An exclusive extract from the Indian politician’s memoir
Read an interview with Sonia Gandhi here
I return to my room as my mother-in-law leaves for her office in the building adjacent to our home. I am about to start my bath when I hear a series of explosions, as of firecrackers, but different. I freeze. Someone comes pounding frantically on my bathroom door. It is Ongmu, the children’s nanny, crying hysterically. I fling open the door, my heart thumping. She is gesticulating wildly, speechlessly, towards the garden.
I run along the path leading to Akbar Road. I see the white Ambassador car slowly moving towards the same path. I hesitate. I stop, heart in my mouth. Dread, panic, fear. I feel suffocated. I can’t breathe. I am about to collapse. No, no, I can’t. I have to walk to the car. I see her being carried into it. I understand; I scream.
I’m in the car now, crouching on the floor, facing her … Blood – blood on her sari, blood on her chest. Her large eyes are wide open; her face wears a surprised expression. She doesn’t move. I attempt to speak to her, to call out, “Mummy, Mummy”, but no word comes out. I try again; she doesn’t reply.
Her aides are in the front of the car, screaming. Heavy, slow traffic, the car barely moves, it has no siren. One red light, then another. Then the hospital. The gate isn’t opening. Chaos. We are stopped; someone looks through the window in a questioning attitude. They let us in.
We reach the emergency department, teeming with people. We are stopped again, not allowed in, we have to wait for our turn. Someone calls out to the driver, signals him to move forward. They identify us; she is placed on a trolley. We are led somewhere – an operation theatre? They ask me to follow. I’m taken to a room nearby. No, no, I want to stay by her, I insist. I want to know. I have to see. They don’t reply; they are immersed in their emergency procedures.
I feel confused, lost … I don’t recognise anyone there. I’m shivering under my dressing gown. I feel scared, my mind is racing. Where is Rajiv? I try to remember. I can’t, I can’t. The children, yes, they’re in school; they must be brought home. Oh God, no, no. Let them be safe, let Rajiv be safe … Whom do I tell, whom do I speak to? I sense someone in the room. I don’t know who it is. I try to speak, to put some words together; nothing comes out. “There’s blood all over her clothes,” someone says. Some clothes are brought in for me. I am helped into them in a nearby closet.
Hours go by, agonising hours. More people come in and crowd around. I signal a question to the doctor; he shakes his head. I understand, yes, I understand. I break into sobs, uncontrollably. Someone tries to calm me. I feel numb, cold.
At two in the afternoon of 31 October 1984, Indira Gandhi was declared dead. I was driven home to collect some clothes for her body to be changed into. On the way, a group of men tried to stop our car, banging on its windows. They were angry, shouting something I couldn’t understand.
At home, the children, Rahul and Priyanka, rushed to my arms in tears. When they had been abruptly picked up from school by black-uniformed commandos, they sensed a catastrophe. Once home, they saw some of the staff sobbing. They asked question after question. “Where’s Mama?” “Why have we been brought home?” “Where’s Papa?” “What’s happened?” “Where’s Dadi?” “You aren’t telling us the truth!” My friends Nina and Sterre had been with them, trying to calm them down, not knowing what to say to them. I wanted to sit with them and hug them, to break the news to them gently, but I was unable to – I had to go back; Rajiv was coming to the hospital.
Rajiv had been in West Bengal at a political rally when his cavalcade was stopped by a police patrol. He was told there was a message from Delhi to say he should rush back – a serious accident had taken place. He was driven to the helipad, from where he flew to Calcutta and then to Delhi. He’d heard on a BBC bulletin that Mrs Gandhi was wounded and in a grave condition. Nobody told him directly that his mother was no more, but he understood.
He landed at 3.30pm and was driven straight to the hospital. He walked in with other people, and I remember longing to be left alone with him for a moment at least. We held each other, and as he spoke to me, it sunk in that he was saying something I didn’t want to hear. “I have been asked … They want me to be sworn in as prime minister.”
I felt as if a knife had been plunged right into my heart. I felt a pounding in my chest, a rage welling up deep inside me. I was about to explode. I attempted to hold it in. “You have been asked to? How dare they ask? How dare they? Who are they? Why you, why does it have to be you? Why did you allow them to ask you? No, it cannot be; this time it’s not going to be!” Seized by utter pain and anguish, soaked in perspiration, I felt like throwing up. I wanted to scream, to ask for help. “Someone please help me put an end to this.”
I burst out crying, pleading, begging him with folded hands, “No, no, you can’t think of it. You have to stop them, you must refuse, you must say no – for the children’s sake, for yourself. You can’t do this to us. They will kill you; they will kill you, too!” I cried out. He replied, “They will kill me anyway.”
We brought my mother-in-law home. The dining room had been emptied out, and we laid her body down on the floor, her feet pointing south as Hindu custom decrees. The same evening at around 6.30pm, Rajiv was sworn in as prime minister of India. I was too broken to even register what was happening around me. His mother lay there, her body pierced with more than 30 bullet holes. I knew, I knew it then in my heart: Rajiv’s path would lead to the same end.
