Some moments in life present opportunities—or perhaps we create them ourselves. My immersion in the 40th Commemoration of the 1984 Ghallughara (major genocidal campaign and more) has sparked a search for untold stories, narratives that have yet to come to light. This quest led me to reach out to my dear friend, Arpana Caur, to delve deeper into her experiences and the impact of 1984. While I had long been fascinated by Arpana’s evocative paintings and her involvement in the refugee camps, I had never had the chance to speak with her mother about their shared experiences. This conversation promised to shed new light on the personal and artistic reflections shaped by those tumultuous times.

Her mother, Ajeet Cour, graciously agreed, and I had the rare privilege of spending two profound hours with her. This diminutive woman is nothing short of a towering presence—she roars like a lioness, her heart boundless like the ocean, and her compassion shakes you to your core. She is the embodiment of resilience, fierce yet tender, and as I sat across from her, I felt as though I was in the presence of someone truly extraordinary.

I sat quietly, listening; my words were few. I was utterly captivated by her. Even now, I wonder if I can do justice to her story. Her words are woven from the very soil of Panjab; they carry a rawness, a power, and a richness that seem almost impossible to translate. How can my pale rendering capture the fullness of what she shared? And yet, I feel compelled to try because this is not just her story, nor mine—it is a Sikh story. It is a collective story.

She began:

“In Hindustan, to catch dacoits, police raids were a familiar occurrence, particularly in places like the Chambal region. The police would enter the jungles, surround the dacoits, and arrest them. But never—never—had tanks and military forces been deployed to arrest one man. This attack on Harimandar Sahib was not an arrest operation but an invasion as if the army had been sent to conquer a foreign nation. The scale of tanks, artillery, and military might sent to capture Bhindranwale was staggering. All of this to capture one man? There is no warrant for his arrest and no prior notice. And then consider the day Indira Gandhi chose for this attack—Gurpurab, the martyrdom anniversary of the Fifth Guru. Hundreds of thousands of devotees had come from villages far and wide, filled with devotion, seeking to pay their respects to their Guru.

“Suddenly, the army descended, launching their assault. Cannons roared, and bombs and machine guns rained down upon Harimandar Sahib. Some say a bullet even struck the Guru Granth Sahib itself; some say no. My dear friend, Khushwant Singh, the renowned writer, investigated and confirmed it had happened. It was an assault unlike anything ever seen on a religious site anywhere in the world. There have been wars, even in the Catholic faith, but where were tanks used to storm a sacred place? It was as though a monstrous voice echoed in her [Indira Gandhi’s] mind, screaming: ‘Make the Sikhs bow down.’

“After the destruction of the Akal Takht, someone informed her that what she had done was wrong. Indira Gandhi responded indifferently, saying, ‘Rebuild it.’ She instructed Buta Singh to take as much money as needed, hire laborers, and rebuild their Akal Takht. So Buta Singh went and had it rebuilt. But when the Shiromani Gurdwara Parbandhak Committee (SGPC) regained control of Harimandar Sahib, they tore it down because it had been constructed by hired labor. Among Sikhs, things of spiritual significance are built with ‘Kar Seva,’ selfless service. Did none of her advisors tell her that?”

She pauses.

“There was a prominent reporter at The Times of India named Shameem, who primarily covered films. He visited her [Indira Gandhi] often. One day, she asked him, ‘What kind of people are these that tore down the Akal Takht and are rebuilding it again?’ Shameem tried to ease her concern. He said, "Don’t worry. I’ll bring four to five outstanding Sikhs to meet with you regularly. Sit with them, talk to them, and have tea with them—they’ll be pleased and tell everyone. ‘We had tea and samosas with our Prime Minister.’ So Shameem arranged multiple meetings between Indira Gandhi and the Sikhs. I was invited to one of them. I suppose they considered me a prominent Sardarni.

“And so, I found myself in that gathering, surrounded by the so-called who’s who of the Sikh community, all of whom sat there nodding in agreement with her. ‘There was nothing she could have done differently,’ they said. The assembled Sikhs agreed that she had no other choice but to act as she did. I was utterly disgusted. I sat there silently for most of the meeting until finally, Indira Gandhi turned to me and said, ‘You haven’t said anything.’

“I replied, ‘What can I say to you? This is the greatest blunder anyone has ever committed in history. You’ve done it, but it is far from over. The burning rage in the hearts of Sikhs will not die down. I am warning you.’ She listened silently and then asked, ‘What should I do?’

