Ahmedabad, May 12 In the ghost town that is Naroda Patiya today, Sej Bahadur longs for some human company.

In his lane comprising 15 houses, Sej Bahadur (75) was the only one left behind, untouched and unharmed. His Muslim neighbours fled after the February 28 massacre. ‘‘They used to look after me whenever I was ill, get food for me from the market. I was chacha to everyone, from children to grandparents,’’ he says. ‘‘This lane, this whole locality is no longer the same.’’

The day after the Godhra attack, armed mobs surrounded Naroda Patiya. Around 85 Muslims were reportedly killed that long, bloody day. Of the 1,000-odd houses in the slum, only those belonging to Hindus were spared, identified by images of gods, diyas and puja niches.

The Hindus fled too, and took refuge at the Dhanushdhari Mata temple across the road from Naroda Patiya. Many went away from there to their villages or to relatives’ homes and haven’t returned since.

However, around 20 of the 50-odd Hindu families with homes in Naroda Patiya have chosen to return after they had nowhere else to go. They say oppressive loneliness is all around, in every empty lane, in the ashes of the demolished and burnt shanties, outside every destroyed house, in the mangled iron cots and utensils that are still strewn about.

Bahadur was among the first to return. ‘‘I started living here again eight days after the riots, although everyday I would come here to light a lamp at a Nageshwar shrine,’’ he says. ‘‘But I wish my neighbours return. My life is not complete without them.’’

Standing outside his kholi, where he has lived for 50 years, Bahadur speaks of how he has seen his lost neighbour’s children grow up, get married, and have their children calling him chacha.

‘‘Today, I’m not even sure how many of them are alive,’’ he says, choking. ‘‘I saw Ravan take over mankind that day. I could do nothing to save my neighbours, I myself had to run from the attacking haivaans.’’

Like Bahadur, the Mishras’ home is one of the pockets of life in the desolate slum. Prabhashankar Mishra, a factory hand, has persuaded his brother and five other members of his joint family to return to their Pandit Ni Chawl hovel, built by his father. ‘‘We wish they were back, our Muslim neighbours,’’ says Mishra, who has lived in the colony for more than 40 years. ‘‘Never before has this lane seemed so haunted.’’

Bhagyawati Madankar, who has lived here for more than 30 years, finds the silence terrifying: ‘‘Before the riots, our lanes were filled with the laughter of men, the talk of women, and cheers of children at play. This silence cuts through to my heart. We wish our neighbours return.’’

Children miss their playmates. Dilip (11) has lost his constant companion. ‘‘Rehman and I went to school togther, played together, we were always together. Even our birthdays are on the same date,’’ he says. ‘‘His parents came here one day to take some things from their home, locked it and left.’’

‘‘But they didn’t bring Rehman along. Looks like I’ll never see him again.’’ he says quietly. ‘‘I wish we belonged to the same community.’’

For most of the Hindu families, the Muslims residents were all friends. Vijay Padam remembers a biryani he had at his neigbour’s house on Bakr Id, the week before the rioting.

‘‘If we didn’t have good relations, would I have gone to his house?’’ he asks. ‘‘They too participated in our Gudi Padwa and Diwali celebrations.’’

Padam says the riot that robbed him of his neighbour was the worst. ‘‘Even during the earlier riots in the city — in 1969, ’71, ’89, and ’92 — nothing happened here.’’ Which is what makes the destruction around a reminder of helplessness. ‘‘These locked doors, burnt houses keep making us realise how we just could not help them,’’ says Pushpa Navtambhai, whose house is opposite Noorani Masjid, near where over 60 people who hid in a shed were burnt alive.