This is a story about when my father and mother were growing up. The Indian government was persecuting minorities, and since they my parents are Muslim they were persecuted. There were constant riots going on. Sometimes terrible accusations were made. people would claim that when a Hindu procession was going on, someone had thrown a stone. After an accusation like that was made, they would pinpoint all the shops and businesses belonging to the Muslim community, and they would burn them down. They would find any Muslim running in the street and attempt to murder them. This was a common phenomena. 

In September 1984, my father remembered something had happened. There was a place called Charminar from there all the way to Hussain Saggats on a four or five miles long road on either side was a store. Wherever there were Muslim shops, they would all be burned down. This was an organized program against Muslims. One day my mother, who at the time was maybe twelve years old. She was going from her maternal grandmother’s house to her father’s place. Her father was driving the scooter or what you would call a motorcycle in America. They had just gotten on the motorcycle when a riot started around them. These people came running with machetes, and all kinds of weapons planning to kill them. Luckily, my grandfather acted quickly on the motorcycle. He was able to start it up and drive away before being taken by the crowd. They were able to escape. If he would have made one simple mistake or if he was caught by the crowd, then most likely my mother and grandfather would have been killed in the riot. These were the kinds of things that when they were growing up, they experienced. These kinds of stories are common from many of the families who were living in India during this time.