In my parent’s bedroom is a framed photo that seems a bit out of place. The small image has an aged yellow tint and displays my father at the young age of 24, standing proudly atop the GB Pant Hospital in New Delhi, India. He looks just as I do now. Tall, skinny, his not-yet full beard kept neatly on the sides of his jaw as he sports a clean pair of glasses and a neat turban matching his shirt. That year (1984), my father was in his medical residency pursuing a specialty in anesthesiology. His eyes shine of dreams of the success that would come from his hard work in the future. However, what could not be captured in the photograph is what my father had seen in that year, 1984.My father was in the heart of it all, the capitol of the nation, New Delhi. He was staying in a hostel with his close friends who were also completing their residency. "I vividly recall when Indira Gandhi was killed" he told me. "I remember going up to the top of the Irwin Hospital and watching as her funeral procession marched through the streets. Scattered around the procession was smoke coming from small random spots around the city." The smoke my father saw emanated from the burning of Sikh homes, businesses, and people. The mobs that were causing those fires that popped up throughout New Delhi in front of my father’s eyes were far from random, but systematic and deliberate. The police cooperated with the mobs and allowed them into Sikh homes and watched as they killed the innocent Sikhs and torched their homes, showing no clemency to the elderly or the young. My maternal grandfather, who was visiting and had immigrated to America some years prior, was forced to cut his hair in order to safely flee the country, for had anyone seen his turban and unshorn hair, he would have been killed on sight.