Davi
A Tale of Loss and Gain
by Neel Lahiri
Note on the 1984 Sikh riots
The 1984 anti-Sikh riots were a series of massacres that took place in the aftermath of the
assassination of Indira Gandhi, the prime minister of India at the time. The massacre took place between
the evening of October 31st and November 3rd, 1984. Sikhs were targeted due to the fact that Gandhi's
assassins (her bodyguards) were Sikh. During the course of those three days, more than 8000 Sikhs were
killed, including over 3000 in Delhi, the nation's capital. There is some speculation of involvement in the
genocide by the police force as well as some government officials. Even the next prime minister of India,
Rajiv Gandhi (Indira's son) made some inflammatory comments on the matter: “When a big tree falls, the
earth shakes.” Nothing, however, has been proven.
To this day, very few have actually been prosecuted, despite many eyewitness accounts of misdeeds.
The story you are about to read is loosely based on a true story. It is just one of the many that have
resulted from these deadly pogroms.
This is dedicated to anyone who lost a person close to them on those three fateful days.
His face was his most striking feature. In a constant grimace, he was obviously a man who had
experienced a lot, simply too much. The wrinkles that covered his face seemed to push him far beyond his
age of 44.
The part that got me was the eyes. His cold, hard eyes that never glinted with any signs of
happiness or cheer. He was in a constant state of anger.
I stared sharply at his face, attempting to crack through his tough exterior, but he simply wouldn't
budge. In an act of desperation, I began a conversation.
“So...”
He looked up in surprise. Now his façade had changed, into one of pure contempt and even a hint
of hatred. His deep gravelly voice soon piped up. His light Delhi accent had not disappeared, despite
emigrating from India more than a quarter of a century ago.
Rather than replying, he simply shook his head and handed me a package of numerous worn
pieces of paper. It was obvious from the first touch that they had been through many hands.
Without a moment's hesitation, I opened up the bundle to the first page and slowly, carefully read.
The cricket ball flew at 125 kilometres an hour towards my legs. I grimaced as it thudded into my
many layers of padding, which did little against such a high speed. The pain ripped through me, as
fearsome as the roar of the fielders surrounding me.
I looked up slowly towards the other end of the pitch. My eyes flicked between Davi and the
umpire. Davi's eyes said it all. I sighed as the umpire raised his right index finger. I was out.
Davi came over to me as I began the long walk back to the pavilion. “Are yaar, it was a peach. The
bloody thing swung like crazy. You had no chance. Heck, Sunil Gavaskar had no chance. No worries,
yaar.”
I just shook my head and slunk away to the pavilion. I knew that wasn't what Coach was going to
think. This was my third failure in a row, and I was certain that I would be dropped for our next match.
The glare I received from Coach (although he preferred to be called Ustaad ji, which loosely
translates to “Great One”) pierced me like a dagger. But not a word was uttered, not a single one. This was
his typical reaction when he was angry.
The rest of the innings played out excellently. We managed to put about 250 runs onto the board.
Davi managed to hit an exquisite hundred. Everyone knew that he was the most gifted cricketer on our
team. There was a good chance that he would play for India one day. He was something else.
Davi and I had been absolutely inseparable pretty much since the day we met, which was about six
months earlier. His constant humour and contagious laugh had made everyone want to be his friend, and
I just managed to get lucky, as we lived about 5 minutes away from each other. His real name was
Davinder, but he found that much too formal; he would only respond to Davi.
At the lunch break, Ustaad ji gave us a quick talk (well, most of us) and dismissed us. As per our
usual routine, Davi and I sprinted out to the closest roadside samosa place. There was nothing quite like
those delicious, greasy little potato filled wonders.
As we greedily grabbed our share, we noticed a trio of angry looking 25 year olds on a motorbike.
As they noticed us, they began to slow down. I noticed that all three of them were staring at Davi's patka, a
kind of turban worn by the members of Davi's religion, Sikhism.
“So, you killed her, huh?” one of them jeered menacingly. “Why'd you do it? Why?”
We could do nothing but stare back at them, completely bewildered. It made no sense. Killed who?
After a couple more tense seconds of cold staring, the three men zipped off. I glanced after them,
and I suddenly realized my heart was pounding like crazy. I had broken out into a freezing cold sweat.
I took a look at Davi, and found that he was in no better shape than I was. In fact, he was much
worse. He was shaking from head to toe. He looked back at me quickly, and then shifted his eyes back to
his feet.
“C'mon,” I said, and I tried to calm him down by wrapping my arm around him. He could still
barely make eye contact with me.
Somehow, I managed to pull him back to the cricket field. I could already tell that he was calming
down, but it would be a while until he was back to normal.
Once it was our turn to field, Davi had calmed down fully. His face had taken on the concentrated
look he always had before he was going in to play, which reassured me.