“I told her, ‘Wear a simple salwar-kameez (long tunic and loose-fitting pants), cover your head, and go to Darbar Sahib. Drape a palla (scarf) around your neck, bow before the Guru, and say, “I am your daughter. I have made a mistake. I have come to apologize.” Clean the utensils there. It will be over.’ I said, ‘Sikhs think from their heart, not their head. The moment you say, “I am your daughter, and I have come to apologize for what I have done,” they will forgive you.’”

“Then what happened, Aunty ji?” I asked, unable to hold back my curiosity.

“She relaxed a bit. She looked at her Timex watch and said, ‘You and I are wearing the same watch,’” Aunty ji recounted, with a glint of memory in her eyes. I noticed that my Timex was the same as hers. I replied, “Yes, our watches are the same, but you and I are not the same. You have committed a sin; I have not committed any sin.”

Ajeet Cour paused momentarily, her eyes still sharp with the recollection. “She did not say anything.”

I was stunned. “Aunty ji, she took that from you?”

“Indira Gandhi and I were very close at one point. Every 15 days or so, I would have breakfast with her. She had commissioned me to lead a major project—the Directory of Indian Women. It took me three years to complete, and it was released by the Indian President in 1977 at the Rashtrapati Bhavan. The directory included about 6,000 names of prominent women from multiple professions. But the moment she attacked Harimandar Sahib, that friendship ended. It was finished. The rage I felt… I wanted to kill her myself for what she had done.”

She continued, her voice steady but laden with emotion. “You know, when Indira Gandhi declared the Emergency, Amrita Pritam, the poet and writer who was a very close friend, started circulating a petition among Panjabi writers, asking them to endorse the Emergency. I refused to sign it. Amrita was insistent, saying she would come to my house and make me do it. But I stood my ground. I told her, ‘I can never sign anything that silences the people's voice.’ Amrita was rewarded with the Rajya Sabha (upper house of the Indian Parliament) seat.”

Her face grew serious again. “But she—Indira—never apologized. She had to be killed. Sikhs went right up to Kabul to kill Abdali. They would not spare her for what she did.”

Ajeet Cour’s voice slightly dropped as though reliving that day's weight. “On October 31^st, when she was still in the hospital, we didn’t know she had been killed. We knew bullets were shot. I told my driver, ‘You are getting married, and I’m not sure what will happen. Let’s buy you a suit.’ We drove to Connaught Place to the Raymond showroom. I bought him the suit. But as we were driving back, I saw the news flashing on the Hindustan Times board along the road—she was dead.”

She sighed, the memory still sharp. “We reached home, and then it started. Phone calls began coming in. The Indian President Giani Zail Singh had gone to see Indira Gandhi at the hospital, but his car was stoned. He barely made it back home safely. Half an hour later, at the taxi stand near our home, the taxis owned by Sikhs were set on fire. At 4:30 pm, the first fire broke out in South Extension. A Sardar’s shop on the first floor—an expensive Iranian carpet store—was burned. All the carpets were destroyed, and the loss was in multiple crores. The shop’s name was Uppal Carpets.”

She paused, then continued, her voice now tinged with horror. “What was happening on TV was horrendous and unforgivable in hindsight. They kept flashing her dead body on the screen. She had cotton stuffed in her nose, and they were constantly wiping her face as the fluids from her body were oozing out. They showed this repeatedly and played an old audio clip of her saying, ‘Every drop of my blood will benefit the desh.’ It was being repeated continuously to provoke the people—to stoke their anger, as if to say, ‘She’s been killed.’ That image of her face and voice kept repeating, fueling the rage.

“When her body reached home, her son, Rajiv Gandhi, called all the ministers to gather at the house. It was still October 31^st. That night, the decision was made. All the ministers received their orders and were assigned to different localities. Phone calls were made, kerosene oil was collected, and tires were organized. They even arranged for a special chemical, a ‘white powder’ that would intensify the flames and make the fires burn faster. They were instructed to beat the individuals on the head, douse them in kerosene, or set the oil-soaked tires around them and burn them alive.”

She shook her head, the weight of the carnage unmistakable. “The next day, November 1^st, the bloodshed began.

“It was a narsaṃhār—a massacre. But this was no ordinary massacre. I had never seen anything like it. The ones doing the killing weren’t just committing acts of violence; they were laughing, singing, and dancing as they watched the bodies writhe in agony, like fish struggling out of water. It was the first time in my life I had witnessed such an inhumane spectacle.

