Dance of Death
(Source: Praveen Jain)
Excerpts from the forthcoming book on the
Hashimpura Massacre by Vibhuti Narain Rai, IPS retired
Translated from the Hindi original by
Darshan Desai
Hashimpura – May 22, 1987
Imagine such a close encounter with death that when
you open your eyes to bodies – dead and half dead – you may want to
touch them to believe you are still alive. When molten lead rips
through your flesh and flings you in the air like cotton balls, there
is no pain, no fear and there is not even time for memories to torment
you. There are rifles blazing around you and then there is the
cacophony of abusive screams from your killers. And with numbed
senses, you wait for one of the bullets whizzing past you to enter
your body in a way that you are tossed in the air for a moment and
collapse on the ground with a thud.
How will you describe such a death? Especially when you are seeing
your killers for the first time and despite cracking your brains
cannot just figure out why would they want to kill you.
What would have been the state of mind of Babudin, Mujibur Rehman,
Mohhamad Naeem, Arif, Zulfikar Nasir or Mohammad Usman when they must
have seen their friends, relatives and colleagues getting tossed in
the air and then falling with a thud, convulsing and writhing in pain,
and their senses so numbed that they could not even dare to do the
obvious thing of trying to run away? Everyone made an identical
attempt to save their lives. They all fell in different directions
after being hit by bullets but the effort to protect themselves from
the impending death was the same. Both the massacres where these 42
people were forced out of the PAC truck and killed happened on the
banks of canals and in both canals, the water flow was rapid.
Every survivor who hit the ground after being shot at tried hard to
pretend he is dead and most hanged on the canal’s embankments with
their heads in water and the body clutched by weeds to show to their
killers that they were dead and no more gunshots fired at them. Even
after the PAC personnel had left, they lay still between water, blood
and slush. They were too scared and numbed even to help those who were
still alive or half dead. So much so that even after their tormentors
had gone, they considered every person coming there as a member of
that gang. Leave alone seeking help, they would further squeeze their
bodies into themselves – this especially if the person was in Khaki.
I met Babudin some three hours after he was shot at. A frail, hollow
cheeked boy of average height stood before us, diffident and scared
like some sparrow with wet wings. His trouser muddied by slush on the
canal embankment and the shirt was so wringing wet that you could
extract a litre of water from it. Shivers would occasionally pass
through his body even in that scorching summer. I noticed an uncanny
coldness in his voice though it did have a stammer in it. His ennui
was surprising after he had grappled with death from such close
quarters and seen many others strewn all around him. A shiver ran down
my spine when he narrated his anxious journey from Hashimpura to
Makanpur in such an impersonal manner. Two decades hence when I think
of it, I realise that when death hounds you it indeed scares you but
if it becomes your co-traveller for some time and then lets you alone,
you are filled with some kind of a casual indifference.
Babudin’s clothes were all drenched and there were faint crimson
smears on them. On a closer look, it was clear that his wet shirt was
stuck at two places on his body and the blood patches there had not
dried up despite water streaming through him. One patch was behind the
left shoulder towards the waist and another was on right corner of his
chest where one could see a splash of dark reddish-brown. It seemed
the bullets had bruised past him at these two places.
He indeed appeared exhausted and sad but was able to walk on his two
legs. We were taking him to Link Road Police Station but just as he
walked a few steps his legs started trembling. We made him sit on the
culvert with the support of a police constable. The impact of hanging
with the help of weeds for hours was showing now. Though monsoons
would be still far away, the last week of May in Ghaziabad and
surrounding areas have such humidity that you remain perennially
drenched in sweat. We all were tired and drained out. Babudin was the
only one who occasionally shivered. Twenty-one years later when I met
Babudin in Hashimpura for this book at the same place from where he
and his close relatives were picked up, he had forgotten my face and
when introduced he smiled and reminded me how I took a beedi from a
constable to give him when I saw him shivering. But he didn’t smoke
and nodded his head to say no.
