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I take Jaya's pamphlet with me when we go
over to Yasmin's house that evening for a beer. I listen as the
others chat about a Cat Stevens album that Jenny has just bought,
listen to them make plans about going to a disco on Saturday but I
feel strangely aloof from the conversation. When there is a lull, I
pull out the pamphlet. ‘Hey, you guys, listen to this,'

I say and begin to read.

They listen in uncomfortable silence. ‘Yuck,'
Jenny says when I read the lines describing the torture of prisoners.
I can sense from their body language that they want me to stop
reading but I can't and they are too polite to interrupt.

Nobody knows what to say when I finish. ‘Geez.
Yeah. Well, that's too bad,' Jenny says lamely, trying to
break the silence.

Patty picks up the thread of the conversation.
‘Wow, gosh.

That's terrible. What a country. But listen,
we should decide because I need to let my cousin know. Are all of us
going to the disco on Saturday?'

For the first time since I've been friends
with them, I feel ashamed of being in Yasmin's house, for
whiling away my evening drinking beer. For a split second I see it
all clearly and with revulsion: The four of us, indulgent,
narcissistic, seeking thrills and wasting more money in one evening
than someone else might earn in a week.

I get up. ‘I have to get home,' I say.
‘I'll see you all tomorrow.'

Jenny gives me a quizzical look. ‘You all
right, girl?' she asks.

‘Yeah, I'm fine,' I lie. I head
into Yasmin's bathroom and finger toothpaste onto my teeth,
trying to gargle away the smell of cigarettes and beer before I go
home. I also try to gargle away the faint but bitter taste of shame
and self-disgust. On the way to the bus-stop I pluck two leaves from
a nearby tree and grind their fragrance between my fingers to cover
the smell of tobacco on my hands.

Then, I go home.

It is January 1977 and Indira Gandhi has called
for new elections within two months. The opposition leaders have been
released from prison and have formed a coalition called the Janata
Party. India is in convulsions, a new order trying to emerge from the
dark womb of the Emergency. The suddenly-unmuzzled newspapers are
filled with stories of the atrocities committed in New Delhi. Living
up to its reputation as the charmed city, Bombay has been spared much
of the trauma but now even ordinary Bombayites are feeling the shame
of knowing that we have lived in a cocoon of ignorance for the last
two years. I have recently turned fifteen but even I can tell that,
like the fresh pau baked at the bakery across the street, history is
being made daily these days.

The four of us have plans to go see a movie at
Sterling. I almost don't go because business is bad again and
when I ask Babu for money he takes out his wallet and opens it for me
to see its bare contents. I turn away in embarrassment for I know
what it costs him to refuse me anything. ‘That's okay,'
I say, trying to laugh. ‘It's a stupid movie anyway and I
didn't really want to go. I'll just call them and
cancel.'

I am dialling Patty's number from the living
room when Babu comes up to me and presses a ten-rupee note in my
hand.

‘Found this under my pyjamas in the
cupboard,' he says.

‘Must've forgotten I had some money
there.'

I protest but he insists. ‘Go enjoy,'
he says. ‘This little money is not going to help me anyway. And
who knows when you'll next be able to go?'

But riding on the bus with the three of them, I am
feeling uncomfortable. Guilt at taking Babu's last bill from
him, unease over this new distance I'm feeling between myself
and the other three, makes me jumpy. Also, earlier that morning Jesse
had mentioned to me that there was to be a large student march at
Flora Fountain that afternoon, protesting the Emergency.

She was planning to attend along with her college
friends. I wanted to invite myself but felt shy about doing so, as if
I'd be gate-crashing a private party. But news about the morcha
had made my afternoon plans with Jenny, Patty and Yasmin seem small
and insignific-ant.

