Riots in an Idyllic Childhood Sanctuary
Just like every morning, I was listening to NPR while getting ready. I was in that groggy, strange state between sleeping and being fully awake. News of many of the usual suspects — Donald Trump, Afghanistan, Russia, ISIS, etc. … Then suddenly “violence erupted in the north Indian town of Panchkula in Haryana due to religious extremism. Over 30 people died. Over 200 injured.”
Did I hear that right? Panchkula?! I gasped and almost swallowed some toothpaste.
My little hometown in India. … on international news? The violence happened just some miles away from my grandmother’s house where I grew up.
My hometown has always been a peaceful, idyllic sanctuary to me. My cousins, friends and I would play on the streets, ride our bikes from place to place and eat mangos and lychees straight from the trees. No one thought twice about letting young 6 and 7 year old girls roam the streets. We rarely had babysitters. We would barge into neighbors houses uninvited and run out of the house, forgetting to close the front door or the gate sometimes. I remember walking to the market, holding my grandmothers and there wasn’t much traffic in sight.
I spent many long summers as a child and teenager. I often complained that the place was too boring and sleepy. The streets were usually silent, except for the early morning sounds of crows, prayers from the local temple and mosque and the sound of boys going door to door to sell vegetables and fruit on the street.
These sounds were always annoying to me as a kid because they woke me up too early. This is when I began dreaming of living in far-away fairy tale cities like New York and London.
When I visited my grandmother’s house in April, part of me felt like I could feel her presence there still. Like her soul was lurking in some corner or behind some palm tree. At any moment, I would see her come around the corner or open the door and barge in. If her soul truly is there, I am sure she is weeping for what has just happened. … My grandfather founded the local police there and my grandmother was a human rights lawyer there.
Today I wish Panchkula was boring, sleepy and peaceful once more. On the same streets where I used to play and ride my bicycle, hundreds of army officers and police are patrolling the streets. … It hurts me to realize that perhaps no place is safe anymore from religious extremism and fundamentalism — whether its Charlottesville, New York, Paris, London … even sweet, little Panchkula.
