On the occasion of Indira Gandhi’s 41st death anniversary, I asked some friends and family the question I often pose at book discussions on my biography of the former prime minister: Do you remember what you were doing at the time Gandhi was assassinated?
The answers never fail to surprise me. All those who were old enough to recall 31 October 1984, the day Gandhi was slain by her Sikh bodyguards, remember exactly—and I mean exactly—what they were doing in those moments.
Someone was having a haircut. Someone else was buying a cake. A third was in a college canteen, sipping nimbu paani. A fourth recalled his mother was so shocked, she was unable to cook that day.