The second innings started off quite poorly for our team. The opening batsmen of the opposition
put together a 50 run partnership and looked as though they would never get out. Both were in full flow,
and our bowlers were being whacked all over the park.
In between the tenth and eleventh overs (each over has six balls in it; after each over, the bowlers
must switch) I noticed something rather peculiar. One of the older boys from our club's senior team had
appeared and was whispering something to Ustaad ji. As he was listening, his face took on an expression
that sent a shiver down my spine. It was the same expression that he wore when one of his players was
struck on the head with the ball. It was his expression of fear. Something bad was going on.
I tried desperately to push it out of my head and focus back on the game, but it was terribly hard.
Thankfully, no balls came my way during the remainder of the match, so I got lucky. To tell you the truth,
I probably would not have noticed if a ball had come my way.
The thing that kept nagging at me was those three boys who had shown up at lunch. What if the
death they'd been talking about was serious? What if it was what Ustaad ji was told? Worst of all, was Davi
at all involved?
The fact that our team had won the match barely registered with me. I barely heard the coach
congratulate us. There was simply too much apprehension – dread – that filled me.
Davi, being the empathetic person he was, noticed this right away. After the coach's talk, he came
over to me.
“Hey, what's going on yaar?” he inquired calmly. I was amazed at his ability to so easily forget the
occurrence just a couple hours earlier.
I told him about the older kid and Ustaad ji. As I described Ustaad's expression, his face paled.
“C'mon, let's get to the bus stop and try to figure out what is going on,” he said. I nodded quickly,
then picked up my stuff and began running for the exit.
He followed soon after me. As we walked to the bus stop, it became more and more palpable that
indeed, something bad had happened. I also noticed that many of these people were staring at Davi's
patka.
The part of that walk that freaked me out the most was the silence. It hung in the air like thick
smoke. I had never heard such a silence in Delhi, one of the most congested places in the world.
All of a sudden, a loud sound pierced the silence. A man on a motorcycle sped down the street,
yelling as loud as he could four sentences that would change my life forever.
“Indira Gandhi is dead! She is dead! Her two Sikh bodyguards assassinated her! She is dead!”
The man sped off into the distance, leaving a wake of despair behind.
Davi and I exchanged a glance full of fright, both of our eyes slowly widening. The sheer enormity
of what we just heard overcame us. Our prime minister is dead. She is dead.
At that exact moment, it all made sense; those three men, the fact that everyone was staring at
Davi's patka. It all clicked.
India was a place full of very passionate people. The most important part of that statement is full of
people. Therefore, it is a place where mob mentality runs rampant. It is a place where things could explode
at any moment. I sensed that this was a time when the fuse of the place had been lit, and I needed to do
something about it.
I grabbed Davi by the arm and hauled him down a different street, with way fewer people. We had
to get home, and I knew a back route.
We sped away, twisting and turning through this alley and that back road, until finally we reached
our neighbourhood. It was my turn to be calm and collected.
“Go to your house and get your family,” I commanded. “Then meet me back here. Be quick.”
Before I knew it, Davi was gone, leaving me to carefully consider my next step. Where on earth
could I hide them? How would I hide them? Would they even allow me to do so?
Davi came back with his two sisters and mother after about five minutes. I searched around
frantically.
“Where is your – ”
“Work. He won't be back until 9 tonight.”
I cringed. That was four hours ahead. That was very, very bad.
“Is there any way of reaching him? Any possible way?”
He shook his head.
I inhaled and exhaled deeply. “Davi, look at me. That may be too late. Do you understand? It
might be too late.”
I could see tears welling up in his eyes. They were already streaming out of his mother's and
sisters'.
I felt terrible for saying such a thing, but I had to do it; there was no way of avoiding the painful
truth.
“Come.”
I led them to my house, which was empty. At the time, I thought that was great; I didn't know how
my parents would react to this.
As we entered the house, I began to wonder what I was to do. My earlier contemplation had not
inspired me whatsoever. In search of ideas, I paced around the house. And then I saw it.
It had never struck me that we had a basement in our house. It was most likely because the
entrance blended perfectly in with our hardwood floor.
As I opened the trapdoor, it became obvious that my parents had not utilized the room yet. In fact,
it seemed as though they were on the same page as I; they had probably never noticed it.
As I climbed down the stairs, the dust became more and more overwhelming, entering my eyes and
nose. Besides dust, the room smelled dank and of mouldy wood. But it would do.
“Hey! Davi! Come and see!”
I heard a light pattering of feet as he followed the sound of my voice.
His eyes still seemed watery as he climbed down the stairs. He strained to see the room in the
darkness, so I lit up a match. His eyes twinkled in the firelight.
“Yes, this is okay,” he declared. “This will do.”
We immediately went to work cleaning and lighting candles. It took about an hour, but when we
were done it was spick and span.
Our timing couldn't have been more impeccable. As we were finishing up, I heard a key jiggling in
the door.