“Back in Lahore in 1947, during Partition, I had seen killings. The murderers there would chase people with long knives, stab them once, maybe twice, and then flee. They didn’t stick around to relish the bloodshed. I remember hearing the cries of the victims from our house at night, ‘Save me, save me,’ they’d plead. I saw five men chasing one person, stabbing him in the back and then in the stomach, leaving him to die as they ran off. The horror was real, but they never found joy in the violence—they just ran away.

“But 1984 was different. To this day, I still don’t understand. Why were they laughing? Why were they dancing as they watched people burn, suffering in the flames? It was something I had never seen before, and it shook me to my core. Murders happen, but killers dancing around the dying is unheard of. That happened only in 1984.

“And then they tell us to forget. How can we forget?

“Rajiv Gandhi had the audacity to say, ‘When a big tree falls, the earth shakes.’ I say, ‘Damn that big tree of yours.’ They exploited her dead body for their cause, showing it over and over again on television, fueling the anger of the people.

“By November 2^nd, we were still in hiding. But by the 3^rd, we decided to come out. So many had already been killed—there was no point in hiding anymore. So what if we got killed? In the days before, we had been glued to the news, trying to make sense of what was happening, making phone calls to check on loved ones. I remember calling Pritam Singh Safir, the renowned poet and advocate, one of the three Sikh families in our neighborhood, but all he said was, “Don’t speak on the phone. They’re recording everything.” The fear was palpable and suffocating.

“I sent my driver, Darshan, and my peon to check on Balwant Singh, the printer who used to print my magazine, Nava Pind. I was worried about him. He was a diminutive man with a very soft voice. When they returned, their faces were pale, as though someone had drained the blood from them. They told me that Balwant Singh, his two sons, and his three nephews—all six of them—had been killed. His wife was sitting on a manji (simple stringed bed) in the courtyard, her hair disheveled, speaking incoherently, driven mad by grief. Her young daughter sat beside her, silent and in shock.

“I asked them, ‘Why didn’t you bring them here?’ They replied, ‘She refused. We didn’t know what to do.’

“A few days later, Arpana went to bring them, but Balwant Singh’s wife still refused to leave. She said, ‘I hear his voice coming from the house. I can’t leave him.’ It was clear that grief had completely broken her mind.”

Arpana spoke softly, recounting the horror: “I’ve been to their home several times. They lived in a village, and on that day, the police came in a van and told them, ‘It’s safe now; you can come out.’ So, they trusted the police and came out. But trailing right behind the police van was the mob. The police were with the mob, and that’s how they were all killed.”

Aunty continued, “I called Khushwant and told him I wanted to visit the refugee camps. I asked him to arrange a police escort for me. He was furious and said, ‘Are you out of your mind? Have you gone mad? Just stay home quietly. You’re crazy! You have no idea what’s happening.’

“Our driver refused to take us anywhere. So, I asked around the neighborhood and contacted Manoj, a non-Sikh I knew. I asked him if he would take us to the refugee camps. He agreed but wouldn’t drive his car, fearing it would be burnt. He also said he would keep packets of cigarettes in the car—if we got surrounded, he would light one to prove we weren’t Sikhs. So we drove in our car, and as we passed through Paharganj, we came upon a roundabout where at least 5,000 people had gathered, surrounding a Sardar army man’s house. They were shouting vile abuses and terrible slogans against him and the Sikhs. Soon, they surrounded our car.

“Manoj quickly lit a cigarette and shouted, ‘These Sardars are mad! We’re with you; we have nothing to do with them! If you want, I’ll come with you to kill them!’ That seemed to satisfy them, and they let us go.

“For some reason, I suddenly noticed how cold it had become. The chill had set in early that year, and on November 3^rd, it was unusually cold. So, we stopped at a store, bought as many blankets as possible, and put them in the car’s trunk. We continued toward the relief camp, stopping several times to ask for directions.

“There was no sign of police, no military presence, and not a single barricade. It was as if nobody cared. Outside the gate of the relief camp, there was a single police truck with just two policemen. What could two policemen do in a situation like that?

