Chapter 3: The Night of Crystal

Early morning, April 7, 1992. Trust no one. The electricity flickered, dawn crept in, pale and trembling. Every knock at the door brought dread, not relief.

The doorbell rang. Arjun looked through the peephole, wary. It was Uncle Sharma, his father’s former colleague. Arjun almost sobbed with relief. "Uncle!" he whispered, turning to his mother. For a moment, hope returned.

This made him relax his guard. He reached for the latch, reassured by the familiar voice. His mother hurriedly fixed her dupatta, wiping her tears, ready to greet a friend in the nightmare.

Sharma had brought a few men he didn’t recognise. He said, “These are resistance fighters, ordered to get you out of the city.” The men looked rough, their faces hard, but Arjun clung to the story. His mother began to pack, hope flickering like a dying candle.

Whenever he told others about this, Arjun couldn’t help choking up, muttering, “Trust no one, trust no one...” His voice would crack, the memory too raw. "Ek galti, bas ek galti thi," he’d say, hands shaking.

Naive Arjun opened the door, but no one intended to help him escape. The men rushed in, faces twisted. One raised his hand and slapped Arjun hard enough to send him reeling. A loud slap made him dizzy, and then the men tore at his mother’s clothes.

His mother screamed, her bangles snapping, her pleas echoing off the walls. Arjun tried to fight, but was thrown aside like a rag doll. The rioters didn’t care about their recent loss. No matter how his mother pleaded, she and Arjun were pinned to the table by these men until they fainted…

Their cries merged with those of women all over the city. Outside, the night was alive with screams and the sickening sound of breaking doors. In fact, it made no difference whether Arjun opened the door or not. The horror would have found them eventually. In Kaveripur, nowhere was safe—not the strongest locks, not the highest floors.

Doors, walls, and windows—none could keep out the madness that gripped the city. Prayers and bolts were as flimsy as paper. Rioters wouldn’t give up just because your door was a bit stronger. They came with tools—iron rods, hammers, even small gas cylinders to blow open locks. No one was safe, not even in homes that had once been sanctuaries.

From crowbars to drills to explosives, rioters had a thousand ways to break in. People tried to barricade themselves with cupboards and beds, but nothing worked. The sounds of breaking furniture mixed with screams became the new soundtrack of Kaveripur.

The night sky echoed with the heartbreaking cries of women, but rioters driven by desire did not believe in karma. The moon was hidden behind clouds, stars blotted out by the smoke of burning homes. The city became a playground for monsters.

Unable to resist, Arjun’s mother could only cling tightly to her mangalsutra, weakly muttering prayers. She fingered the beads, whispering "Om namah Shivaya" over and over, her voice hoarse but determined. Her faith was the last thing they couldn’t take.

She wanted to beg God for a miracle, to bring divine punishment on the abusers. That was all she could do. But the men in front of her didn’t care about blaspheming in front of holy images. Their boots stamped on the floor of the mandir, their laughter an insult to every god and goddess staring down from cracked marble.

“Keep praying. Even if Durga Maa herself comes tonight, you won’t leave here,” one man sneered. His words were as sharp as any knife. The others jeered, mocking her faith, their eyes cold. Their laughter echoed off the temple walls, a sound more obscene than any curse.

No one knows who came up with the idea, but Arjun’s mother, a devout Hindu, was tied to the temple idol and humiliated. They dragged her by her hair, tying her to the feet of the goddess she worshipped. The statue’s stone face offered no comfort—only a silent witness to horror.

Other rioters poured into the mandir to watch a woman struggle at the feet of the deity, the audience casually commenting on this cruel spectacle. They made crass jokes, betting how long she would scream, as if it were some twisted game. The temple bells hung silent, never rung for help.

The more fiercely the victim struggled, the more excited the crowd became, and whenever she fainted from exhaustion, they revived her with cold water. Buckets of water splashed her face, reviving her only so they could torment her again. The cruelty was endless, the night impossibly long.

