In December 1992, I was 16 and I think I was also a bit of a philistine.  I had an exaggerated sense of deference for the opinions of the elders around me.  I hung on to their every word in matters political and social.  So when the news filtered in on that smoky winter evening on the 6^th December all those years ago that a mob of Hindu zealots had successfully demolished the 16^th century medieval structure known as Babri Mosque; I felt elated.  Even though I am ashamed to admit it now, but and that time I was imbued with a sense of accomplishment at what had been achieved.

  My happiness was on two counts, one, I swallowed willingly the propaganda launched by the right-wing that how that historic monument was an insult to the Hindu pride since, according to them, this was place where Lord Ram was believed to have been born.  And two, because this issue had been festering for such a long time and had created so much unrest in the country, that I thought if the cause will disappear, the effect will cease.  Not for me all this talk in the press about the image of the nation taking a fearful beating.  I hardly cared that this mob vandalism was almost filled with incomprehensible fury that was tribal in nature and scope. 

  Now that I am older and hopefully wiser, and with the benefit of hindsight, I can see that the destruction on that day was the thin end of the wedge, and triggered a vicious cycle of reaction and counter reaction fueled by intense hatred on the part of both reactionary Hindus and Muslims on either side and we have paid and are still paying a terrible price for it.  But what stays with me is how much distance I have covered from being one kind of a person I was from another kind of person I am.