Babies, children, grandparents, husbands and wives.
Fathers, mothers, students, teachers, farmers and workers.
And, of course, the cripple, the sick, the elderly.
And all sorts of others.
But not anymore.
They don't live here anymore.
These other people.
They are dead.
Others are maimed.
Many of them were burned alive, including women and little children.
Many of them were hacked to pieces, including little babies.
Many of the women were most barbarically and sadistically gang-raped and sexually tortured and then killed.
Many women had their breasts cut off and then paraded naked on the street.
Other women were repeatedly raped by some of these monsters while some others stood around and videotaped these satanic acts.
Still other Muslims are in jail awaiting trial for not being among the dead...
And the mutilated.
Innocent and hapless victims of what some call a communal riot in India.
Unknown, unsung, unmourned.
Unrecognized by anyone except their own close relatives, if any were left alive.
And members of their own hapless, helpless community who may have somehow survived the carnage.
Uncompensated for their injuries and losses.
Unavenged for the wrongs and injustices inflicted upon them so blatantly and with such impunity.
Innocent victims of a so-called communal riot in India.
But an all-important question which no one seems to ask, and which no one seems to care about, is this:
If this is a riot, what then is a massacre?
A crime against humanity?
And what were the Nuremberg trials of Nazi war criminals all about?
At the end of World War II?
This is how it generally happens...
What some so callously, cruelly call a communal riot in India!
Many people from the city...
And from elsewhere...
Begin to gather in a public place.
Their mood is dark...
There is hate in their heart...
Venom in their eye...
And murder on their mind.
They are lusting to lynch.
Burning, boiling, seething in anticipation, of the rapes and lynchings to come.
Not the lynching of an individual or two but the lynching of an entire community of people.
And of all the rapes and sexual tortures and mutilations they have planned.
They carry all kinds of tools of death and destruction in their hands.
Cans full of gasoline and kerosene.
The crowd quickly turns into a mob.
The mob then becomes vicious, volatile, violent.
As thugs and murderers and goons and arsonists and rapists and sundry other criminals choke the streets.
The volatile, vicious, violent, venomous, barbaric and pitiless mob.
It grows more volatile, vicious, violent, venomous and pitiless by the minute.
Slogans rend the air.
Slogans steeped in hate.
Slogans inciting people to kill...
And to burn.
And yet methodically...
And in calculated and carefully engineered and orchestrated fury, frenzy and barbarity.
The mob then marches to where those other people live.
People from the same or neighboring village.
People just like you and me and everyone else.
Babies, children, grandparents, husbands, wives, fathers and mothers.
Students, teachers, farmers, workers, business people.
And, of course, the cripple, the sick, the elderly, the helpless, the widows and the orphans.
Yet, in the eyes of the mob, a different people.
Different because they profess or practice a creed, faith, religion or culture different from the one professed by the mob.
Different, therefore, less and inferior.
Different, therefore, somehow expendable without cost.
Different, therefore, somehow fair game for the most inhuman and barbaric treatment with near-total impunity.
These other people.
Almost always Muslims.
The mob then surrounds their homes.
And office buildings.
And places of worship.
The mob then douses them with kerosene and gasoline...
And sets them on fire.
The mob then rampages.
Raping its victims.
Subjecting them to the most unspeakable forms of sadistic physical and sexual torture and degradation.
Almost always Muslims.
The victims of these so-called riots.
And it is all done in cold blood.
By Hindu mobs consumed by pathological hate.
Even babies and children are hacked to pieces.
Or clubbed to death.
By the frenzied mob.
The mob simply burns the occupants alive with their buildings and belongings.
Infants are torn from the arms of their mothers and tossed in the flames.
The mob then plunders...
And sows death, destruction, carnage, shame and desolation wherever it goes.
This is how it generally happens.
What some so indifferently call a communal riot in India.
This is how it happens.
Over and over and over again.
In place after place.
Time after time.
What some so glibly, so innocently, so nonchalantly, so mindlessly, so cruelly and so heartlessly call a communal riot.
Even as this carnage unfolds, the police arrives.
Guardian of law, life, liberty, order and property.
Servant and protector of the people.
The symbol of rectitude, power and authority that separates beasts from humans and the jungle from civilization.
The joy, comfort, pride and valued treasure of a free people.
Of a civilized society.
The internationally recognized instrument of justice...
The hope of individuals under attack by criminals, goons and gangsters.
Yet, at times, the police in India merely watches the anti-Muslim carnage from the sidelines.
At other times, it opens fire, methodically gunning down those who protest the carnage.
And those who venture out of their homes to defend and protect their children, women and properties from the mob.
And those who simply manage to break out of their burning buildings and run, desperately, to escape the marauding mob.