“We entered the hastily assembled Farsh Bazar Trans-Yamuna refugee camp, which had sprung up out of desperation. There were at least five to six thousand people crammed into that space. Ninety percent were standing because there wasn’t even room to sit. There were no toilet facilities. Many were severely burned or wounded, with injuries that had been left untreated. From a distance, someone recognized me. It was Tirath Singh, who worked in the Russian Information Office. He approached, and through his tears, he said, ‘Bibi, no longer are there Lahu De Chubache (ਲਹੂ ਦੇ ਚੁਬੱਚੇ) —now there are wells of blood.’ His words brought back the story I had written after the June invasion ‘Operation Bluestar’ of Harimandar Sahib, Lahu De Chubache—‘Pools of Blood’—which had circulated widely then. Now, the reality was even worse than I had imagined.

“In one corner of the camp, a small stove was set up, with dal (lentils) cooking over it. I asked where it had come from. They told me Kishen Lal brought it. He broke into the closed shops, gathered whatever he could—dal, atta (whole wheat flour)—and said he would deal with the consequences later. He had provided food when no one else could. We handed out the blankets we had brought, but the people asked for something even more critical: ‘Bring us Dettol, bandages, cotton. We need to treat these open wounds.’

“So we drove to Camp & Co., pharmacy in Connaught Place, and bought as many supplies as possible. We didn’t have much money, but we gathered what we could—bandages, antiseptics, basic medical supplies—and brought them back to the camp.

“It was around 10 p.m. when we decided to head home, but I couldn’t stop thinking about the people in the camp. Then I thought of Khushwant. He had the power to reach out to influential people, and I hoped that maybe, just maybe, he could get someone to take action. We reached his house around 11 p.m. I knew he would be asleep by then—he usually went to bed by 9 p.m. But this was no ordinary night; it was a night of catastrophe. I told the servants to wake him. I was in a terrible state—barely able to breathe, crying uncontrollably. When he came out, I told him what I had seen and begged him to do something. He simply looked at me, helpless. ‘What do you want me to do? No one is answering their phones. I’ve tried calling the Governor, but there is no answer. I have tried Giani Zail Singh and everyone I know, but no one is picking up.’ There was nothing more he could do.

“Dejected, we returned home. But I couldn’t sleep. At around 5 a.m., I remembered Giani Zail Singh’s cardiologist, Dr. Harbans Singh Wasir, who was my brother’s friend and colleague from the Medical Institute. I knew him well, so I called him. ‘I know you were sleeping, but now you’re awake,’ I told him. ‘I need you to get a message to Giani Zail Singh. There is a narrow lane between the Gandhi School, where the refugees are, and Shyam Lal College, which is locked adjacent. Tell Zail Singh to have the walls broken down to create more space and toilets for the refugee camp. The people are too scared to go through the front gate; they won’t step onto the main road. And please send a medical team—there are so many wounded with open injuries.’

“Dr. Wasir took the message seriously. I’m not sure how it happened, but after that day, the walls were broken down, giving the refugees more space to sit and lie in the adjacent space. Dr. Wasir also brought in a medical team to treat the injured. At least, for a brief moment, some relief arrived amidst the horror. Many such camps had sprung up in Delhi; God knows their condition.

“That November was unusually cold in Delhi. We were deeply worried about the people sleeping in the camp at night. I signed a blank check and handed it to my manager, telling him to withdraw all the money in my account. He took out the cash, but it was quickly gone as we bought mattresses, quilts, and blankets for the refugee camp. We had a few trunks of warm clothes—sweaters and shawls, we took them and bought whatever we could. But the need was so great. So many people, and it still wasn’t enough.

“Then I remembered the backroom of our house, where we had an old Indian-style toilet that was being used for storage. I moved some things around and found a few bundles of Rs. 10,000 hidden in the flush tank. My father, Dar ji, who had lived with us for a while, always felt uncomfortable eating from my home—he thought he was being a burden living with his daughter, even though she wasn’t. Occasionally, he would hand me these bundles, which I would put away. Now, that money had a purpose. As I gathered it, I thought, Dar ji, this is your share of seva.

“On the ninth day, as we returned from the camp at around 11 p.m., we passed by Moolchand Hospital. Three military trucks were stationed there, and the soldiers stopped us. They asked who we were and where we were headed and said they needed to search the car. I asked them, Where have you come from? Where were you for the last nine days? They said they had just arrived from Bangalore, having only received the orders yesterday. I told them, There was mayhem here. People were brutally killed, burned, left homeless. Why have you come so late? They just said We move when we get the orders.

“That was the first time we saw any military presence in Delhi—on the ninth day.

“For six months, we went to the camps every day. Eventually, Arpana adopted a family of six orphans in Tilak Nagar and every month, she would take rations and clothes to them. My health didn’t allow me to continue, but Arpana carried on the seva for two years.

