December 6th is a day of mourning. For the entire country, perhaps, but doubly so for me. It is the day my grandfather died. Not in 1992, of course. He died in his bed: practically blind, bed-ridden, in pain, and given to whispering 'ab bas' to nobody in particular, once in a while, even though he showed little sign of 'bas karo'-ing otherwise. Since he could no longer read or write, a kaatib had been hired so he could dictate and finish the last few projects he'd been working on. (One of them had been the researching of various versions of the Ramayana in Urdu.)
On the 6th of December, he slipped away. Quietly, I hear, leaving so much unfinished, unseen, unsaid.
About the other great tragedy of this date, I find I cannot find any new words. But poetry often says the unsayable, and Kaifi Azmi has said some part of it.
"Ram banvaas se laut ke jab ghar mein aaye
Yaad jungle bahut aaya jo nagar mein aaye
Raks-e-deewangi aangan mein jo dekha hoga
6 Desambar ko Shri Raam ne socha hoga..."
Read Doosra Banvaas, here.