Over the years I had thought that the nightmare of becoming a refugee in one’s own country, which I had faced once, will not occur again in my lifetime. But alas, I was proven wrong, as the worldwide pandemic which first set foot in India in January 2020 exploded multiple times- after the prolonged nationwide lock-down imposed on 24th March began being being eased in phases- till it became an uncontrollable ogre by the time September set in.

Even till the middle of August, it had not afflicted anyone whom I knew, not even in my beloved Delhi, which has been badly scarred by it. This is akin to what, sadly, has happened several times over millennia, when bloodthirsty hordes from across the Western frontiers descended on her, to deflower her, loot her fabled riches and mutilate her pristine beauty. This time, the marauders are not human, but an unknown virus, which has wrought incalculable damage on her, proving once again what the famous author Khuswant Singh used to say, that Delhi is an ageless whore, whom everyone likes to use, but no one wants to love.

However, towards the end of August, news of close friends, colleagues and their relatives falling prey to the pandemic, despite following all statutory guidelines as outlined by the government- but fortunately recovering- started trickling in from all corners of the country, including Tier 2 and Tier 3 cities and towns like Kota and Yamunanagar, although a major setback occurred when a close acquaintance whom I had known for more than a decade succumbed to the wily virus in the North East. I was heartbroken. Alok was a thorough gentleman, with impeccable virtues.

Obviously, the virus does not distinguish between good and bad karma.

Things were still distant, till a case was reported from one of the flats in a tower in the society in which I live (not the tower in which I reside though). Despite the scare, life went on as usual, because as per government protocol, only the affected patient was put under ‘home isolation’, although we did face some inconvenience as movement of domestic helps was restricted inside the society for a week. But the patient recovered comfortably, and normalcy returned to the society.

But all this was too good to last as cases in Delhi surged to unprecedented levels and crossed the threshold of 4000 fresh infections per day on a sustained basis, and the cumulative figure smashed the ominous two lacs mark. Each day, I watched in anguish, as fresh and damning data was put on air for hours on end by sundry news channels, made all the more alarming by over the top television anchors in some cases.

That is when all hell broke loose.

In quick succession multiple cases were reported from the tower in which I stay, with my wife and our fur baby of nine years, Snowy. Desperation hit me like a bolt of lightning, jarring my already choppy nerves, exacerbated on seeing the team of government officials who came to assess the situation. There were whispers of the tower being sealed and declared a ‘containment’ zone, which was akin to a total lock-down, but perhaps even more stringent. Our major concern was Snowy, who has to be taken out for her walks on a regular basis. After a bit of dillydallying, I gathered some courage and talked to one of the more benevolent looking members of the team who was browsing at the layouts of the tower and the society. I confided my concerns and fears with her, and asked for possible solutions. She said in a comforting voice that they would advise all residents like me to shift to an alternate location, if feasible, for the duration of the containment period, which would be fourteen days from the date of the last reported case. Thanking her profusely, and with sweat already dripping from my brow like a waterfall in the September heat, I raced along the stairs at whatever speed I could garner, and shared the distressing news with my best half, who, in all circumstances, is a woman of immense courage and fortitude.

We confabulated on the options available before us, and zeroed to the best one in the ensuing circumstances- to move to my in-law’s 🏠 for some days at least. We packed our bags at breakneck speed, and within no time I was loading them into the car. After a while, as I pressed the pedal of the car, and the three pandemic refugees moved out of the gates of the society onto the main road, I rued the fact that my worst fears had sadly come true.

In the first week of September 2020, I had become a refugee, once again, in my own country.

The first time was on 1^st November 1984, when, as a hapless teenager, I witnessed my completely innocent and law abiding family comprising my father-a senior Central Government Officer, my mother- a Senior teacher in a Delhi Government school and our fur baby, Tipsy, become refugees within a few harrowing minutes as we were hounded out of our house by bloodthirsty, marauding mobs in the anti-Sikh pogrom that saw the massacre and much more of 3000 innocent Indian citizens in Delhi over a period of three days. The irony being that we belong to a family of mixed Hindus and Sikhs- evident in the family tree-as was the norm in earlier days, particularly in the West Panjab of the pre-partition subcontinent from where our family belongs, to a town called Saiyyad Kasran in district Rawalpindi, now in Pakistan. Of the three siblings, my paternal grandfather was the only Sikh, his two sisters were married to Hindus and my maternal grandmother’s only sister was married to a Hindu, while she was married to a Sikh. After an initial lull, subsequent to the Earth shattering setback of partition, when everyone was nurturing a deeply wounded psyche , the intricate web of Hindu-Sikh marriages became all the more robust (at least in my family, which has always been egalitarian and believed in the enduring brotherhood of the human race) starting with the 70s onward, and withstood the dark days of militancy in Panjab and the subsequent events. Thereafter, with great alacrity, the family jumped countries and continents, and now we are a truly global enterprise, with Americans, British, Dutch, French, Germans and maybe some more nationalities in our midst.