After that he started talking and went on for very long. In between,
he would shiver but what he said in in-coherent pieces was no less
than a nightmare for some eight to 10 officers who listened to him as
well as for a government staff of some 25-odd people there. He was
narrating a tale that was incredibly startling and tragic.
We – me and district magistrate Naseem Zaidi – realised there was no
point hanging around since whatever Babudin narrated was frightening
and could push Ghaziabad into communal flames. We discussed in hushed
tones that we must first lodge an FIR after getting all information
from Babudin and send the bodies to the mortuary at the crack of dawn
as well as ensure that rumours related to the killings don’t have an
incendiary impact on the city’s peace. Ever since Meerut was caught in
communal passions, we were all tensed up to ensure Ghaziabad remains
insulated from it.
Leaving some police personnel we started walking towards our vehicles
parked about 50 to 60 steps away. A group of 10 to 15 personnel walked
ahead of us in a queue and Babudin was second or third. He didn’t need
any support to walk and refused help. The scene of Babudin and police
personnel getting into the vehicles and the grim face of DM Zaidi
while walking as though in a funeral procession – all sweating it out
in that May humidity – is still etched on memory like it happened
yesterday. Our cavalcade of half a dozen vehicles reached Link Road
Police Station in 10 to 12 minutes.
We once again started questioning Babudin. I, along with the district
magistrate and four-five other officials sat around a desk in the room
of the police station in-charge and Babudin occupied a chair across
us. After the initial procrastination, Babudin started recounting the
tale. This time he was more comfortable and confident. Probably, the
passage of time and realisation that our Khaki was different than the
Khaki of his tormentors had allayed his fears of death. This time he
was more coherent. He described in great detail how he and others with
him were picked up and packed in the PAC truck. The similarity between
his earlier version at the culvert and now was that his voice had
maintained the same chilling stoicism. To me, it appeared to be the
world’s first such incident where somebody described his scary brush
with death with such uncanny coldness. The difference was that this
time’s narration was a blow by blow account and synchronised.
And this is why he did not miss out on a very vital and significant
fact that shocked all of us no end – it was a startling disclosure
that a similar kind of massacre happened the same night earlier and
the PAC personnel had already left many killed and wounded from among
those who were on that truck. It so happened that after picking them
up from Hashimpura, the speeding PAC truck suddenly turned right
parallel to a canal and some 50 metres away from the main road.
Trundling through that gravelled road for some time, it stopped
abruptly. Then, everything happened that was to happen in Makanpur an
hour later.
Some jawans sitting besides the driver jumped out of the truck and the
sound of their shoes hitting the gravelled track aroused the suspicion
of Babudin and his folks that something unexpected and terrible was in
store for them. Babudin was getting butterflies in his stomach and
desperately felt like relieving himself but his sixth sense told him
it was too late for anything now. A few of the jawans came to the rear
and opened the truck’s shutter that covered one-third of the back and
was tied to thick iron chains. Just as it opened, some other jawans
standing there hopped out too leaving a couple of them inside. They
seemed to be in a tearing hurry and had no time to waste. The sound of
their shoes hitting the bricks lying all around as they jumped was
somehow frightening. Despite all his stoicism, I saw the same fear in
Babudin’s face that must have been there on that of others with him
too. Then suddenly, a commanding voice from outside ordered them to
jump out – Babudin felt there was something terribly wrong. He tried
to sneak inside the truck so that he may not have to hop out.
