Tarique Anwar, TwoCircles.net
New Delhi: The sun was just beginning to dip below the horizon in Northeast Delhi, but for Mallika, the evening of February 25, 2020, had already descended into darkness. The air was thick with tension, carrying the acrid smell of smoke and fear. Mallika stood in a rented third floor of a building in Bhagirathi Vihar, clutching her children close and heart hammering in her chest. The streets were alive with chaotic chants, echoing from below, and she could hear the shrill cries of ‘Jai Shri Ram’ and ‘Bharat Mata Ki Jai’ cutting through the already volatile atmosphere. Those chants, once heard in moments of celebration, now haunted her, carrying with them the dread of a memory that would never fade.
A mere few hours earlier, she had been told by her landlord that a group of young men had been roaming the area, knocking on doors, hunting for Muslim men. As the mob drew closer, Mallika’s heart sank. She hurriedly warned her husband, Musharraf, urging him to hide. He took refuge under the bed, hoping against hope that the chaos would soon pass. But the mob was relentless. They barged into their home, dragged Musharraf from his hiding place and, despite his wife’s desperate pleas, beat him senseless. Even their 12-year-old daughter, her voice trembling with innocence, begged the attackers to show mercy, but there was none.
“They killed him and burnt his body in front of us. They were so violent that even my 12-year-old daughter’s repeated plea for mercy could not melt their hearts. We pleaded with them to spare him for humanity’s sake, but we were told, ‘Muslims are not humans,’” she recalls, her voice shaking, tears welling in her eyes. Her hands trembled as she spoke, as if the horrors of that day could still reach out and claw at her.
The brutality did not end there. The rioters, not satisfied with ending Musharraf’s life, dragged his body down the stairs, set it ablaze and then threw the charred remains into a nearby drain. It was a grotesque act, leaving Mallika and her children in a state of shock and disbelief, wondering how the world had turned so cruel.
But even in the aftermath of such terror, the danger was far from over. As Mallika feared for her own life and the lives of her children, she made a decision born of desperation. She would escape, and the only way to do so was to hide her identity. She smeared sindoor (vermilion married Hindu women use), on her forehead, hoping the rioters would mistake her for one of their own.
As she hurried down the stairs with her two children, the terror was palpable. Another mob stopped them on their way and raised suspicions on their religious identity. They checked her infant son’s pants, seeking the sign of circumcision. When they discovered that the family was Muslim, the attacks began anew. “They attacked all of us,” she says. “But somehow, we managed to escape unhurt.”
They fled to nearby town Loni in bordering Uttar Pradesh for a while before eventually finding a rented space in Northeast Delhi’s Gokalpuri, a place that would hopefully offer some semblance of safety from the violence that had torn apart their world.
However, their new life was hardly one of peace. The violence that had destroyed her home and family had also taken her financial stability. The compensation of Rs 10 lakh that Mallika had received from the Delhi government was meant to offer some relief, but it was not nearly enough.
“A portion of the sum was spent on the marriage of my eldest daughter, who was 18 in 2020. A good amount of money went into starting life afresh,” she says, the weight of her words sinking into the air between us. “I have two children, a six-year-old son and a 15-year-old daughter, to look after. I used to work in factories, but since the pandemic, no one is giving me a job. We are surviving on whatever menial work I get.”
Mallika’s struggle for survival mirrors the pain of many others who lost everything during the riots, their lives shattered by the same senseless violence. In the aftermath of the riots, many families were left to pick up the pieces of their broken lives, without any real support or justice.
One such person is Imrana, a 37-year-old mother of eight daughters. Her world was upended when her husband, Mohammad Mudassir Khan, was shot dead in Maujpur on February 25, 2020. He had stepped out to pay his daughter’s school fees, unaware that his decision would seal his fate. The violence had already erupted in the area, and he had called his wife to warn her of the escalating situation.
