he deadly bomb
blast which ripped apart bodies of the believers has left a deep scar on the
psyche of the town. Within moments I was at Bhikku Chowk, the epicentre of the
blast, which looked more like a battlefield than an ordinary chowk in a Muslim
neighbourhood. Members of a leaderless Muslim community were busy helping the
injured in their own individual way. A few emotional Muslims protested against
the police claim that it was a cylinder blast. It hurts me deeply that a
stone-pelting incident can alter the destiny of my community. Clashes between
Muslims and police followed. Police first lathi-charged and then opened fire.
People fell like a pack of cards.
From Bhikku Chowk I rushed towards Noor Hospital like a madman
searching for sanity. Police bullets seem to have an ingrained bias against
Muslims. Bullets chase Muslims till death. As I entered the hospital to inquire
about the injured, I could hear gunshots being fired outside, in Mushawarat
Chowk. With each shot, I trembled with rage and fear. Each shot amplified my
heartbeat. The palpitation was so seismic that I feared my heart would leap out
and leave me dead. On the one hand, Dr Saeed Faizee, Dr Sohail and Dr Faisal
worked continuously to restore the faith of the Muslim community; outside, the
naked dance of official bias was at play. Where was the humanity of the people?
The scene at Faran Hospital – where most of the 58 injured
persons were brought – was chaotic. Curious onlookers and some family members of
the injured were caught in the mêlée outside. As I entered the hospital, the
smell of fresh blood grew unbearable. It is still in my head. The injured were
being treated by Dr Saeed Farani and his dedicated team of doctors. The entire
hospital was in collective mourning. The cry of a toddler will haunt me for the
rest of my life. It could have been my nephew or anybody else’s. The bared burnt
back of a bearded old man brought me to the brink of tears yet the call of my
métier restrained me. I made sure the tears didn’t spill from my eyes.
In the operation theatre, I saw an open surgery being performed
on one of the injured. The ruptured veins of his left foot were a terrible sight
to behold. But the sight of the three dead bodies neatly lined up one after
another froze my soul. I felt the awesome presence of death. As I photographed
the scene, a thought crossed my mind: Is it fair for a journalist to take
pictures of the victims mowed down by flying balls, nails and bullets? It was
the call of conscience. In a split second I decided to go ahead. I saw myself as
both a Muslim and a journalist. The job of a journalist is not to write but to
communicate. The Muslim in me believed I must communicate to the world that my
own community had been hit in its own backyard. Not once, but twice.
When the guns fell silent I returned to Bhikku Chowk at 3 a.m.
Uninformed media persons were busy chorusing the official line: that the bomb
blast had occurred outside the building where the Students Islamic Movement of
India (SIMI) once had its office. No one bothered to say that the site of the
bomb blast also happened to be outside a police chowky. These are matters of
perception.
Why was Bhikku Chowk chosen as the site for the blast? Bhikku
Chowk represents a strong Muslim identity, where Muslims from diverse sects and
walks of life gather for a cup of tea or to socialise after taraweeh
prayers during Ramadan. The attack was on Muslim identity. Why can’t the
security agencies accept that there is in essence a turf war going on between
communalists of different faiths, where bomb blasts are the weapons of choice?
It is unfortunate that in this war the police often seem to be on the side of
the majority community. This is the bitter truth albeit an uncomfortable one.
The next day home minister RR Patil uttered the usual
platitudes, referring to the spate of bombings in the recent past. "It was an
attack on national integration." I am sorry, Mr Patil. Bhikku Chowk is not the
place to bridge the gulf that has divided two communities. It is a traditional
Muslim ghetto. The attack was on Malegaon’s Muslim identity and not on national
integration. Eyebrows were raised when I bluntly asked him, "How many people
have died in the police firing?" He paused for a moment. Nikhil Gupta, Nashik
superintendent of police, leaned forward to whisper something. "Nobody has died
in the police firing. Police fired 58 rounds in the air so no one was injured,"
Patil claimed. This goes against both the public perception and a doctor’s claim
in Malegaon. According to Dr Saeed Farani, at least three persons were injured
in the police firing. The actual figure is obviously higher but no one is
willing to say so in a town reeling under fear.
Id will be celebrated amid fear and anxiety. Every Muslim mother
in Malegaon is praying lest her son becomes a "suspect".
Things will never be the same in this forsaken corner of
Maharashtra but this much is certain: Indian Muslims will not allow India to
become another Pakistan.