

Around ten days later, the situation calmed a little, and we felt it was time to go back to Bombay. Daglibhai worked at Aunty’s house. He went to the railway station and booked two tickets for Vadodara Express for the following night. He secured the tickets in pseudo names. Those days we did not need identity cards. We had strict instructions to not talk to anyone on the train and sleep thru the entire journey. I took the top bunker, and Jehangir took the bottom one. None of us could sleep. I shook with fear when the train stopped at Surat. I am not a religious person, but that day no one could stop me from praying. I had a strong urge to go to the bathroom, but I forced myself to lie down.

The train left Surat station. Jehangir and I got up at the same time to go to the bathroom. We smiled at each other. The rest of the journey was uneventful. We reached Dadar Station around 5 am, caught a local train to Bandra, hopped on an auto-rickshaw, and stopped outside our building.

Our building had never looked so beautiful and welcoming. As we were entering the building, I exchanged pleasantries with the watchman. One of my friends, Rahim, came from the building toward the gate wearing his jogging suit. He smiled at Jehangir and me and said, “You guys back from your honeymoon?”

Photo Credit: The Hindu