The single-decker bus we're riding is
crowded and for most of the distance, Yasmin and I have been standing
not too far from the open door. Jenny and Patty have found seats a
short distance away from us. As the bus approaches Flora Fountain, it
slows down, blocked by what seems like a wall of people walking on
the streets in front of it. It's the student demonstration. I
push my way to the door of the bus, hanging on from the steel rod at
the entrance. My pulse quickens as I notice the determined
expressions on the faces of the students marching past, holding aloft
their homemade signs and banners. They are talking, shouting slogans.
‘Indira Gandhi, shame, shame,'

they chant. Then, the singing starts. My hair
stand up on end before I can even place the song. They are singing
We
shallOvercome
in Hindi. The song shimmers in the bright sunlight
of the day, a haunting combination of defiance and wistfulness, a
battlecry and a prayer. As the bus crawls past the marchers, I notice
a police officer in his khaki uniform tapping his fingers lightly
against his baton, to the beat of the song. And then I notice that
the place is crawling with policemen, notice the grey Jeeps behind
the long procession.

I turn away from the door and make my way back to
the others. ‘It's a demonstration against the Emergency.
I know some of the folks who organized it. Let's skip the movie
and join the march instead.'

They stare at me as if I've gone crazy. ‘Aw,
come on, Thrit,' Jenny says. ‘You know we've been
waiting weeks to see this movie. Don't be a wet blanket,
please.'

A moment passes between us. A stage in my life
ends and a new one begins during that moment, although it will be a
long time before I figure that out. An old allegiance falls apart, a
new one waits to be born. Perhaps Jenny knows this too, because as I
turn away and head back toward the entrance of the bus, she makes a
move, as if to grab me but then sits back in her seat.

I lean out of the bus, knowing I'm at a
crossroad. If I jump off the bus now, it will end the closeness of my
friendship with the other three. If I stay on, I won't be able
to look at myself in the mirror. I scan the crowd for Jesse, knowing
that the decision will be easier if I can spot her. But I get no easy
help. The decision is mine alone.

‘Stop watching, join us instead,' the
students are chanting in Marathi to the crowds of office workers who
are standing on the sidewalk with their mouths open, watching the
antics of the college students. But I think their words are directed
specifically at me. I can continue riding this bus to the movie
theatre, where I can be a passive spectator in someone else's
story. Or I can jump off this bus and help these kids write their
own. A brand new story, Made in India.

It happens so suddenly, I don't even realize
I've made a decision. My hand loosens its grip on the steel rod
and I jump backwards off the slow-moving bus. The students next to me
let out a cheer. ‘Hey,' Yasmin shouts and I wave to her.
‘Enjoy the movie,' I yell. ‘I'll see you all
Monday.'

The next second I am swallowed by the large crowd
that shifts like sand around me. If I stood still now, the energy and
momentum of the crowd would propel me forward. But I have no
intention of standing still. A jittery excitement and a shouting
happiness move my feet. A college girl in a white kurta and blue
jeans puts a casual arm around my shoulders.

she smiles. I smile back and then laugh, for no
apparent reason other than the joy of marching on a Saturday
afternoon through the streets of downtown Bombay with thousands of
idealistic, intense-looking young people. I can't wait to go
back to school on

Monday and tell Greta Duke about this adventure.
She can only teach history.

I'm making it.

The joy is short-lived. We gather behind the
statue of Flora Fountain and sit cross-legged on the street when I
spot him—Fali Mehta, the Parsi chief of police who is an old
childhood friend of dad's and Babu's. Fali uncle is
sternly surveying the crowd, his hands on his hips and looking quite
different from the jovial, back-slapping man I am used to seeing at
parties and wedding receptions. My mind freezes with terror so that I
forget to listen to what the student speaker addressing the crowd is
saying. If Fali uncle spots me in this crowd, I am dead. The news
will definitely get back to my dad and with his fear of radical
politics, I know what my father's reaction will be. My
moderate, peaceful father has an instinctive dislike for zealotry or
conflict of any kind and to him, challenging an omnipresent figure
like Indira Gandhi is akin to challenging God. I cover my head with
my hands and stare at the ground, trying to convince myself that Fali
uncle will never spot me in a crowd of thousands.