And now all hell broke loose. Since Babudin’s back was towards rear
gate he could not see anything except hearing the sound of some people
got out of the truck and then gunshots with choicest of expletives
from those firing. Perhaps, the screaming abuses by the jawans were to
subdue their fears. Everything was confusing but it was clear that
they were firing at the Muslims jumping out of the truck. All this
between the deafening cries of mercy and fright of those who fell to
the bullets. Jawans standing outside ordered their colleagues inside
to catch by the collar and throw out those hesitating to jump. They
pushed their victims with the butt of their rifles and by holding
their collars; some who were difficult to handle were virtually lifted
and hurled outside. Everytime somebody fell outside, he could hear
gunshots and the painful cries of someone dying. Babudin felt
breathless, when a strong hand was pulling him by his collar while he
tried to resist this by pushing himself into the overcrowded space. It
was like a see-saw struggle that did not last long. Soon, he realised
two hands trying in vain to hold on to his shoulders from behind for
support but was slipping away towards the rear. Trembling with fear,
Babudin looked behind and was dumbfounded to see Ayyub, a handloom
worker near his place, soaked in blood. Hearing the screams and wails
of those besides him and inside the truck as well as the abuses of the
jawans outside along with sounds of gunfire made it clear to Babudin
still standing with his back to the rear what was happening. Angry
with failed attempts to get several others out, the jawans were now
firing indiscriminately inside the truck while shouting at their
colleagues to push out people. Babudin felt the firm grip of Ayyub’s
arms on his legs loosening as someone was pulling him away. When he
recounted this tale many years after that narration, I saw the same
expression of helplessness on his face of being unable to do anything
for his childhood friend as he saw him for the last time.
Babudin saw people around him being pulled away one by one. Everyone
struggled hard to drag himself forward, while being pulled from
behind. The pressure on Babudin’s shoulders had eased – perhaps
frustrated over his resistance the PAC jawans were taking it all out
on other prey. He felt butterflies in his stomach and sometimes
shivers ran down his entire body. It was clear to him that if he
wanted to remain alive, he should do everything possible to be glued
onto the truck.
Suddenly, something unexpected happened, something that the hunters
and the prey both had not thought of – a small glimmer of light
emerged on the horizon that slowly grew bigger and sharper. The driver
noticed it first and at a closer look found that the ball of light he
saw had turned into two beaming balls. Babudin also saw this. It was
anybody’s guess now that they were headlights of a heavy vehicle.
Babudin saw a bright hope of life there, even as he tried to regain
himself. The driver looked out of the door on his side and started
calling out the PAC jawans, who were so busy firing at and abusing
their victims that first they didn’t hear it in the din. He even
shouted dirty expletives at his accomplices but when even this did not
help, he started honking – slowly at first and then continuously. As
the oncoming vehicle closed in, the honking got all the more louder
but by the time everyone got alerted, the headlights of that vehicle
had covered the entire scene of the shootout. This was a milk van,
perhaps returning after collecting milk from some nearby village.
The light had broken the magic of darkness and as it scares killers
worldwide, even here the PAC jawans got frightened by that light and
two-three of them rushed towards the milk van brandishing their
rifles. Babudin, who was standing at the rear of the truck, could
understand that the jawans were abusing the driver of the other truck,
threatening and banging him with rifle butts to get him to switch off
his headlights. From what Babudin could make out watching the scene
from the iron-netted windows of the truck, the PAC jawans conferred
with each other in hushed tones and some of them went to the milk van
and commanded the driver to reverse his vehicle without the lights,
while the PAC truck also revved up to drive towards the road. Both
vehicles then stopped – the PAC truck driver put his vehicle in the
reverse gear and whizzed past the milk van almost brushing it and
pushed into the field a bit in the back and turned towards the
highway. In the commotion, people standing on both sides of Babudin
brushed him and doubled his pain. The jawans standing outside rushed
and hopped onto the truck that soon started speeding towards the main
highway. The crowd in the truck had thinned down after many people
were left behind after the shootout – the thin crowd made it difficult
for them to keep their balance since the truck bumped and jumped
through the road at a fast pace. With every jolt, people would fall
over one another. The wails of pain after every such bump made Babudin
realise that others too were injured on that truck. These were those
victims who had resisted getting down the truck earlier and were
wounded when the killers fired inside the truck.
