Sreelata Menon - Indira Gandhi: Child of Politics

It was a lovely morning. A lingering aroma of smoking twigs and burnt leaves hung in the cool, dry air. Bathed in the October sun Delhi was at her autumnal best and 1 Safdarjang Road, the official residence of Indias prime minister Indira Gandhi, was slowly waking up to another ordinarily busy day.

A modest house with neatly laid gardens, 1 Safdarjang Road was home to not only Mrs Gandhi but also her eldest son Rajiv, his wife Sonia and their two childrenfourteen-year-old Rahul and Priyanka who was just twelve. As sparrows hopped around noisily among the flowering bushes in the garden and koels frolicked merrily on its lawns, it did appear that morning that god was indeed in his heaven and all was right with the world.

How are you? Were you hurt? asked Mrs Gandhi in some concern as she walked into the room where her grandchildren, getting ready for school, were already at breakfast. You are back! they chorused in delighted surprise. Their father they knew was away in West Bengal and their grandmother was supposed to have been in Bhubaneswar. Yes, she nodded. But I was told about the accident. Were you hurt? She asked again. Always busy and constantly on the move, Mrs Gandhi had very little time to spend at home. After all being the prime minister of a country was no easy task. Yet she somehow always managed to make time for Rahul and Priyanka.

She had in fact, a few days ago, taken them for a fleeting but super holiday to Srinagar. They had stayed at the panoramic Chasma Shahi guest house and gone shopping at the Srinagar market as well. Then with hardly a days break between trekking up the Sankaracharya Hill, near the famous Dal Lake and dropping them off in Delhi, she had dashed off again on a strenuous election tour of Orissa.

But now as they helped themselves to some orange juice with eggs, cereal and toast the children realized that she had cut short her trip because of their accident the day before. A van had jumped the lights and collided with their escort car. We are all right, they assured her earnestly, anxious to set her mind at ease.

Rahul and Priyanka adored their grandmother and she in turn doted on them. Mrs Gandhi was not only warm and loving, she was great fun to be with as well. She was also a marvellous fund of exciting stories. She knew a whole host of stuff other grownups werent interested in. She even knew, as Priyanka says all about the swirls and textures in a pebble and the myriad colours of a beetles wing, and even a walk in the garden with her was an adventure and an exploration. (Letters from a Father to His Daughter, Jawaharlal Nehru) Mealtimes in particular were fun times when she would often tell them fascinating stories that she herself had heard from her father. Yes, as far as they were concerned, she was the best grandmother in the world!

But that day she was on an extremely busy schedule. So having satisfied herself that the children were fine she went into her study to look through some urgent files. However, just before they left for school she called them back for another hug and a kiss. A few minutes later, a little after nine, she was ready to set out for her office on Akbar Road next door, just across the garden.

Clad in a cheerful orange sari Mrs Gandhi came out of her house and nimbly strode down the path through her garden towards the wicket gate that led to her office. She was scheduled to meet a British television crew who were apparently all ready and waiting. Her usual retinue, a personal staff that included five security men, followed her. Despite having gone to bed well past midnight and up at six to breakfast with the children, she was in unusually high spirits. She was probably relieved that Rahul and Priyanka were unharmed and that the accident was not as bad as she had feared.

As she approached the wicket gate she spotted Beant Singh, one of her favourite bodyguards. He was a Sikh policeman and had been part of her security for years. He seemed to be attentively standing by to open the gate. She smiled and nodded a greeting to him. But as she drew near, Beant Singh suddenly pulled out his .38mm service revolver. What are you doing? cried Mrs Gandhi in surprise. In reply Beant Singh simply raised his arm and shot her straight in the abdomen. In dazed incredulity she tried to shield herself while he fired at her again and again. Four times did he shoot her at point-blank range. As she crumbled to the ground another young khaki-clad guard, Satwant Singh who had been lurking behind a hedge, came up. He brutally let loose a further thirty rounds from his own Sten gun, peppering her already stricken body with more bullets. The impact almost lifted Mrs Gandhis frail body off the ground and spun it around violently before bringing it crashing down again. And sadly in a matter of seconds, one of Indias most charismatic leaders lay dying in her own garden shot by her own bodyguards. It was the 31st of October and the year 1984. She was a few days short of her sixty-seventh birthday.