The next minute I hear his familiar voice, with
its flat, broad Parsi accent, blasting through a bullhorn. ‘Now
listen here,'

he booms. ‘You are prohibited by law from
going any further.

The area around Mantralaya is closed to
demonstrators. Now, settle down and have a peaceful demonstration and
there will be no trouble.'

A murmur flits through the crowd, like a silver
fish parting the waters of a lake. There is some movement in the
front of the procession and I surmise that the student leaders are
trying to decide whether to defy the ban. Several minutes pass.

Somebody begins a new chant and it floats over the
crowd in successive waves. Then there is a lull, as if we are all
getting drowsy under the mid-day sun. A

policeman sits on his haunches at the edge of the
crowd and trades good-natured remarks with the nearby crowd. ‘Give
up your uniform and join us,' a student says and the cop grins
at him and then yawns. My earlier excitement abates as other emotions
kick in—fear at being spotted by Fali Mehta; remorse at having
abandoned my three friends so blithely; a slight boredom at the
endless speeches denouncing the Emergency.

Then, there is a shift in the weather. A cry goes
up. ‘Onto Mantralaya,' someone yells from the front and
the rest of the crowd picks it up and leaps to its feet.

‘Stop,' Fali Mehta yells into his
bullhorn. ‘You are violating the law. There is a ban against
gathering at…'

‘To hell with the ban,' a younger
voice competes on another bullhorn. ‘This city belongs to the
people, not the government.'

The crowd roars its assent.

I am pushed forward by the moving crowd, like a
blade of grass bopping on a heaving ocean. There is no time to think
now, and no way to leave or head in the opposite direction.

All is movement, a surging sea of clenched fists,
raised hands and pounding feet. The singing, the shouting, the
sloganeering have a new urgency now, louder, more frequent, more
taunting, as if the tension and fear that we all feel can be kept at
bay by a wall of sound.

The front of the procession is going past the
police barri-cades. And now there is a new sound in the air—wholly
unfamiliar to me but so ominous, like the slithering of a snake, that
I feel sick to my stomach. They are lathi-charging us. Policemen who
minutes ago were trading quips with us are now attacking us, their
thick, wooden batons raised high above their heads.

They hold the batons in the air and whisk them
around, making that horrible, slippery sound.
Sik-sik-sik
, the
lathis go in the air, singing their deadly music seconds before they
find their mark on somebody's head or arm.

I stand immobile, paralysed by a fear so numbing,
it feels like a physical disease, as if I've had a stroke. Out
of the corner of my eye I see a policeman heading toward me but all I
can think of doing is closing my eyes and covering my head with my
hands, as if not seeing the approaching danger will make it
disappear. I have long since given up on my legs to carry me out of
here, seeing how they have turned to rubber.

Somebody grabs my left arm and drags me. ‘Come
on,' I hear a male voice say. ‘Run.' He pulls me by
the hand and together, we run, this way and that, avoiding crashing
into other people, dodging the reach of the batons that whisk over
our heads. I hold on to the warm but sweaty hand of my unknown
rescuer, thinking I will never let it go. My legs are still rubbery
but now they move as if they have wings beneath them. We are both
gasping and heaving but still we run, hand in hand, crossing several
streets, looking over our shoulders every few minutes, running to put
as much distance as we can from the madness behind us.

We finally come to a bus-stop that looks safe
because it is populated with office workers and other non-student
types.

‘Okay,' says my rescuer. ‘You
should be safe here. How old are you, anyway?'

‘Fifteen,' I say.

‘Fifteen,' he repeats, shaking his
head and wiping the sweat from his brow. I look at him. He has a
thin, narrow face, a scraggly beard and John Lennon glasses. He is
wearing a blue checked shirt and loose, ill-fitting pants with
sandals. His feet are dusty from our run.

‘This your first morcha?' he asks,
chewing his lower lip and when I say yes, he nods. ‘I thought
so. That's why I helped. I saw you jumping out of that bus. But
if you do this again, you'll get used to the lathi-charges. The
bastards attack us every time.'

‘Thanks for your help. I don't know
what I would've done otherwise.'