Chapter 2: The End of Innocence

That night, Arjun with a bruised face and his father covered in dust returned home. His anxious mother broke down in tears, because the TV was reporting: several students had been shot and killed, the number of casualties still uncertain. The TV blared images of burning buses and crying women. Arjun’s mother pressed her hands to her chest, rocking back and forth, whispering, "Mere bacche... mere bacche..."

If you were a normal person, you would start fleeing. Relatives from outside called, begging them to leave. "Beta, abhi bhi time hai, nikal jao!" But fear of the unknown kept many rooted in place.

But this family still held onto hope. Arjun’s father sipped tea in silence, eyes red-rimmed but determined. "Yeh hamara shehar hai. Hum yahin rahenge. Sab theek ho jayega, dekhna."

They were all Dhanpuris. Dhanpuris don’t kill Dhanpuris, and unless forced, who would want to leave their home? Old ties, school friendships, and the memory of festivals celebrated together gave a fragile illusion of safety. "Hum sab ek hain," Arjun’s mother insisted, even as she clutched his hand tighter.

Years later, Arjun would stare at their old family photograph, tracing his father’s face, wishing he had insisted on leaving. If you lose your house, you can build another; but if you lose your life...

At this point, the vast majority of Kaveripur’s people still clung to hope, thinking the atrocities were temporary, that the war would end in a few days. "Arrey, bas kuch din ki baat hai. Fauj bhi thak jayegi. Sab normal ho jayega," neighbours reassured each other, but the unease was like an itch you couldn't scratch. In the civilised society of the 20th century, in an Indian city, who could imagine how bad war could get?

People still believed in rules, in police and politicians, in the idea that someone would step in before the city was destroyed. No one could imagine their world crumbling overnight.

April 6, 1992: the police station was awash in blood. The day began like any other, with the sound of the pressure cooker and distant temple bells, but by afternoon, the air stank of fear and petrol. The police station, once a place of order, now stood as a warning.

In the afternoon, Arjun was notified by his college to pack his things. There were no online classes back then, so the college would probably be closed for a while. His friends joked nervously about an unexpected holiday, but no one was really laughing. The hostel corridors echoed with trunks dragging and whispered goodbyes.

Thinking of this, Arjun felt a bit lighter. Maybe he would get to spend time with his mother, away from exams. For a moment, he forgot about the danger.

On the way home, Arjun would pass by the police station—maybe he could see his busy father. He walked quickly, dodging stray dogs and bicycles, hoping for a glimpse of his father through the iron gates.

But this was the last time they would meet. As he approached, he saw smoke rising and people running. His heart hammered—something was terribly wrong.

A group of masked rioters were attacking the police station, some with white cloths wrapped around their heads—a style associated with Muslim believers, though it looked out of place in Kaveripur. His best friend Imran never covered his head except at Eid, and even then, with a simple cap. The sight felt wrong, staged—Arjun’s suspicion grew.

After decades of social reform, Muslims in Kaveripur no longer wore such symbols. The city’s Muslims worked in IT, ran sweet shops, sent their daughters to college. The slogans these people shouted—“Burn all heretics!”—were equally absurd. Arjun felt a chill run down his spine. "Kis zamane mein jee rahe hain yeh log?"

Seeing this, Arjun’s father went out, hoping to reason with these deranged people. He stepped forward, hands raised, his police badge shining. "Yeh kya pagalpan hai? Chalo ghar jao, sab theek ho jayega," he tried to say. But the leader shouted: “Hurry up, finish off all the police! Blame it on the Muslims!”

Killing a police officer is a serious crime, but if all the Kaveripur police were wiped out, who could say who the criminals were? It was a chilling logic, so cold it made Arjun shiver. He understood, in that moment, how easily truth could be twisted and destroyed.

The rioters became excited, storming the police station, piling petrol and combustibles in every corner. The smell of petrol was sharp, dangerous. Some people nearby crossed themselves, others muttered, "Ram naam satya hai..."

The unprepared police were tied up, then doused with petrol. Their shouts and protests were muffled by ropes. Arjun’s father met his son’s eyes for one brief, heartbreaking moment.

The ringleader walked slowly to the police, sneered, and flicked a burning match onto the petrol. The world seemed to pause for a heartbeat, then exploded in fire and screams.

Boom! The entire police station was instantly engulfed in flames. Orange and red licked the sky, the smell of burning flesh and uniforms filled the air. The street was filled with screams that would haunt Arjun forever.

The last force of justice in Kaveripur—dozens of police who held out here—disappeared in the ashes. Ash rained down, coating everything in a grey, bitter dust. The city’s last hope flickered and died.

Arjun and other passersby hid in the shadows, and even when Arjun wanted to rush out, a kind stranger held him back tightly. "Pagal ho gaya hai kya, beta? Mar jayega!" hissed the man, pinning Arjun against a wall, his own tears streaming down his face.

He could only stare, wide-eyed, at his father and his colleagues, towards the direction of the screams. He bit his knuckles to keep from crying out, his whole body shaking. The image of his father’s face, illuminated by fire, burned into his memory.

Perhaps even Arjun did not know what he was thinking at that moment—only that something inside him broke, never to be mended.

Before the fire was out, a sanctimonious politician rushed in with a TV crew, pointed at the police remains, and shamelessly declared: “This atrocity was committed by the Muslims.” The anchor’s voice trembled with fake outrage. The politician wagged his finger at the camera, his kurta spotless despite the carnage. The world watched and believed the lie.

He used the police station arson as the perfect excuse to spark communal slaughter, calling on all Dhanpuris on TV to take up arms—"Muslimon ko saza do! Ek Musalmaan marega toh 80 hazaar milenge!" Phones rang, WhatsApp groups buzzed, and the city’s darkest hour began.

In homes with cracked walls and broken dreams, desperate men saw an opportunity—blood money paid in the name of revenge. The city trembled at the madness unleashed.

A group of lunatics rushed into the police station ruins and looted all the remaining guns and ammunition. Boys who had never fired anything more dangerous than a Diwali rocket now carried rifles, their eyes wild with fear and greed.

News of the police station attack quickly spread. Shops shuttered in minutes, the city’s famous night markets became ghost towns. Only the desperate and the mad prowled the streets now.

The battle royale began. It was no longer neighbour against neighbour, but every man for himself. The rules had changed overnight, and the city descended into chaos.

Arjun and his mother had no time to grieve. Without his father’s protection, they had to flee quickly. His mother tied up her hair in haste, grabbed whatever she could—her mangalsutra, a battered suitcase, Arjun’s medals from school. There was no time for tears.

Outside, the hunt had already begun; rioters shot any living person on the street. Gunshots echoed down empty lanes, the terrified shouts of those trying to hide. The city’s old dogs howled, sensing disaster.

A Muslim was worth 80,000 rupees. Anyone on the streets could be a Muslim, as long as they were dead. It didn’t matter if you had a tilak or a crucifix, if your Aadhaar card was burned. Death made everyone equal, in the most horrible way.

The dead can’t speak. The bodies piled up, anonymous and silent. No one came to claim them, and the city’s old sense of community dissolved into terror.

So-called communal massacre was just a pretense; in the slaughter, there were only two roles: wolves and sheep. Wolves didn’t care if the sheep were brown, white, or rainbow. Old friends turned into strangers, and the only safety was in silence, in hiding, in hoping your turn wouldn’t come tonight.