Communal Riots of Ahmedabad 1969 (6)

 6. Communal Riots of Ahmedabad (1969)

“When the hare chased the dog, Sultan Ahmed Shah founded the city.” This old proverb recalls how Sultan Ahmed Shah, who ruled Gujarat from Patan, decided to shift his capital. While traveling along the banks of the Sabarmati River, he witnessed a hare chasing a dog, a symbol of bravery and spirit. Interpreting it as an auspicious sign, he chose that very place to establish a new city.

He built a walled city filled with residential neighborhoods (pols), markets, and offices, surrounded by twelve gates and eight windows, and named it Ahmedabad in 1411, making it the capital of Gujarat.

Until 1572, the city remained under the rule of independent Sultans, after which it came under Mughal control, with rulers like Shah Jahan, Aurangzeb, and Murad playing major roles as Governors. Later came the Maratha rule, then the Gaekwads, followed by the British, and finally independent India in 1947. When Gujarat became a separate state in 1960, Ahmedabad emerged as the capital of the new Gujarati state.

Although the majority of the population was Gujarati, the city had seen rule under Muslims, Marathas, and the British, which gave rise to a blended culture of religious tolerance and courage. Yet, where religion exists, so does the possibility of division.

Communal Harmony 

In Ahmedabad, two religious processions traditionally brought the entire city onto the streets:

The Rath Yatra of Lord Krishna, Balaram, and Subhadra on Ashadhi Beej (around July), and

The Tazia procession on the tenth day of Muharram, marking the mourning of Imam Hussain.

The Rath Yatra had begun in 1878, while the Tazia tradition likely started around the city’s founding, as it was first observed in India after Timur’s invasion in 1398.

Both festivals showcased communal harmony, but they also occasionally gave troublemakers opportunities to incite violence.

At that time, Ahmedabad was still a small, walled city. The Rath Yatra route began from the Jagannath Temple in Jamalpur, passed through Gomtipur, Khadia, Kalupur, Saraspur, Prem Darwaza, Delhi Chakla, Shahpur, Panchkuva, and Manek Chowk, before returning to Jamalpur.

When the procession passed through Khadia and Saraspur, tensions usually rose, and as it entered Prem Darwaza and Delhi Chakla, the fear of communal clashes increased.

The chariots, huge crowds, and music moving through the narrow lanes sometimes stopped at crossroads, giving mischief-makers the chance to provoke riots. If the situation escalated, it quickly led to stone-pelting, tear gas, firing, and curfew.

However, the 1969 Rath Yatra, despite occurring in a tense communal atmosphere that July, passed peacefully.

Communal Riots (September 1969)

Generally, Ahmedabad was known for its communal harmony, but after India’s partition in 1947, tensions between communities grew, resulting in several small and large riots that flared up and subsided over the years.

After the Mahagujarat Movement, led by Indulal Yagnik, Gujarat was established as a separate state on May 1, 1960, ushering in a new era of development. The number of textile mills and housing colonies (chalis) in Ahmedabad increased, and between 1960 and 1970, the city’s population rose by 38%, from 1.5 million to 2 million.

East Ahmedabad filled with laborers and migrants from other regions, and when Ahmedabad became the state capital, political activity shifted here from Mumbai, setting the stage for both urban growth and social tensions that would later erupt in the 1969 communal riots.

In Maninagar, a three-day rally (December 27–29, 1968) was held demanding the establishment of a Hindu Rashtra (Hindu Nation). A few months later, in June 1969, a Jamiat Ulema-e-Hind Conference took place, both events deepening the communal divide in the city.

On March 3, 1969, a small incident in Kalupur triggered tensions; a handcart obstructing traffic was moved, causing a copy of the Quran lying on it to fall. Though the police officer involved apologized immediately, some people began rioting, and several policemen were injured.

Later, on September 4, during a Ramlila performance, when a Muslim sub-inspector tried to disperse the crowd, a copy of the Ramayana accidentally fell from a table. This angered the Hindu community, leading to an agitation by the Hindu Dharma Raksha Samiti. Around the same time, Balraj Madhok, a leader from a prominent political party, visited the city on September 14–15 and delivered fiery speeches, further inflaming communal tensions.

On September 18, 1969, at the Chilla Dargah of Sufi Saint Bukhari Sahib near the Jagannath Temple in Jamalpur, a Urs fair was being celebrated. A large crowd of Muslims had gathered for the occasion. Meanwhile, a group of Hindu sadhus was leading cows toward the Jagannath Temple through the same crowded street. As the cows began running, a few Muslim women were injured, prompting the crowd to retaliate — the temple gate was damaged, and some sadhus were assaulted.

