1984 ANTI-SIKH RIOTS- A MEMOIR

                                                                  

                                    

  

  1984 ANTI-SIKH RIOTS- A MEMOIR

                                     WE ARE GUILTY AS A SOCIETY

                                

                                                                  

                                                                 
It was the morning of 31^st October in 1984. I was eleven and studied in class 6. 

My father, an Air  Force Personnel, was posted at Delhi and we lived in a rather plebeian locality in Trans-    Trans-Yamuna area. 

The dawn of the last day of October had a special significance for all of us at home. It was the  marriage anniversary. We all woke up to a mood of celebration. My father went to work. We went to school on a promise of a glorious evening and agreeing to go as it was a half-day.

In the evening, when we’re preparing to go out, my father was watching the news on Doordarshan. Salma Sultan, the well-known newsreader broke the shocking news of the death of the prime minister Mrs. Indira Gandhi. Her security guards had shot her at her residence in the morning. The immediate effect of the gravity of the news was that my father cancelled going out.

                                    

In the morning of 31^st October 1984, at 9:20 AM, when Indira Gandhi was on her way to her office at 1, Akbar Road from Prime-minister’s residence at No. 1 Safdarjung Road in New Delhi, Satwant Singh and Beant Singh, her bodyguards, opened fire on her.

Salma Sultan gave the first news of the assassination of Indira Gandhi on Doordarshan's evening news more than 10 hours after she was shot.

We’re shocked but for a short while. The news had spoiled a rare convivial evening. The loss overshadowed the national grief. Quite natural for the age we siblings were in.

The national television showed a continuous broadcast of the footage of the slain prime-minister’s body, surrounded by the crowd, frantically shouting anti-Sikh slogans. “Khoon ka badla khoon” – on and on it went, repeated over and over again. Father was glued to his chair in front of our Black and White Television.

The next morning was dreadful, chaotic and frightening. The assassination of Mrs. Indira Gandhi had triggered violence against the community the killers belonged to. It was the same community of Sikhs, whose valour, kindness and benevolence India always felt proud of. Schools and offices were closed.

Rumour was rife; trains were arriving from Punjab with the Hindu passengers having all been killed by the Sikhs on board; Sikhs were celebrating and distributing sweets; Sikhs had poisoned the water supply of Delhi. That was just to justify the massacre and instigate people to assault the Sikhs.

The main gate of our small house was an iron gate that hardly hid anything. The frenzied mob with bamboo sticks, axes, rods, kerosene canisters ruled the streets of our colony. They flaunted swords and daggers openly. We heard them boasting of killing ‘Sardars’, beating 'Sikhnis' and children, looting and then setting their houses on fire.

We knew those faces but never thought they could kill innocent people. We knew those too, who were being killed mercilessly, and trusted that they could not kill anybody.

Because of the rumours, simple Hindus were afraid too. The construction of our house was incomplete. There were no stairs to go on the roof. My father sent us to the roof from the adjacent neighbour’s house.

We heard that Sikhs were being killed in large number. We saw fires raging in the distance. There was hue and cry. Men were patrolling the streets. Women and children were on roofs. We ate there, slept there and relieved ourselves there only.

I still shiver whenever my mind brings back the evening of 1^st Nov. It was about 6 in the evening. Dusk was sliding down and the sky had begun to wrap the blanket of darkness. My mother had just gone downstairs to make dinner. Suddenly, somebody ran across our lane, shouting ‘Sardar aa gaye, Sardar aa gaye’ (Sikhs have come, Sikhs have come). My dad asked my mom to climb the wall to go upstairs. She could not. We reached for her hand and tried to pull her up. She was asthmatic and was breathless when we managed to get her with the help of our neighbour Mrs. Verma, and her kids. She had bruises all over her body.

                                   

Sardars never came. They didn’t kill any Hindu. The pogrom against them went on for four days. More than 8000 Sikhs were killed in North India, with more than 3,000 in Delhi. People looted the shops bringing home new suitcases, sacks of dry-fruits, clothes, Televisions, VCRs and what not.