At this point though, all this may seem rather redundant and off the point, as the only thing of significance is that I am alive to tell the tale, as we were evacuated in the nick of time by our brave and fearless Hindu neighbors.

Daddy was escorted from the rear door of our house by the venerable Chadha Uncle (Sr.) – Khatri Punjabis like my family who had survived the horrors of partition, Mummy went to the adjoining house which belongs to a family hailing from what is now the Khyber-Pakhtunwa province of Pakistan, Tipsy safely ensconced in her arms and I was escorted (also from the rear door) by one of my best friends, Sanjay, who belongs to a family of Brahmins, with roots for generations in Old Delhi, and whose father is a staunch supporter of RSS. It is amply clear that the three families which evacuated the three of us represent a vibrant spectrum of the Hindu, or rather, Indian society.

It was only towards late evening, when the skyline was filled with thick black smoke and the silent autumn air was repeatedly shattered with the war cry of the mobs baying for blood, that the three, or rather four of us finally assembled under one roof, in the first floor of the Chadha family bungalow, where we were to stay cocooned for the next five days, and from where I was to witness the most brutal and inhuman massacre of innocent passersby (who were still foolish enough to think that no harm will come to them), and those Sikhs, whose houses were ransacked and looted, before they were also killed.

The Chadhas- Senior Uncle, Junior Uncle and Bhaiya- the son of Junior Uncle- all had nerves of steel, and heart full of compassion. Not for a moment did they they think of us as a liability, as someone they were harboring at grave risk to their own safety, as the mobs often ventured too close to the house, loaded with bottles of kerosene, LPG cylinders and ready to burn tyres, trying to get a whiff of elusive Sikhs. Instead, we were treated with utmost respect and courtesy, to the point of being VIPs, and assured, time and again, especially me, as I repeatedly suffered panic attacks, that no matter what happened, no harm will come to us. And like all men and women of commitment, they kept their word, till we were finally evacuated to relative safety after five interminable days in a foreign mission car which was sent by my maternal Uncle (where he used to work) to fetch us.

We were to stay in his spacious bungalow for a further period of ten days, and it was finally after a gap of one horrendous fortnight that we could shift back to our house- I was still very still jittery, but nonetheless, thankful to almighty, and again, our immediate Hindu neighbors, because of whom ours was the only house belonging to Sikhs in the entire neighborhood which was left unscathed , even after the untold mayhem and plunder had finally abated. Although I was to hear the roar of marauding mobs and shrieks of victims being butchered for months on end, at-least on the night of 16^th, November 1984, the first we spent in our house after I had been a refugee for fifteen days (for Daddy this was the second occasion, as he had passed through the hell of partition) I silently prayed to God, ‘Please! never make me go through the experience of being a refugee again, in my own homeland, for whatever reason’.

My prayers held on for 36 long years.

Till one day, the pandemic struck, and changed it all.

Mercifully, my second stint as a refugee ended prematurely, in seven days, as it became apparent within the next two-three days of the health officials visit that the tower, as initially speculated, would not be ‘contained’ for fourteen days and only the specific flats, with affected patients, would be put in ‘home isolation’, and all other residents would be allowed normal movement with stipulated precautions. I was ecstatic, even as I had started savoring the sumptuous meals ma-in-law used to ‘lay’ in our ‘honor’, which I often used to down with some stiff Vodka taken surreptitiously, not wanting to undermine her abundant hospitality or draw the ire of my best half. Finally, after seven days, we returned home, and as I took a deep and satisfying sip of my premium scotch , I once again repeated to almighty what I had said on 16th November, 1984, ‘Please! never make me go through the experience of being a refugee again, in my own homeland, for whatever reason’.

This time there was an addition “And please, put an end to this Godforsaken pandemic, which is now devouring people by the millions’.

• PS: There are no family snaps of 1984 available with me which can be shared with my venerable readers.