In response, Mahant Sevadasji, the head priest of the temple, went on a fast in protest. A delegation of fifteen Muslim representatives immediately met him, apologized, and tried to settle the matter peacefully. But peace and Ahmedabad have rarely coexisted for long. On September 19, violence broke out and quickly spread through the mill areas.

Spread of Violence 

With the rise of textile mills, the city had filled with workers’ housing colonies (chalis). In many of these, Dalit Hindu workers lived on one side, and Muslims, often small traders or laborers, lived on the other. The original Hindu residents had moved away, leaving behind two vulnerable, poor communities; who, in the riots, turned violently against each other.

Despite police efforts using tear gas, lathi charges, and curfews, between September 19 and 24, the six days of violence left 574 people dead, and shops, houses, and mosques worth crores of rupees destroyed or burned.

On September 20, when a Muslim man surrounded by a mob was asked to say “Jai Jagannath”, he refused and instead chose death. The mob poured petrol over him and set him on fire.

Even during a brief three-hour curfew relaxation, forty people were killed. Mobs dragged passengers from trains and lynched them. Madness ruled the streets. Ahmedabad was drenched in blood, and the Muslim community suffered the worst losses.

At the time, newspapers like Gujarat Samachar, Sandesh, and Jansatta were circulating. But the uncertainty of news and the spread of rumors fueled by pamphlets and inflammatory leaflets distributed by extremist groups — kept the situation volatile. No one truly understood why neighbors had suddenly become enemies.

As soon as riots broke out on September 19, curfew was imposed. Chief Minister Hitendra Desai immediately requested the Central Government to send in the army, which arrived on September 24 with orders to shoot on sight. The riots were brought under control, though sporadic violence continued for days afterward.

Chawl became part of the Chaos

At that time, I was nine years old. We lived in Natwarlal Vakil’s chawl in East Ahmedabad. My father and eldest brother were mill workers. Our family of eight included my parents, grandmother, three brothers, a sister-in-law, and a younger sister. My mother and sister were away living in our native village, and my sister-in-law was pregnant.

Since my father and brother worked eight-hour shifts in the mill, I had already learned to take responsibility for household chores. My father, being a member of the Majoor Mahajan Union, often spoke of Mahatma Gandhi, Nehru, Sardar Patel, and Lal Bahadur Shastri.

Both my parents had lived through the freedom movement, and my father had even taken part in the Quit India agitation of 1942, joining a three-and-a-half-month mill strike in solidarity. Because of them, I had grown up deeply patriotic, aware of public affairs, and sensitive to the events unfolding around me including the tragedy that turned Ahmedabad, my city, into a symbol of India’s darkest communal violence.

During the 1969 communal riots, even our chawl became part of the chaos. Under normal circumstances, everyone listened to leaders like my father, who had respect in the locality. But when riots break out, control shifts to anti-social elements—people with nothing to lose and much anger to express.

Our chawl was right next to Maniyarwado, a Muslim neighborhood. On ordinary days, Hindus and Muslims mingled freely; buying and selling groceries, repairing cycles, visiting the local clinic, or chatting in shops. Many even shared connections through liquor, gambling, and the local police.

But when communal tensions rose, language changed overnight. Abuses toward the “other” community became common. Around that time, seven textile mills had shut down, leaving many unemployed youths idle. That idleness turned into anger, and then, into mobs.

Every house had sticks and metal pipes; some had knives and small swords. When the time came, a mob would form; waving pipes and sticks, shouting slogans, stepping out of the chawl and onto the main road. Soon, another mob would appear from the opposite side.

The stone-throwing began, and if flames took hold, shops were looted, goods stolen, and kerosene used to set them on fire. Once it started, it spread like wildfire. To keep the violence going, people began bringing in pipes, kerosene, and liquor barrels from elsewhere.

The Cycle of Retaliation

On the first day, a few people got injured in stone-pelting. The next day, mobs wanted revenge.

In those days, people used bronze plates and utensils for meals. Some young men tied metal plates to their heads as makeshift helmets, wrapping a cloth or turban around them for protection.

I was curious. I followed the crowd, standing at the edge of the road to see what they were doing. It was curfew time, so the roads were empty and shops shuttered.

The mob reached a Marwari grocer’s shop, broke the shutter, and began looting sacks of wheat, rice, and millet. They took tins of jaggery and oil. I saw a jar of cashews through the broken glass, something I had always wanted to taste. For a moment, I was tempted but then I thought, how can I take something stolen? Before more breaking of the shops, the police arrived, and everyone scattered back into the chawl.