Three Gurudwaras in our locality were burnt. A Sikh family, who were our friends, had lost all men. We heard the mother and other women recounting their killing. The mob surrounded their house and shouted for all the men to come out. They had two grown up boys whom we called ‘Vir ji’ two young boys, a year or two older than me and their fathers, the two brothers.

The brothers stepped out. They pleaded mercy. The mob beat them ruthlessly. Then they were doused with kerosene and were set on fire alive. The two young men, sons of the elder brother, on seeing their father and uncle being killed, ran out with ceremonious four feet long but blunt swords. They were too, beaten to death. As if killing four people was not enough, the lynch mob barged into their house. They raped the women, killed the young boys and looted. Nobody stopped them. Nobody could stop them.

A Sikh carpenter, ‘Lal Singh’, a simpleton and very innocent man, had worked in our house. He regarded my father much and my father too loved him for his simplicity and craftsmanship. He lived in a nearby shop and visited us daily.  On 31^st October, he was working somewhere. People wanted to burgle his shop, but my father intervened. Some of them suggested him to keep away and threatened of serious consequences otherwise.  My father saved Lal Singh’s shop, hoping that he would be safe somewhere. However, he never returned.

My maternal uncle lived three lanes away. A Sikh, Mr. Gandhi lived in the opposite house. Young boys were made to wear girl-clothes; their hairs were done into braids to save them from the unjustified ire of the insane dregs of the society. A young boy hid in the attic. When the crowd asked for them, my uncle lied to have any knowledge of them but the boy in the attic sneezed and was killed. People beat my uncle too. Gandhi’s house was set ablaze. Nobody saw them after that.

More than thirty-one years have passed. I have heard and read about many riots but never had I witnessed a riot as closely as that took place in 1984.

I have worked in a Sikh institution for than five years. Never did I feel a twitch of anger in their behaviour against me being a non-Sikh. I can vouch for their philanthropy, the large-heartedness, spirituality, and love for mankind. What they had to undergo was unfortunate. The hard-workers and fighter they are, they never looked back. They earned back everything they lost except lives, humiliation and bloody repugnance in their own country. Also, they have not changed. They have not altered their ways to help the mankind. They have not closed their Gurudwaras for the non-Sikhs, who shamelessly go there to feast on the ‘lungers’ and devour the delicacies during ‘Nagar Kirtans’. They don’t complain, don’t deny, and don’t discriminate.

 Justice is still awaited and in all probability, will always remain awaited because the politicians of this country know how to manipulate the law. They know it takes a few words and very few rotten heads to spread anarchy. Politics in this country is not about governing, it is to know how to manipulate people. A crowd has no face and no ideology. They are robots. A literate person never goes to political rallies. I never went to one. Democracy is not workable in a state plagued with illiteracy and unemployment.

As a Hindu, and a non-Sikh, I feel guilty of 1984 riots, and all the religion based riots, being a part of a society which can be beguiled easily.

JOHNNY WALKER

                                                 MEMORIES…..

Let’s recall a scene from the iconic Hrishikesk Mukherjee Film ‘Anand’.

Rajesh Khanna follows a stranger and addresses him as ‘Murari Lal’. Perplexed stranger Johnny Walker listens to him and replies his gag in equal fervour and calls him ‘JaiChand’, not contradicting him. When Amitabh Bachchan as lanky Dr Bannerjee, intervenes and corrects the stranger for calling Khanna as JaiChand, the stranger amusingly tells him that he too, is not ‘Murari Lal’, but ‘Isa Bhai’.

That remains the most poignant, soul-stirring and unforgettable cameo in the Bollywood history. That particular Johnny Walker’s performance is a perfect example that a true actor can make even a small character great in shortest of screen time. I have seen ‘Anand’ umpteen times, but every time this scene makes me laugh and the last line delivered from ‘Isa Bhai’ brings tears to my eyes.

‘Jaate jaate Chela Guru ko sikha gaya.’

