“Open the door. It is me Aftab.” He shouted pounding the door with his fists. There was no answer. He looked back at the street. It was empty. He knew it wouldn’t be that way for too long.

“Nitya, open the door. It is me.” He shouted again.

A sweet voice boomed from inside. “What was the name of the restaurant where we had our first date?”

He didn’t have to think. “Afghan Palace.”

The door opened. He rushed in and bolted it again. “Aftab. Where have you been?” Nitya hugged him tightly. “I am scared Aftab. I am. Suraj and Salma are having trouble digesting all this. What is happening Aftab?”

Aftab didn’t reply. He just hugged his wife and closed his eyes. A few minutes passed. He whispered into her ears. “Situation is out of control. There are riots everywhere. Hindus and Muslims are killing each other in mad frenzy. Our neighbors are also in one of the groups. They want to kill all the Hindus in the city.”

Nitya was aghast. “But we are in Juhapura. This is a Muslim area. I am married to a Muslim. We shouldn’t have any problem. Right?”

Aftab was silent.

“Aftab. Tell me we are going to be alright. They are not going to kill us – right?” Nitya was become hysterical.

“Where are the kids?” He tried to change the topic. Half an hour back he overhead a conversation which confirmed his worst fears. “Weed out all the Hindus from Juhapura. We should avenge the death of our brothers and sisters.”

A few hours back, in Satyagrah Chavani – a predominantly Hindu area, a mob had gone on a rampage and killed seven Muslims including two kids – of the same age as Suraj and Salma.

“Suraj had trouble sleeping. I put him on a tablet. Salma is doing her homework.” Nitya composed herself.

“Homework?” Aftab exclaimed, “Now?”

Nitya shook her head, “It is one way to keep her mind away from this madness.”

He nodded. “Nitya, listen to me. Rahman is leading a group of men who want to kill all the Hindus in this locality. He knows you are a Hindu. And he will be here any minute.”

She started crying. “Why! O why?”

There was a big noise. “Open the door.” Rahman’s voice was cold. “You can’t hide them forever Aftab. We have to avenge our brothers. Faith comes first. Let us in. We are more than fifty here. You can’t resist.”

Aftab stared at his wife for a moment. “Nitya, it is all over. I am sorry.”

She squeezed his hand. “Kill me Aftab.”

He was bewildered. “What?”

“Kill me please. And kill the kids yourself. I’d like to die in your hands. Don’t let Rahman kill us all.”

Nitya was no longer crying. He saw determination in her eyes. The front door was about to be overcome. He had to act fast.

He pulled his service revolver out – “I love you Nitya.”

“I love you too Aftab.”

Just one bullet. The sound reverberated through the walls. The pounding on the door stopped abruptly and resumed after a minute. A minute later, Rahman heard two more shots. He was not sure what was happening inside.

“All of you. Come with me.” He ordered his fellow rioters. With his hand clutching the pistol tightly he kicked the door one last time. It flung open.

He could see Nitya in a pool of blood on the floor. He ran inside and found the two kids dead on the bed.

“You killed them yourself?” He asked Aftab incredulously.

Aftab was crying. “Yes I did. Please go. Leave us alone.”

Rahman kneeled before Aftab. “You did the right thing. Bhai. God will protect you.” He looked at his companions, “Let us go. Police may be here any minute.”

Twenty minutes later a police van came to a screeching halt in front of their house. A unit of police marched into Aftab’s house. The inspector was the first one to react. “O My God! O My God! I can’t believe it.” He kneeled in front of Aftab, his head constable.

The next day – newspapers would cover the massacre – just in terms of numbers. How many Hindus died in Satyagrah Chavani. How many Muslims died in Juhapura. They would report the facts nonchalantly. People affected would be reduced to numbers and facts. Sensationalism could be found in the numbers – not in the actual tragedy. No one would know about a certain Nitya and her two kids Suraj and Salma. For the world they didn’t exist. For Rahman – who was killed later that night by an unidentified gun man – they were dead. For Aftab, the world had come crashing down. It would take him quite some time to get used to the new way of life hundreds of miles away from Amdavad – in a South Indian city – Chennai.

“Are you OK?” She asked leaning against him and watching the waves hit the shore feverously in Besant Nagar.

He nodded. The kids were playing with the kite.

“I still get nightmares.” He told her.

She smiled, “All’s well that ends well.”

Life for them – is still on.