“I advised him not to come back, but he was anxious about our well-being,” Imrana recalls. “He called again the next day, panicking and wanting to come home. But that was the last I heard from him. Half an hour after our video call, someone told me that Mudassir had been shot. I tried calling him, but the phone was answered by someone who told me he had died.”
Mudassir was taken to the hospital, but he was already dead by the time he was rushed. “He had a flourishing scrap business, and now that he is gone, there is no breadwinner left in our family,” Imrana says. Her voice falters slightly as she recounts how her brother-in-law, who had taken over Mudassir’s business, stopped providing any financial support after a year. “Initially, he used to give me Rs 15,000 every month, but it stopped. I did not even receive any donations people had given to us. All that money was withdrawn by them.”
Imrana, like many others, has turned to activism and small business ventures to keep her family afloat. She opened a beauty parlour, but it was shut down after her in-laws opposed it. “My second eldest daughter, Fiza, has done a beautician’s course, and that is why I started the parlour. But my in-laws did not want it. They do not care for us,” she says. “I hope she gets a respectable job so that she can manage her studies and help support the family.”
Despite these struggles, Imrana has not given up. She lives in fear of losing her home, though, as her in-laws have asked her to vacate. “They want me to leave the house that has my husband’s share and return to my parents’ place,” she says, her face etched with worry. “I do not know what will happen to us.”
Like Mallika, Imrana is unsure about the status of her police case. “I do not know what is happening to the legal case. The police never recorded my statement, and I have never been called to court,” she adds.
Sunita, a 25-year-old woman from Brijpuri, also found herself grappling with loss when her husband, Prem Singh, who was killed in the violence. He had gone out in the morning to buy milk for their three infant daughters, but he never returned. After a frantic search, she learned that he had been shot. His body was later discovered at the hospital, and she was left to navigate life without him. “He was the sole earning member of the family,” she says. “Now I have to take care of three children by myself. How will I feed them? How will they study?”
The pain of loss, the uncertainty of the future and the struggle for survival are stories shared by many who lived through the brutal riots. For some, the promises of compensation, jobs and support from political leaders turned out to be empty.
Neetu Saini is another such person whose husband was shot and killed on February 25, 2020. She says that despite the promises made by Bharatiya Janata Party (BJP) leaders, including a job offer, she has received no real assistance. “They just came, gave us some money and promised a job, but nothing happened,” she says.
Five years after the violence, Neetu is still trying to keep her family together. “I have a vegetable shop now, outside my son’s school. It is a small income, but it is all I have,” she says. “And the Rs 10 lakh I received in compensation; I saved it for my children’s education.”
Her story, like so many others, is one of betrayal. The hope for justice seems to fade with each passing day, as the perpetrators walk free and the victims are left to fend for themselves. The specter of those violent days lingers, and for many, it feels like the battle for justice was never truly fought.
Saiba, who lost her husband Aas Mohammad during the riots, is another survivor left in the lurch. Her husband’s body was found decomposed and unrecognisable in a drain five days after he went missing. “They told us he died of drug abuse, but the post-mortem showed that he was beaten to death,” she says, her voice trembling with disbelief. “It is a cover-up. The police knew who did it, but they protected the rioters.”
Communal violence in the Trans Yamuna region claimed the lives of over 53 individuals, including 38 Muslims and 15 Hindus, over four days (from February 23 to 27, 2020), while properties worth crores were destroyed. Although there was video footage that clearly showed BJP leader Kapil Mishra and others stirring up mobs with inflammatory hate speech, the government dismissed the violence as a spontaneous outbreak. Now a minister in the newly formed BJP government in the national capital, Mishra was not even booked for his hate speech, which is alleged to have fuelled the fire.
As the memories of that horrific February continue to haunt those who survived, one thing remains clear: the search for justice, for truth and accountability has been long and painful. And amidst all, the survivor, like Mallika, Imrana, Sunita and Neetu, are left to carry the weight of their loss, with no guarantee that they will ever see the justice they so desperately deserve.