“Go, go!” I whispered. They scurried down the stairs, and I quietly shut the door.
It turned out to be my mom. My dad followed soon after. They both looked shaken; they had
already heard the bad news.
I knew at some point I would have to tell them, so I got it over with as soon as they both settled in
with a cup of tea.
“Baba, maa, I need to tell you something.”
The seriousness in my voice grasped their attention instantly.
“What is it?”
I told them everything that had happened that day; the three men, the people on the street, and
finally the fact that we had four people in our basement.
They both had stricken expressions on their face. Baba, my father, was the first one to react.
“Why are they in the basement now? Bring them out until there is trouble.”
I breathed a sigh of relief. They were okay with it.
I got Davi and his family out of the basement and brought them to the living room, where my
parents were. They acquainted themselves with each other and settled down. It was obvious that no one in
the room was very comfortable. To have people who you'd never met before in your own house is a
singular experience. But my parents were good people, not too set in their ways to oppose this honourable
act.
We tensely waited for a few hours, and thankfully nothing happened. When we realized that it
wasn't too bad right now, Davi and I decided to go out and see if his dad was back.
As we strode down the street, a car pulled up to Davi's front door. I shoved Davi behind a nearby
bush, and signalled him to wait.
I crept up to a better viewpoint and peered at the car. It was Davi's dad!
Davi noticed and we together sprinted up to him. I ushered the father and son towards the house
while Davi whispered the situation.
After another hour, we began to hear sounds. It was the sounds of angry men, chanting and
yelling. We then heard the first gunshots.
Three days. These riots lasted for three days. Although no exact number has been reached,
estimates say about 8000 people were killed, including more than 3000 in Delhi alone. The vast majority
of these people were Sikhs. Perfectly good people who had done absolutely nothing wrong. These 8000
people were killed because two people of their religion had done something wrong. Two!
Davi and his family were thoroughly shaken. Nearly every Sikh they had known in our area of
Delhi was no more. There was also an immense sense of foreboding that things could go awry again at any
moment. At one point, they even considered moving back to Punjab, back to their village, back to certain
safety. But the tension after the riots eventually lessened, and life almost went back to normal. Well, as
close to normal as it could ever possibly be.
Davi and I remained close friends throughout the remainder of our high school days. We went
separate ways afterwards, him pursuing his cricketing passion and me heading to college. We have since
lost track of each other, but I hope he is doing well.
I hope.
My eyes desperately searched for more words. I flicked the pages over, then back, then over again,
hoping more had appeared. But none did.
I looked up at the man. His tears streamed like a flooded river down his face.
“What's wrong, sir?” I asked. “You saved him, didn't you?”
His tears came to a sudden halt. He looked at me with an indescribable emotion on his face. Was
it regret? Was it sadness? Was it... shame?
“There has not been a single day of my life that I don't think about the moment that man on the
motorcycle had driven down the street. I think, every day, about doing exactly what I did, and what I could
have done. I always wish I hadn't simply gotten on that bus with him, hadn't waved to him as he walked
towards his house, hadn't simply said 'Bye' and walked away. I always wish I had taken the initiative,
realized that something was very, very wrong and I needed to act. I wish I had done exactly what you have
just read. But I didn't. I was a coward, a stupid dumb coward, and I just hid away in my safe little Hindu
home for those awful three days. This is a fact that I have been trying to accept my whole life, and yet, even
to this day, almost 30 years after the massacre occurred, I have been unable to. And I have to live with this
every single day.”
I stared at the man deeply as the magnitude of his statement slapped me in the face.
“So he's dead?”
“Everyone.”
I swallowed slowly and cautiously. The man's eyes were beginning to water up again.
Not knowing what to do, I stood up, thanked the man for his story, and showed myself the door.
He did absolutely nothing but gaze down at his feet, quietly sobbing.
As I finish writing now, I wonder what I would have done in his position. I automatically think
that I would be the honourable man and do what he had written, but I soon realize that this is highly
unlikely. Everyone believes that they will be the hero, they will be the one who saves the day. The only way
to really figure out what kind of a person you are is by actually experiencing such an event. Then your true
colours are shown.
A Note on the Moral
Although numerous morals can probably be taken from this story, the one that I really want to
emphasize is the fact that if you think you should do something at a certain moment, do it, rather than
spend the rest of your existence regretting it. That is never a good thing.
Another prominent moral is that not every person in the world is a completely noble and
honourable person. Everyone might think that they are, but the only way to figure out such a thing is at a
moment where their nobility must shine fully. Otherwise, there is no real, genuine way to judge a person.
About the Author
Neel Lahiri was born on March 7, 2000 in Los Angeles to an Indian father and an American
mother. When he was three, the family moved to New York, before they relocated to Vancouver in 2005.
Most of his days are spent blending schoolwork with his two big passions: cricket and reading. He is
currently finishing the 8th grade at JN Burnett Secondary in Richmond, British Columbia.