Hunger and Curfew

With mills closed, no income came in. The monthly ration money wasn’t distributed. Milk supply was stopped so we were drinking kawa, a black tea with jaggery. We ran out of sugar, tea after few days.

When curfew eased for an hour, vegetable carts came around, but prices were high. So we survived on flatbread and chili chutney.

One day, my father sent me during a short curfew break to borrow five rupees from his friend and uncle in law Baluram who lived about a kilometer away. I walked briskly, keeping to the footpath, constantly alert to any noise or movement.

When I reached his house, he said he was as strapped for money as we were, so he couldn’t help. I turned back empty-handed.

At the nearest crossroads, I suddenly saw mobs rushing out from both sides; men carrying pipes, swords, and flaming torches. I hid in a corner. Within minutes, they had smashed and looted nearby shops, throwing signboards and goods onto the road, making a bonfire of them. I slipped away quietly from the corner of a footpath while watching the dance of violence and ran back home, heart pounding.

The Army Arrives

When the army arrived in Ahmedabad, the curfew became strict. Soldiers would drag violators on the tar roads, no one dared step out.

The curfew was eased only for women or those with government jobs who had special passes. The sick needed a doctor’s permit to reach hospitals.

The army would march on horseback through the streets. Their “shoot-on-sight” orders spread fear, and soon, the riots outside quieted down. The army began inspecting the chawls, going door to door, looking for hidden weapons.

In our chawl, there was a large pile of stones and bricks at one corner meant for defense if Maniyarwado attacked. The elders panicked, fearing the army would beat or arrest them. So they covered the pile with bedsheets, quilts, and mats.

When the soldiers arrived, I followed them as they inspected house after house. When they reached the courtyard, they pointed at the covered pile and asked, “What’s this?”

Everyone stood silent. Finally, Gangaram Bhagat softly said, “Sir, these are onions and potatoes. Nothing’s available outside, so we’ve stored some.”

One soldier looked at me and asked, “Is he telling the truth?”

I remembered a story from the Mahabharata, when Yudhishthira told Dronacharya, “Ashwatthama hathah iti, narova kunjaro va” — half-truth to win the war.

So I nodded.

The soldier lifted the edge of the sheet, saw the bricks, and laughed. Then they left without saying anything.

As they walked away, I said softly, “Maniyarwado is just next to us. If they attack, these stones are our only defense to protect the women and children.”

Leaving Ahmedabad

With Adhik Maas (the extra lunar month) and Diwali (November 9) approaching, families began leaving the city. No one was buying train tickets; people just climbed aboard to flee.

Behind our chawl was the railway track. Bootleggers used to hide liquor barrels there. Now, that back route became our escape path.

Soon, our family decided to leave too. My father and brother Kanu stayed behind, while my elder brother Jeevan, pregnant sister-in-law Rahi, grandmother Sundar, and I packed up.

We took the 8 a.m. train, got down at Katosan Road at noon, washed up at Chiman Shrimali’s shop, and asked for a camel cart ride but no one agreed without advance payment.

Our village, Bhataariya, was nine kilometers away. We had no money. So we began walking.

Grandmother was 82 years old and barely able to walk; my sister-in-law was seven months pregnant. My brother carried a bundle of utensils on his head. I had a small cloth bag. We walked slowly along the railway line, balancing across gaps in the sleepers.

While crossing one culvert, my brother’s foot slipped between the rails; he twisted his ankle badly. Now, we had three people nearly helpless.

We somehow reached Bangli, still two miles short of the village and my grandmother collapsed. I left them there, rushed ahead to Khushalibha’s house, and explained everything. Two young men immediately set out with a cot and carried Grandmother and Rai bhabhi back by evening.

That night, Grandmother was bedridden.

The First Night in the Village

My mother Punjibaa and sister Ramila were already at home. Mother cooked potato-onion curry and thick wheat rotis.

That night, we finally slept in peace — my first night in our brick house with Mangalore tiles, built by my father from his khadi-selling days.

Exhausted, I slept deeply.

Morning in Bhatariya

At dawn, I woke to the cooing of peacocks and the temple bell.

The village was alive; women milking buffaloes, collecting dung, carrying it in baskets on their heads to make fuel cakes.

Men were leaving with water pots or heading to their fields with oxen and carts. The monsoon season was ending, and some still had grain to harvest.

Rai bhabhi lit the stove and made tea. I picked a neem twig for brushing my teeth; it was so bitter I spat it out.

After tea, I prepared to explore the village;  lost in thought, not knowing that what awaited me in Bhatariya would soon turn my imagination into a hard, unforgettable reality.

3 September 2025