“There’s something important I must share. They say November happened because Sikhs killed Indira Gandhi. No, that’s not true. I am living proof of that. About 15-20 days before Indira Gandhi was killed, our doorbell rang at 11:30 p.m. At the time, we were living on the first floor. I went to the balcony to see who it was. Two policemen were standing on the road. I asked them, ‘What’s the matter? Why are you ringing our doorbell at this hour?’

“They replied, ‘We’ve come to ask if you have any ‘asla’?’ I asked them what they meant by ‘asla.’ They said it was a weapon. I told them I didn’t have any weapons. But they insisted, ‘No, there’s a license for a pistol in your name.’ Then it clicked. Many years ago, when Arpana had an exhibition in London, she sold several paintings, and we received some money. I asked someone for advice on what to bring back to India, and they suggested a pistol for safety since Arpana and I lived alone as Dar ji had passed away in 1982.

“I remember saying, ‘But I don’t have a license. How can I bring a pistol?’ A travel agent named Manmohan Singh, who also sold pistols, reassured me, ‘No one asks questions. Just pack it with your things and bring it back. I guarantee nothing will happen.’ But I didn’t want to do anything illegal, so I told him, ‘You keep the pistol. I’ll go back and get the license, and then you can send it to me in a parcel.’ He agreed but said it would cost an extra 10 pounds to mail it. I told him that was fine, as I didn’t want to break the law.

“When I got the license made, the police officer handling it was Amod Kanth. I remember him asking, ‘You’re a writer. Why do you need a pistol?’ I replied, ‘For self-defense.’ Little did I know at the time Baljit Malik would later name this same police official in the November killings.

“After the license was issued, I contacted Manmohan Singh to send the pistol. Around that same time, the government announced that televisions could be brought into the country without duty because of the Asian Games. So, Manmohan Singh sent the pistol from London in a shipment. But when I went to the airport warehouse to collect it, the warehouse was overrun with TVs. The customs officers couldn’t locate the pistol. I sat there all day, waiting, but they still couldn’t find it. They told me they’d inform me when it turned up.

“By the time they contacted me, the duty had skyrocketed from 100% to 300%. I tried to reason with them, explaining that the package had arrived when the duty was still 100%, but they refused to adjust it. I considered fighting the case and even thought about going to the minister. But the whole process became so cumbersome that I eventually decided to just forget about the pistol. The license, however, had already been issued.

“Now, these policemen were at my door asking about that pistol. They were going to every Sikh household, confiscating weapons and kirpans. It was clear this was preplanned. They had lists with names of Sikh homes, details of Sikh weapons, cars, and more. Where did they get all this information?

“When the November attacks happened, there was a Kamala movie hall near the Arjan Nagar colony. Arjan Das, who had once been Sanjay Gandhi’s motor mechanic, had become a big thug because of his close ties to Sanjay. He and his gang of thugs came to loot my friend's home in Safdarjung Enclave, and they knew who lived there. When the mob arrived, the neighbors told my friend’s family to jump over the terrace wall to take shelter with them. The mob broke through the gate, looted the big house, and set it on fire. They shouted, ‘We’ve lit the fire, but no one’s come out. An old man, an old woman, a son, his wife, and their two children were living here—where did they go?’ Then, they started yelling at the neighborhood, ‘We’ll kill anyone who’s hiding and protecting them!’ How did they know exactly who was living there? Where did they get these lists?

“The day after Indira Gandhi was killed, in the affluent Defence Colony, there was a large parking lot. The mob had the license numbers of all the Sikh-owned cars and burned only those belonging to Sikhs. Where did they get those numbers? It was all meticulously planned. It was strikingly well-organized and pre-planned for a government often known for chaos. The looting, burning, and killing had nothing to do with the assassination of Indira Gandhi. It was about their hatred for Sikhs, a calculated attempt to crush us.

“Also, we were thrown out of our house simply because we were Sikhs. We were tenants, and though I always paid rent on time, our landlord, J.P. Goyal, constantly asked us to vacate because he was getting offers ten times more than we were paying. He lived downstairs while we lived on the first floor. He was a well-connected lawyer—one of the team alongside Shanti Bhushan who represented Raj Narain in his case against Indira Gandhi, which they won. Feeling self-important, he often said, ‘I brought Indira Gandhi down from her takht (seat of power).’

