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It's 10 am in Meerut. A policeman nonchalantly directs traffic on one of the city's busy intersections. When I ask him for directions to Hashimpura, he looks clueless, shrugs and goes back to his post.
Despite making headlines when the trial court acquitted 16 personnel of the Uttar Pradesh Provincial Armed Constabulary after trying them for the killing of 44 Muslims in May 1987, the scene of the alleged brutality seems to have vanished from Meerut's collective conscience, including its law keepers.
Five kilometres away, the residents of Hashimpura have learnt to balance fear and disappointment with stoicism.
At the entrance of the mohalla, a young man smokes a beedi near a pile of garbage. A Hindu temple with saffron walls stands in the background. When I ask him if I have reached Hashimpura, he looks at photojournalist Dalip Kumar's camera and points towards another entrance. "I think you want to go through that gate."
When we pass through the other entrance, the young man's instructions become clear: he was standing outside the area where Hindus reside in Hashimpura and the incident took place on the Muslim side of the colony. The territories are clearly marked along religious lines.
Open drains, stray livestock and an abundance of houseflies exude a general sense of decay. Barring a few houses that look like they were recently renovated, most are simple, two-storey structures without any modern adornment on the façade, their occupants largely belonging to middle- and lower-income groups.
Mohammad Arif, a weaver in his mid-40s, says the incident continues to haunt those who were either victims or witnessed the violence that night in 1987. "I was 15 at the time. You should speak to the women who lost their sons, husbands and brothers. Their lives changed forever."
Coping mechanism
Abdul Karim, a labourer, much like the other survivors, shares the details of the injuries he suffered like they were war wounds. Lifting his arm, he says, "They first struck me with a danda that hit me under my arm. When I fell, they kicked and dragged me to a truck to be herded with the others."
While I try to speak to the families about the way forward and the lives they lead now, they struggle to draw themselves out of the events of the night and the investigation that followed. "That night occurred because there is a problem, both in the police force and the political class. They want to see Muslims as terrorists, but it is really they who are the terrorists because of their narrow-minded thinking," says Mohammad Iqbal, a 53-year-old resident who had to give up his medical studies and open a car repair workshop to sustain his family.
"There seems no hope after this verdict now. And such incidents will continue to happen till there is proper representation of the Muslim community in the police force," he adds, struggling with words to express the deep sense of injustice the community feels.
Mohammad Amjad, who was only about five in 1987, says he has grown up on tales of the brutality. "There has been no compensation, no job security. Whoever we vote for, irrespective of what party they belong to, has largely ignored us. Where is (Chief Minister) Akhilesh Yadav today?" he asks.
Meanwhile, men and women from the mohalla gather around a Delhi-bound bus to see off their family members who want to appeal the verdict in a higher court. If there is burning rage inside them, it's not visible. But they must go through the motions.
From about 100 metres away, Sher Ali looks on at the crowd. A tailor by profession, his shop, Gulmarg and Sons, was burnt down during the PAC raid. "I once went to Delhi as a witness in the case. It was disappointing - the court didn't seem very interested in knowing what I went through," he says. His two sons, one a chartered accountant and the other a homoeopathy doctor, live in Lucknow and Kanpur. "I just tell them that their biggest weapon is honesty. That, and staying away from the public eye," adds Ali.
Though he feels that justice has been denied to the victims, there is a sense of resignation and a desire to "move on" from the trauma. He says that there have been no instances of any Hindu-Muslim conflict in the area since "then", and that the two communities coexist peacefully as friendly neighbours.
"About 70 per cent of my customers are Hindus. In fact, after I reopened my shop in 1987, my first customer was a Mr Sharma from Subhash Nagar," he adds.
Friendly neighbour
Though a Hindu-majority area is just a lane away, there is a lone Hindu household that remains in the area where the Muslim community resides. "You should speak to them. They have never felt unsafe here and we all live peacefully," he says with a hint of pride.
A 12-year-old boy sits on a two-wheeler and when asked if he knows where the Hindu family stays in the mohalla, he promptly points to the blue door in the vicinity. The male members of the family have left for work and the women refuse to open the door or speak to me.
On my way back, I ask the young boy if he knows what happened in 1987; he looks puzzled. His mother, head covered, walks out and puts her arm around him in a protective gesture. "We haven't told the children yet," she says. Pain seems to have made way for pragmatism here.
In the lane where Hindus reside, octogenarian Birmal Devi says that she had forgotten about the incident but for its reappearance on television in the past few days. She says that whatever little interaction she has with the Muslim community outside her galli seems peaceful. She has many complaints for the central and state governments, largely related to pension schemes for the elderly, but there is no sign of communal discord.
A greengrocer from the Muslim community halts his cart outside Devi's home. "These people come to our lane often to sell wares. There is no tension like what the media says," she smirks. Other women join in to echo similar thoughts, all the while haggling over the price of potatoes.
Across the road, the police booth is deserted. A kilometre away, policemen are busy watching the first semi-final of the cricket World Cup in their office at Shahpeer Gate. One of them briefly registers surprise when I mention Hashimpura. "It is not under our jurisdiction," he says.
About four kilometres further away, Sub Inspector Ram Singh sits at an outdoor desk in the Civil Lines police station, surrounded by lawyers and visitors seeking help. After attending calls on his Google Nexus 4 and dispensing with urgent matters, he readies himself to allay all fears about the "situation" in Hashimpura. "There are no reports of any tension after the verdict. But if you go and knock on every door and ask them how they feel, it is bound to instigate the residents," he says.
Just then, Arif Ansari, a local councillor, and Shafiq Ahmad, an advocate in Meerut, join in the discussion. "Their lawyer doomed their cause. They could never have won the case with such poor drafting," says Ahmad. Ansari grabs the opportunity to detail the atrocities that the PAC inflicted on the residents that night. "They didn't even let us respectfully bury the bodies. Such are the corrupt forces of our country that let criminals walk free," he snaps.
Agitated, he gets up from his chair and moves closer to where I am seated to chronicle the horrors of the fateful night in 1987. Singh steps in to say that Ansari should speak about anything but this incident, obviously uncomfortable at the possibility of revived tensions. Ansari smiles: "Of course, this was before Singh sahib's time and nothing like that happens now."
Navigating through the physical and psychological scars of 1987, the residents of Hashimpura are struggling to cull out a peaceful present from a painful past.
