What is life, other than being a fleeting moment in the epochs of time, a roller-coaster of emotions and experiences, some good, some bad, some ugly, like it was for me, in the Orwellian year.

While on one hand, as a gawky teenager from Delhi, I was absorbed with boundless passion in unraveling the secrets of youth, on the other, despite my unabashed bravado, I had to fight the demons swirling crazily in my mind, a fallout of the intense hatred and racism towards Sikhs, feelings that were exacerbated by the militancy triggered by a handful of fanatics and zealots, donning religious garb, who were nothing more than bloodcurdling ogres. Although they sought to project their most condemnable acts of violence as a fight for a cause, no matter how far-fetched, they could never comprehend, or did not want to comprehend, the extent of disservice they were doing to their co-religionists spread across the country and nations, whom they falsely claimed to represent.

Their misdemeanors culminated in the first round of ecstatic celebrations in June, that erupted with spontaneity when our valiant troops cleansed a holy shrine of the impure. The hecklings, the racist slurs, even physical intimidation became a norm rather an exception, creating an atmosphere of fear and mistrust. Sadly, a single brush was used to paint every Sikh as an anti-national, separatist, militant lunatic. Soon, it took root in our social fabric. And, although it was a contemporary phenomenon, a narrative was stitched around it, to make people believe that it had been entrenched in our ancient civilization from times immemorial.

Nevertheless, time trudged along, seasons changed, the intense heat of May-June gave way to the fury of the Southwest monsoons, which gave way to autumn- my favorite season, and on 24^th October came Diwali, my favorite festival, which I had always looked forward to with unbridled enthusiasm.

As the sunset, fairy lights, diyas, candles, colored the skyline in ethereal hues.

It was time to cross some red lines.

Rajiv Gulati, one of my best friends of over 45 years, and myself, surreptitiously moved to the terrace of my house, with a bottle of Old Monk hidden in my bulging pocket. A pack of cards in his. We poured rum into small plastic glasses, topping them with water-as if we were the biggest guzzlers in town (in the years to come, Old Monk was to become my preferred alcohol brand, which I relished no end). Further, in an over-the-top display of teenage bluster, we played a game of teen-patti, about which neither of us had much understanding, other than what we had grasped from our keen observation while watching countless Hindi films. It was to be a long evening, as, after our exploits, we joined our friends in bursting firecrackers, although, I have always had a mortal fear of them.

Tired to the core, I crashed onto my bed, just before midnight.

Little did I know at that point in time, that on the next Wednesday, 31^st October, a big tree was to fall, which would unleash an earthquake of biblical proportions, and whose demonic reverberations would haunt generations to come. This time too, a miniscule section of society- even from the otherwise balanced middle class, overtly targeted the beleaguered Sikhs, as being ‘good riddance’ as those who fell the big tree were one of them. Again, the same brush was used to paint every Sikh as a heartless butcher. Overnight, animal instincts were unleashed, identities changed, affiliations changed, alliances changed.

What did not change in the face of such mind-numbing adversity was the raw courage of the common man, who, at the cost of putting their personal safety at grave risk, went out of the way to save their brethren, who faced the brunt of the gross attempt at ethnic cleansing. Had it not been for Punjabi Hindus (with centuries old blood ties to the Sikhs, and who had themselves lived through the trauma of partition) and those with RSS affiliations, not a single Sikh in Delhi would have survived to tell the tale.

Well, forty years down the line, it is on this date, 31^st October, that Diwali is being celebrated.

Even today, as a 57-year-old, partly mature Dilli Boy, it continues to be my favorite festival. I still look forward to it with the same enthusiasm as I did when I was a teenager- albeit now, there is no Old Monk, no firecrackers and no teen patti. The wounds inflicted by the big tree have healed, although the scars remain. Mercifully, the post-liberalization, globalized aspirational generations don’t carry the burden of this sad phase of our recent history. But it is our responsibility, those who have lived through the pogrom of 1984, to listen, and look out for any remanent of these biases, and nip them in the bud, if ever they were to raise their ugly head.

Because, as the eminent philosopher George Santayana said, ‘Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it.”