On December 7, 1992, a day after the kar sewaks allegedly brought down the Babri structure at Ayodhya, Patna stayed largely calm. The city, with its sizeable Muslim population spread across Phulwarisharif in the west and Khusrupur in the east, showed no signs of the communal flare-ups many had feared. The historic Mahavir Mandir and the Jama Masjid—neighbours for centuries in the heart of Patna—remained untouched by the Ayodhya tremors.

As a reporter with The Times of India, I headed to the Chief Minister’s residence at 1, Anne Marg, next to Raj Bhawan. The main gate was open. With photographer Mohan Sharma, I walked straight in. On the ground floor, Mukul Kapoor, the CM’s personal assistant, was waiting. He guided us upstairs to Lalu Prasad Yadav’s bedroom. No minister, no senior official—just the CM, half-reclined on his bed, dressed in a dhoti knotted like a makeshift lungi.

He greeted us warmly. He claimed he had been up the whole night keeping track of the situation and had barely slept. By then it was 3 p.m. He stepped out to fetch a toothbrush, and—ever the showman—obliged the photographer by repeating the act before a mirror.

Tea followed. He called out to Rabri Devi to fetch a red cloth-covered potli. Opening it with deliberate flourish, he took out a handful of stones and debris.

“Motka—Nawin Kishore Sinha, BJP MLA from West Patna—Phulwari Sharif station par pakda gaya hai. Babri se tuta hua pathar lekar aa raha tha. Danga failata. Ashok Rajpath, Sabjibagh, Sultanganj ke chaurahe par yeh sab rakhta, aur log mutate,” he said. His children giggled at the choice of words; Rabri Devi smiled too as he repeated the accusation.

Lalu later changed into his usual kurta-pyjama, came downstairs, and ordered the car. “Dekhna hai, Raj Paat thik se chal raha hai na,” he said. At Khanjekalan police station in eastern Patna, the DM and SSP were already present. A young IAS officer, the SDM, arrived late. The CM delivered the kind of dressing-down usually reserved for a truant schoolboy.

Even as Lalu was taking stock, Kishore Kunal—the IPS officer who was OSD for Ayodhya matters and the managing trustee of Mahavir Mandir—called Naresh Chandra in the PMO to gauge P.V. Narasimha Rao’s reaction. Chandra’s response was succinct: “Sab Hanuman ji ki kripa.”

Prof Jabir Hussain, chairman of the State Minorities Commission, was visibly disturbed. He regretted that the UP government had failed to honour its commitment to the Supreme Court. Barring communal tension in Sitamarhi, Bihar stayed largely peaceful.

A week later, Bennett, Coleman & Co. chairman Ashok Kumar Jain convened a meeting of state correspondents of The Times of India in New Delhi. The tone was one of restrained pride—reporters had kept their heads when others were losing theirs. M.G. Gupta, Jain’s schoolmate and TOI’s Ayodhya correspondent, was specially invited. He was the only one in the hall who addressed the chairman simply as “Ashok”; everyone else said “Ashok-ji”.

Later, I was summoned as a CBI prosecution witness before the special court on Ayodhya in Lucknow. The lawyers representing L.K. Advani and Uma Bharti were relentless, determined to demolish even the suggestion of conspiracy. As expected, the special court acquitted everyone—no evidence, the judge held, to establish who exactly brought down the disputed structure.

Not long after, the honourable special judge was appointed Up-Lokayukta.