One woman wasn’t enough; the rioters left in groups, searching door to door for new prey. They spread out like a plague, banging on doors, smashing windows. The city’s women huddled in corners, praying for dawn.

They wanted to take their perversions further, turning the mandir into an unbearable exhibition, competing with each other. Whispers spread—"Mandir ko bazaar bana diya hai in logon ne." Shame and rage simmered in every survivor.

So-called extreme communal nationalism was nothing but a political excuse to package animal desires. "In sab ko politics ki toh baat hi mat karo," one uncle would spit later, his voice thick with disgust. "Yeh sab bahana hai, asal mein toh janwar hai."

Talk politics with rioters? Talk about brotherhood? Recite the Gita? The very idea seemed absurd, laughable. In the face of such evil, words held no power. Are you mad or what. Any attempt at reason or morality would have been met with laughter—or worse.

How did the rioters describe this night of revelry? Over bottles of cheap liquor, they bragged about what they had done, calling it a night of fun, of conquest. They called it “Crystal Night”—because the shattered window glass covered the city like sparkling crystals. In the morning, the streets glittered with broken glass, as if some perverse festival had taken place. But there was no joy, only ruin.

April 7, 1992: hell on earth. Every street was a graveyard, every home a prison. The air was thick with smoke, dust, and the memories of violence.

When the first rays of sunlight rose, the rioters were tired of playing. They stumbled home, drunk and bloody, boasting of their deeds. The city exhaled, trembling, hoping the nightmare was over.

The victims seemed to have a chance to catch their breath, or maybe, temporarily escaped the devils’ hands. Women crawled from hiding places, clutching torn sarees and broken dreams. Men gathered what little food remained, eyes haunted and silent.

But the rioters didn’t care—wolves in a sheepfold, they could continue tomorrow night. There was no reason to stop; the thirst for violence only grew. The city braced for another night of terror.

Few could bear both the pain of losing a husband and public humiliation. Some women wandered the streets, clutching photographs and muttering to themselves. Others sat in corners, staring into space, their minds broken.

Arjun’s mother wandered the streets muttering to herself; she had gone mad. She clung to her mangalsutra, talking to ghosts, her feet bleeding and her saree in tatters. No one dared to look her in the eye.

The streets were covered with luggage and corpses. The corpses didn’t care what she was saying. Bags, once packed with hope, now lay open, their contents scattered and soaked in blood. The dead lay where they fell, faces already forgotten.

Where did these corpses and luggage come from? Someone had tried to escape, but failed. Their last possessions told the story—a child’s toy, a wedding photo, a passport now useless.

Some survivors tried to take advantage of dawn, when the rioters were most tired, to escape. Huddled families crept along the alleys, stepping over bodies, the silence broken only by the crunch of broken glass. But they didn’t know that snipers were everywhere on both sides of the street. The besiegers had no intention of letting anyone leave alive.

From rooftops and high windows, hidden men waited, rifles ready. The city was a trap with no exit. Sniper rifles can’t identify religion, bullets don’t care about age or gender. All escapees were neatly shot dead. It didn’t matter who you were, or what you believed. In the eyes of the gunman, everyone was a target.

From the top floor of the Kaveripur Times building came a crisp gunshot. The sound rang out, sharp and final, like a judge’s gavel. The city held its breath, waiting to see who had fallen.

Arjun’s mother fell to the ground. Fortunately, the bullet only hit her thigh. She collapsed onto the dusty pavement, blood soaking her saree. Her cries echoed through the empty street.

The gunshot also woke Arjun. Seeing his mother twitching and moaning in a pool of blood, he desperately tried to rush out to save her. He tried to rise, his body aching with every movement, but fear and pain pinned him down. His voice was raw with panic. But the pain in his body made him unable to move. He could only cry helplessly.

Tears streamed down his face as he watched, powerless, from behind a cracked window. The city’s old sounds—horns, laughter, vendors—were gone, replaced by the steady drip of blood on concrete.

Humanity had been wiped out in one night. Was there still hope? Even the crows seemed to avoid the city now. Arjun closed his eyes, wishing for a miracle that would never come.