At the only T-junction on that highway, the truck took a sharp turn
towards Ghaziabad without braking and as the injured people fell over
each other, they screamed in pain. The truck paced at a break-neck
pace. Usually the road from Delhi leading to Dehradun and Mussourie
via Meerut would be bustling with traffic at that hour during the May
summers but this time it was different since there was curfew in Meerut and
only a rare vehicle passed through the highway. Obviously, the
districts neighbouring Meerut felt the impact of the communal riots
and Ghaziabad especially was on the verge of exploding. The situation
was being fanned by scary communal rumours. So, it was obvious the
cries of the injured people and the screaming abuses of the PAC jawans
may not have emanated from the speeding truck. And even if it did, few
would take note since it was a PAC truck passing at high speed.
The truck took a sharp right turn in the same pace at Meerut tri-junction
towards Hindon river. Having sped past the Mohan Meakins distillery
that makes the famous rum brand Old Monk, it slowed down; the cries of
the victims behind increased but nothing happened that could hold back
the speed of the truck. Soon after the truck took a left turn towards
the single dirt track that led to Makanpur. This lane too was similar
to that of Muradnagar where the first massacre took place near the
canal – this road too flung the passengers inside on one another and
they wailed and screamed loudly. Besides the pain from the wounds, the
victims could sense that the dirt road was leading them to the jaws of
death. There are concrete jungles at the place today where there was
nothing on that night of May 1987. On one hand of the road was Link
Road industrial area where majority of the factories were sick and
closed and on the other was a barren sprawl of infertile land. This
dirt road crossed a canal and a culvert leading to Makanpur.
The truck halted at the canal. The same episode was repeated. Some
jawans first jumped out of the truck, opened the rear barrier and once
again commanded people to hop out. This time nobody did; instead
people tried to push inside further. They remained silent for a moment
but again started crying and wailing loudly. The killers were even
more in a tearing hurry this time and the screams of the victims
galvanised them further – two-three jawans got hold of one of the
victims, who pushed and pulled in vain to get his hands and legs free,
and threw him out. The guns blazed and the crying injured person fell
into the canal with a splash – splitting the silence of that humid
night. This is what happened with others who were being hurled outside
despite their strong resistance, some plonked down in the canal, some
fell on the ground with a thud. When Babudin’s turn came, the jawans
were all tired – it appeared as if they were completing a mundane
routine.
He was hit by two bullets, one brushed him past him behind the left
shoulder towards the back and another near the right corner of his
chest. He fell halfway between the canal embankment and thick bushes.
His head was in water while a part of his body was stuck in the
ravines, but he was alive. That intervening night of May 22 and May
23, he would break into “Allah ka karam hain (mercy of god)” while
recounting the tale of his miraculous survival.
Babudin had understood as he collapsed on the ground that he must
impress upon his tormentors that he had died and they need not fire at
him again. After the shootout, the killers made all efforts to ensure
that nobody was alive; they searched for life among the dead through
the ravines with the help of a torch – whenever they saw even a little
moment, they would open fire. They kicked the bodies lying outside the
canal to ensure nobody was alive. Babudin held back his breath for a
long time and kept his eyes closed; he could feel a torch light on his
face but he remained stone-cold. Then he heard the truck engine rev up
and felt the vehicle’s light all over the killing field. As darkness
fell with the vehicle having gone, he opened his eyes to see a pitch
dark zone under a veil of deafening silence. He was too scared to make
any movement and would immediately pretend to be dead at even a hint
of any sound. That is why it took us long for us to impress upon him
that we too donned Khaki but ours was different than those who fired
and tortured them earlier.
It did not take us long to identify the spot of the shootout ahead of
the one near Makanpur since most of us, including me and the district
magistrate, often travelled on the Meerut-Ghaziabad route. The truck
earlier must have turned towards Gang canal near Muradnagar. This
canal cuts through the road after Modinagar just ahead of Muradnagar.
I immediately spoke to Muradnagar police station in-charge Rajendra
Singh Bhagor from a wireless set at the Link Road police station. Our
suspicion was correct – this incident also happened in the same way as
the one near Makanpur and exactly similar to what Babudin had told us.
The only difference was that Babudin was not aware that there were
three survivors at the earlier spot and had been brought to Muradnagar
police station.
Translated by
Darshan Desai