A slender man with pencil-thin moustaches, squeaky, tad womanly voice and nothing extraordinary about his personality, earned himself the tag of the most loved comedian on the silver screen. Talent knows no hindrance. The witty actor has played roles that are immortal. I love Johnny Walker and can’t forget many of the characters that he lived.

Born as Badruddi Jamaluddin Kazi to a mill worker in Indore, British India on 11 November 1926, Johnny Walker acted in more than 300 films.

After his father was made redundant, the family moved to Bombay. There, he took various jobs as the sole breadwinner for the family. He became a bus conductor with B.E.S.T.

Actor Balraj Sahni spotted him at Dadar bus Depot. Badruddin Kazi used to work there and entertain the passengers with his antics. He had an amazing knack of inventing humour and sending people into frantic laughter. Balraj Sahni was writing ‘Baazi’ for the legendary actor Gurudatt at that time. Sahni introduced Kazi to Gurudatt. Impressed by Kazi’s act posing as a drunkard, Gurudatt took him in ‘Baazi’. That’s how Badruddin became an actor that would ever remain alive in the hearts of film lovers.

He christened himself after the famous Scotch whisky; Johnny Walker had the ability to draw the crowd to the theatres same as the leading men of the era had.

More than his comic acting, I liked the way he acted in songs. He made some ordinary songs unforgettable by the fine synchronicity of his funny facial expressions and lyrics. To me, Johnny Walker was unmatched in delivering a song. To me, this uncanny skill defined his and helped almost all the roles he played etched on the hearts of millions of us.

Here is my list of Johnny Walker songs that are still popular-

1          1.     Ai Dil Hai Mushkil Jeena Yahan.wmv  - CID (1956) 

         https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=X7EjxI27aMc&nohtml5=False

 2.     Sar Jo Tera Chakraye -  Pyaasa (1957)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rJiohcg-gKo&nohtml5=False

      3.     Jaane Kahan Mera Jigar Gaya Ji - Mr. and Mrs. 55 (1955)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=F5Tfd1EKtLI&nohtml5=False

      4.     Suno Suno Miss Chatterjee - Baharen Phir Bhi Aayengi (1966)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=o8Fd2zN2mRg&nohtml5=False

      5.     Maine Kahan Tha Aana Sunday Ko -  Ustaadon Ke Ustad (1963)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=z75jYGC-8gQ&nohtml5=False

     6.     Mera Yaar Bana Hain Dulha - Chaudhavin Ka Chand (1960)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NHwEMEvwOWU&nohtml5=False

         7.     Yeh Duniya Gol Hain -  Chaudhavin Ka Chand (1960)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fqfSVQ5xiWg&nohtml5=False

        8.     Hum Tum Jise Kahta Hai -  Kaagaz Ke Phool  (1959)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ugWDrzDVq8Y&nohtml5=False

What are your favourite memories of this great comic artist?

There is more to becoming a        

 writer than just writing

 No matter how late you start writing, once you do, soon, you and others will realize that you were born to write. You become an inhabitant of the fantasy world.

Nature is your first love now, for it has the best metaphors. Everything that nature does is poetry. The clouds piercing through a mountain; the leaves wanting to run with the wind but the tree pulls them back like a mother forbidding her child from running after a kite; the conversation that ensues when the wind sighs and the water respond with a stir. Silence, too, now speaks to you. You watch the cooing and pampering pair of pigeons and try to decode their whispering and moans.

When alone, you talk to yourself and to your characters. They become your friends. You can see their expressions, their gestures, their actions. You instruct and guide them. You are never alone.

You become more observant. You see everything you come across keenly, everything that happens to you and everything that takes place around you as a potential plot for your story.

Loneliness stops haunting you. You seek solitude now.

Your perspective of others changes for good. You tend to understand and respect views of others. You may not agree but the writer in you has extended the horizon of your thoughts. As a storyteller, you give birth to characters of different moods, different temperaments, different ideologies and different opinions. They all exist in you. Thus, in a way, your mind accommodates several beings in it, but you are one. You are, now, a mixture of all distinct moods and opinions. You begin to accept more things than you refuse. 

