Ahmedabad, Aug 12: President A P J Abdul Kalam came here for 5 minutes, spent the next 30 with a few victims. That was the news. Here is the noise The Evening Before
6.30 pm-9 pm: Barricades up, debris cleared, disinfectant sprinkled outside the public toilet, whitewash, streetlights — all in a single day. ‘‘Woh miyanbhai hai...hamari baat dhyan se sunega (He’s a Muslim, he’ll lend us his ear),’’ says Lalbibi Ismailbhai, whose house was ransacked. Her neighbour Majeed and his family weren’t so lucky—they were killed.
Halogen lamps are up, the street is flooded with light, inside it’s dark. Houses have no doors, no windows, no roof. ‘‘The shop owner does not give us adequate kerosene,’’ complains Bundubhai, who lost his wife and daughter in the riots. His daughter-in-law tries to light a fire with damp wood. Stoves have been distributed but with no kerosene, they are of little use.

Bangle-seller Akhtar Husain’s family of seven watches mother Subaida cook rice and dal on a makeshift oven using wood. She wants to speak to Kalam, they haven’t got compensation. ‘‘But they won’t let us approach him,’’ she says.

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Inside the chawl, Social Welfare Department officials tell victims to collect their cheques—compensation for small businesses—in the morning. Collector K Srinivas arrives; Shah Alam camp inmate Sabir Mehboob Shaikh has come here in his wheelchair to speak to Kalam. Srinivas asks an official to look into his case. Pat comes the reply: ‘‘I will prepare his papers tonight and we can give him the cheque tomorrow morning.’’ Sabir wonders what’s happening.
The Night Before
10-10.30: Ilyas needs money for a pillar in his damaged scrap shop. ‘‘With the President here, they’ll do it,’’ says a neighbour. A young Noor Mohammad couldn’t care less. ‘‘The President is not a true Muslim,’’ he says.
Women start moving to ‘‘safer places’’ to sleep, all across the road. Bundubhai, who lost his wife and daughter, is unable to sleep. Asks Abdul Rahimbhai, a fabrication worker: ‘‘What difference will his visit will make, except perhaps for this streetlight?’’
The colony turns in for the night but PWD men are still at work: painting black and yellow stripes on the highway roundabout.

The Morning 08 am-12 noon: Noor Mohammad Shaikh — the father of eight-month pregnant Kausar Bano who was killed after her foetus was ripped out—has arrived from Shah Alam camp. He wants to meet the President. Like him, others who don’t live here have come, hoping that they get in a word or two.

Voluntary organisations start putting up banners. More policemen arrive, most of them gather around a tea stall.
At noon, more police vans arrive, so do senior officials who ask local organisations to bring the ‘‘select riot victims’’ for screening — only they will meet Kalam.
Raja Bundebhai, the 9-year-old, who became famous when he spoke to Justice J S Verma of the NHRC, is told he will meet the President. The boy rushes home to take a bath and wear new clothes.

The Countdown -4.50 pm:‘‘Where were all these people all these months?’’ asks a Munnabibi Ghulam Mohammad. The officials — in safaris and shiny shoes — go from house to house, followed by another team handing out compensation cheques.
‘‘Just because he is coming, they think of distributing cheques. We have made hundreds of rounds in the last five months but had to do without. Now Narendra Modi will say ‘see how many cheques we have given’. How will Dr Kalam know?’’ asks Mariyum Begum.
The President
5-5.30 pm: Kalam aaya, goes the crowd whenever a car pulls up. The convoy stops: the President gets down and instead of walking into the lane, walks towards the crowd and waves. TV cameras, police and Government officials all rush towards him. Chief Minister Narendra Modi escorts Kalam, who stops at two houses.
In five minutes, he is out of the Naroda-Patiya lane.
5.15 pm: He walks up the dais where ‘‘selected’’ victims are waiting. He listens patiently and asks a few questions. Collector K Srinivas stands by, translating while Modi stands at arm’s length. Outside, the crowd shouts Kalam zindabad.
5.30 pm: The President has left. ‘‘Gaya. Sab ghar jao (He’s gone. Go home now),’’ a youth shouts. The selected victims are surrounded by the media, ‘‘No one will come here from tomorrow,’’ says a widow.
Noorbhai, the father of the pregnant Kausar Bano who was killed and her stomach slit, leaves. He didn’t meet Kalam.

Bureau Report