It was Sunday evening and I had, absolutely had to, pick up some knick-knack from the Sarojini Nagar market. My husband was a little skeptical. “Can’t you go on a weekday? On Tuesday morning perhaps?” Even I was not so eager, having made it a point to avoid crowded joints on weekends since the 2005 Sarojini blast, but the errand was unavoidable.

So we zipped to the market, found a parking slot in a ziffy (the parking lot was empty, just 10 cars hanging around in the entire street). The Sunday evening market resembled what it generally would on a Monday morning (that’s the off day). As I got off, my hubby handed me my cell. “Carry it!”

Inside, the usual festive sale banners were up but the shoppers were missing. So were the trademark momowallahs (“the police don’t want any gas stoves around,” said a shopkeeper) and the street side hawkers, Sarojini’s identity. Instead I saw four blue-uniformed guards keeping a strict eye. “Marshals appointed by shopkeepers,” informed a hawker.

Errand over, as I was making my way out of the shop, suddenly there was a commotion. Something  was happening at the end of the lane. People started running even without finding out what had happened. The usual query, “kya hua” couldn’t be heard anywhere. A numbing fear gripped me too and I stood rooted to the spot. People ran, pushed, and shoved all around. I saw everything in slow motion. Then a PCR van emerged from amid the crowd, on its usual round to pick up illegal hawkers.

People stopped running, some broke out in uncomfortable smiles, refusing to accept they were scared. I started walking out and didn’t stop till I reached the car, almost breaking into a trot near the monstrous green dustbins!

“Let’s get out of here, fast,” my husband said, even as he sped away as I just managed to shut the car doors in time.

Is this terror?