I often wonder how my father coped with a mischievous devil like me. I would often trouble him and he would frivolously rebuke my antics. My childhood was a smooth sailing only if that incident is marked off my life. The second of November, 1984. With the gentle breeze of the still night, they came, in hundreds. With blazing fires of hatred and glowing embers of anger, they robbed a community of its pride. The vivid images are ever painted in my mind. How my father tried to calm them down and how my mother’s pleas were silenced, unheard and unregistered. They took him outside and beat him black and blue. His white turban fell off, the crown of his head. They took some kerosene and tossed it on him, chanting the name of their gods. He looked at me with terror stricken eyes and mouthed, ‘Run Away.’ But I stood still, paralyzed, as they burnt my father alive, brazen and charred, the smell of flesh singing my nose. His blood curdling scream shakes me to the bone even today. I, can never forget, how my father was massacred.