The needless destruction of Babri Mosque is considered a dark chapter in modern India’s history, lowering its standing amongst civilised countries by quite a few notches. It also naturally inflamed public emotions in Pakistan. Into this fire was poured oil most undesirably by our abysmally shallow political leadership of the time. We rose only to demean ourselves through a politically drummed up green madness by destroying certain already aging Hindu temples, a few Christian churches and some Sikh shrines. This act uncorked the demon of intolerance towards other religions, which our ancestors had struggled so hard to bottle up. Ever since then, this has resulted in the increased loss of life and property of religious minorities, their harassment and resultant alienation from the national mainstream. After this incident, these minorities began to display an unprecedented belligerence mainly out of desperation and unfortunate state apathy. In this fetid drama, the Sharifs of the time and some of their odious camp followers played a despicably major role. They gave the call for a general strike without laying down its parameters. It was an obvious conclusion that angry mobs would threaten minority lives, property and places of worship. No safeguards were taken at the state level, which was a tacit signal of the approval of such ugly mischief. The government of the day clearly and criminally colluded with the mobsters and failed in its primary duty towards the minorities. Any precautions or preventive measures that were taken at a few places were because of certain conscientious local civil servants. Lahore was sizzling with anger. In consultation with the civil administration, we made a contingency plan to deal with a possible flare up. A small force was made ready to be employed if required. We knew that the moving spirit behind this arrangement was Tariq Khosa, SSP Lahore, mostly at his own initiative. We prepared to support this rare, conscientious police officer in the fulfilment of his duty. In the corps headquarters we established a command centre with city maps, phones and wireless sets including a police wireless set to listen in to simultaneous coverage. As an additional measure, our intelligence and field security elements were also tasked to monitor major processions and provide an early warning of any possible trouble. Police mobile wireless teams are usually the best and more accurate means of monitoring the progress of such civil events. The morning of the strike day broke with an ominous but uneasy calm. Maulanas and certain firebrand religious leaders had just begun to deliver blistering speeches. Soon processions began to form at various places in Lahore: Model Town, Gulberg, Shadman, Mughalpura, Badami Bagh and Dharampura. Their plan was to mainly converge on the Governor’s House via the Mall Road. There were numerous, other smaller processions that were feeding the major processions and coming in from the side roads. As expected, most of these processions quickly turned riotous. Traffic lights, neon signs and the glass fronts of shops and buildings were smashed and disused tyres were set on fire. The police were stone-pelted and, in some cases, attacked and dispersed by the mob. Curiously, no request from the civil administration came seeking the army’s help. Gradually, the Lahore police lost control over the mobs; our wireless observers confirmed that by midday Lahore was at the complete mercy of the lawless mob. The civil law and order machinery had totally been overwhelmed after fairly determined encounters. By this time, wireless reports began to depict another alarming development: the burning fringes of these explosive processions were appearing to converge on the cantonment from the direction of Dharampura, the Mall Road and Walton Road. The first two led directly to the Corps Commander’s House and the last one was a flanking approach into the heart of Lahore’s cantonment area. Our reaction forces were alerted for preventive action. These processions were not to be allowed to enter the garrison and, therefore, cut-off points were indicated to respective force commanders. Wireless reports showed the Dharampura procession having approached relatively closer and the Mall Road one still some distance away. We were not quite convinced about whether the mobs really intended to confront the army. At this point in time my wild impulse resurfaced once again; these surges of misplaced valour have always gotten me into thicker soup than before. Having tied small knots here and there, I decided to see for myself how much of a threat the Dharampura procession was posing to the cantonment’s security and also what was really happening elsewhere in the city. Driving over the canal bridge and past the Dharampura police station, I spotted the vanguard of the ‘dreaded’ Dharampura procession. It was a poor copy of its morning glory. A few dozen sore-footed and exhausted men carrying some banners and placards were trudging along. This was a harmless crowd by now and apparently on its way to dissolution. However, shops were shut down and not a soul stirred on the roads. As I drove past this little crowd, the shuttered shops, deserted roads and silent alleys of Dharampura and Mughalpura on to Badami Bagh, Data Darbar and Lower Mall, a panorama of destruction, arson and wantonness unfolded. Lahore looked like a ghost city. Not a single policeman was in sight. Most of the streetlights, traffic signals and neon signs had been smashed. The atmosphere was heavy with the pungent smoke of burning tyres and the stench of the collective madness of a frenzied, drugged people. Hundreds of thousands of bricks, shattered glass bottles and other objects littered the roads. In my reckoning, the Mall Road procession might have gone past the Governor’s House by then. Therefore, I turned onto the Mall Road from the GPO and drove faster. But it had already dissipated just past the Wapda House, wreaking havoc in its wake. I turned around to approach the cantonment via Samanabad, Model Town and the Kot Lakhpat crossing route. There was a large crowd gathered around Jain Mandir in Old Anarkali, busy demolishing the temple. The conical dome of the ancient Hindu temple was already tilting at a crazy angle. This was unbelievable madness. As I was dismounting in full uniform, the crowd began to shout: “Pakistan Army zindabad” (long live the Pakistan Army). I cut them short very emphatically. The whole scene was outrageous. A place of minority worship, though not in use anymore, was being demolished along with our moral and constitutional responsibility. I refused to become a part of this insanity as it was totally repulsive for me to be so blind to reason and so short on tolerance. In a rage of indignation, I shot back at the ringleader in front of me, “You should be ashamed of yourself destroying this temple. The Holy Prophet (PBUH) never demolished any non-Muslim place of worship. He allowed them to worship freely. These people are in our care. It is cowardly to attack those who cannot defend themselves.” I did not quite realise that I was shouting. This performance must have stunned them. An uneasy silence fell upon those immediately before me. Then the word spread and good sense began to prevail. The crowd began to melt. The temple remained sorrowfully tilted at that crazy angle for a long time afterwards. However, most regrettably, we have not been able to rise out of our collective intolerance ever since. The writer is a retired brigadier of the Pakistan Army. He can be reached at clay.potter@hotmail.com