Suddenly a section of our room's kuccha roof caved in. Someone was trying to break in. Someone else fired a shot in the air. Father handed each of us kirpans explaining carefully that if the mob broke the door we should stab ourselves on the left side. My mother, nursing my three-month-old brother, threw herself at father's feet saying, "Save this child. Agree to convert". Father ignored her. When she repeated her entreaty my elder uncle got up, slashed her neck with a kirpan yelling, "Yeh kehna haraam hai" (This is blasphemy). She died instantly. Father put her blood-soaked dupatta on the tip of his sword, rushed out the door half-crazed. People waiting on either side literally skewered him with knives and swords. My eldest uncle who rushed out after him was similarly cut down. The doctor cousin got up to fight next. His wife stopped him, demanding he kill her, all the girls, before he went out. He stabbed her, killed his three-year-old son, stabbed each one of us, I still carry that kirpan scar on my scalp; and rushed out as we collapsed around him. He refused to stab his mother saying, "No dharma tells me to do this". He was lynched in seconds. Last to go out was my octogenarian daadi. She tottered out, frail but resolute, saying, "kaisi ladai ladney aaye ho? Mujhe apne bacchon ko ek boar dekhna hai." (What kind of war is this? Let me at least see my children once.) They ripped out earrings, bangles, gold chain. And as she stood there bleeding, stoned her to death. Before they left they slaughtered the Muslim bhai.