“Every day, we went to the refugee camp across the Jamuna. One day, he broke the lock on our home and threw our belongings onto the street. I simply said, ‘I’m not going to stand here guarding them. Let people take what they want.’ And then, he took me to court.

“I sought out Fali Nariman, a top lawyer, and explained the situation. I told him that our landlord wanted us out because we were Sikhs and mentioned that he was a powerful lawyer. I even asked, ‘Will you fight for me against another lawyer?’ He assured me he would, and I gave him Rs 50,000 as an advance he requested. 

“But in court, when the judge looked at him and said, ‘So, you’re appearing against your own fraternity?’ my lawyer immediately replied, ‘My Lord, I didn’t realize it was another lawyer. I withdraw.’ And just like that, he walked out. Later, I discovered that my lawyer and the judge lived in the same lawyers’ colony in Niti Bagh and would walk together daily. 

“My landlord, standing there, told the judge, ‘She’s an important Sardani. My house will be burned down, along with my two small children.’

“The judge asked me, ‘Are you willing to vacate within a year?’ I answered, ‘The fires are burning now. Are you telling me they’ll still be burning in a year?’ He didn’t respond.

“I pushed further, ‘Be honest with me—just order me to vacate.’ He asked, ‘When?’ I said, ‘By the end of the month.’ 

“For the next 30 days, I searched desperately for a place to live. I saw house after house and agreed on the rent, but as soon as it came time to sign the contract, they’d ask for my name. When I said ‘Ajeet Cour,’ excuses followed, and they refused to rent it to me. I must have visited over 800 houses, but no one wanted to rent to a Sikh.

“On December 29^th, I called one final number, the last listing in the paper. I told the landlord, ‘I want to see it immediately.’ He agreed and gave me his address. He said he’d wait on the road for me, so I asked, ‘How will I recognize you?’ He replied, ‘I have a broken-down scooter,’ and I said, ‘I have a broken-down car.’ We exchanged our vehicle's nameplate numbers.

“He led me to a flat on the third floor. I agreed to take it immediately, but he said it wasn’t quite ready—there were still lightbulbs to be installed, and faucets were missing in the bathrooms. He said, ‘Give me seven days, and it’ll be ready.’ I explained, ‘I’m being evicted tomorrow. I need to hand over the keys to my landlord by December 31^st. Half of my belongings are already on the street. I know no prospective tenant will tell the landlord, but I want you to know what is happening with me right now.’

“He asked for my name, and when I said ‘Ajeet Cour,’ he paused and asked, ‘Is Arpana Caur your daughter?’ I said yes. He told me his wife had just seen Arpana’s exhibition at Art Heritage and that he was planning to go too. Without a word, he took my hand, placed the keys in my palm, and said, ‘Go, bring your belongings.’ There was no contract, no paperwork—just trust.

“His name was Rifaquat. He told me, ‘What has been happening to us for years is now happening to you.’ We rented his place and stayed there for two and a half years. The trauma of those events stayed with us, manifesting in different ways for each of us.”

I asked Arpana, “How does the trauma of 1984 reflect in your creative work?”

“For me, it has been cathartic,” she replied. “My painting series, The World Goes On, depicts what happens when one person is suffering while the rest of the world just looks away, going about their business—a woman on a swing, a lute player, a man smoking a hookah. They are detached, unable to engage with the tragedy—that’s the way of the world. Before 1984, I had never painted death. I didn’t know how to. But after witnessing what I did, I thought, what if I painted a drowning figure with everyone else looking away? In Christian iconography, water is seen as redemptive, but in my art, I use it to represent death. So, I began painting water in my 1984 series and continued the theme of water as death. I carried that motif into my later work, such as Sohini-Mahiwal, and later into my series The Widows of Vrindavan in 1988. Water dominates there, too.”

Softly, I said, “Aunty, your work is read worldwide. You are such an important voice. How do you feel today about what happened to us in 1984?”

“Events of such magnitude move us; they never leave us,” she said quietly. “I don’t write about it as much now. What I needed to write, I’ve already written. But that dagger—khanjar—is still lodged in my heart. It hasn’t gone anywhere. We attend all the 1984 commemorative events in Delhi. It’s part of who we are.”

She paused, her voice growing more resolute. “I write fiction, but this was no fiction—this was a dagger in my heart and soul, and it was preplanned. I am the proof. I’m sitting right here in front of you.”

Her words hung in the air, filled with the weight of loss and resilience, as real as the tragedies she had witnessed and the art that gave them form.