My grandfather and grandmother lived in Bombay, India during early fifties. They lived in a small ghetto, and they had two children. My grandfather has a job at the newspaper company, Indian Times, as a journalist. My grandmother was a housewife, and the two children were a boy, Amit, and a girl, Sheila who were studying in middle school.
             One morning my grandfather woke up and went to work as usual. His friend, who was also a journalist, reported that a riot broke out near the hill. Nobody knew what started the riot, so every journalist in that Newspaper Company was sent to investigate.
             "What started this riot?" he questioned a man who was hurt in the riot.
             "The old Muslim temple on the hill was demolished and the Hindus temple will be constructed on the same place. This made Muslims angry, so they are killing Hindus," he said sharply.
             This news was brought back to the company and soon everyone in the city knew about the riot. This riot grew bigger and bigger every minute. My grandfather knew it wouldn't be safe here anymore.
             To his family he said, "We will evacuate this city tomorrow." His wife put a blank face and the children were frightened. As they were planning to leave the house the next day, their house was set on fire that night. Everyone screaming. My grandfather said, "Get out the house, now!" Flames were spreading and the thick smoke covered the whole house. They can hardly see and breathe. The front door was on fire and that's the only exit they can escape from. They went upstairs, which wasn't on fire yet because rioters started fire on bottom.
             My grandmother shouted, "Open the window and yell for help."
             They couldn't resist the thick smoke, so they had to get out. It was a 15-foot drop from the window.
             My grandfather said, "I will jump first and catch you guys." Sheila and Amit were so
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