You listen more, you observe more and you try to learn about new things.

 You do research for your write-ups. You travel. You meet people. These are not raw materials for your literary work. They are inputs to strengthen your thoughts and imagination. You may use them in a single story but that knowledge is not evanescent. More you write, more informed you become.

Quest of getting your work published is even more fruitful.

Your notion that God is indifferent or is the busiest will change when you will submit your work to a publisher. No harm, in the long run, it’s for your good. They skim out impatience from you. You will learn to cure and calm down anxiety. Also, you will learn to accept rejection. The manuscript which you think is an out of world thing is trash to them. Rejections are the antidote to the poisonous ego. Gradually, hearing rejection becomes the part of your life. That makes you practical, accommodating and realistic with peers and family.

After your work is published, another offering that your vocation of writing may bring to you is criticism. In the beginning, you won’t embrace it, but you’ve to learn to accept what your critics say. Critics are the truest readers and judges. Somebody pointing out your shortcomings is your well-wisher. They help you to improve. Your fans would never do that.

Okay, you may or may not accept the critique, but you have to learn to brook the criticism. And when you start doing that, you learn to control your anger, your tone, and your speech. You begin choosing your words wisely when you answer your critics; again, nothing to lose anything in the bargain.

You are a better person now.

Let’s celebrate Pathankot Attack….

Let’s celebrate Pathankot Attack….

Let’s confess we’re a eunuch country…

So, five or six (oh, sorry, we are not clear about it yet) infiltrated in our country from a route used for 

similar intrusion and left unguarded for their convenience.

Hilarious.

And our hyperactive media and the common man wondering and asking why the army taking so long

to neutralize the remaining terrorists when they had managed to liquidate four of them within a few

hours.

We are aware and concerned citizens and we pay our taxes honestly and pay generously to our Army 

so that we can rightfully expect them to safeguard us.

Well, the army does what we expect from it.

But do the rest of the security agencies do their bit?

The five terrorists freaked about in Punjab for hours. Honour them and convey gratitude for not 

harming the civilians.

The Punjab Police SP goes to a distant shrine unguarded and weaponless but in a beaconed vehicle. 

He chooses a lonely and unusual route to return. The terrorists throw him out and abduct the useless 

jeweler accomplice oh his. He lets them go without any resistance. And shamelessly thanks to God 

for saving his life without having a pinch of regret that his irresponsible conduct played a part in 

imperiling the country and an important air base.

We have such eunuch police officers guarding us. Take my word; he will enter in politics after 

retiring from Police service.

They roam about in his beaconed SUV for hours and receive salutes at barriers and checkpoints.

Pathankot is not merely a terrorist attack. It is a memorandum handed in person by the inimical 

forces 

eyeing the sovereignty of our nation. It’s a tight slap on us.

We forgot the attack on Parliament.

We forgot Mumbai.

Now, we should forget Pathankot.

Should we keep forgetting and confess loud to the world that we are a eunuch country and five 

armed 

men are enough to scare us.

Once Again, the ghost of separation has come alive. Once again, an acrimonious neighbour with 

sluggish economy, a pathetic fraction in geography as compared to ours, a population not even half 

of us intrudes and troubles us with its scampish habits.

Every time the pervert neighbour feels instigated to act impish, some of our brave soldiers have to 

pour their lives on the feet of the motherland as a libation.

Our politicians spit out a few hard words and forget.

Life engages the common man and erases the hunch of vulnerability.

But the pain of absences is foisted upon the families of martyrs, the orphaned children, the old 

parents who lose impetus to live and bear the corpses of dead hopes for rest of their lives obliging an 

ungrateful nation.

One clear proof that we have hardened and have grown apathetic towards the attacks on our integrity 

as a country is that none of us can recount the last five terrorist attacks on us.

We wake up and feel the twitch when the attacks are sizeable in magnitude. After all, we are big-

hearted Indians.

We are not cowards. We are generous, amicable and peace-loving neighbour.

Thanks to our politicians for making us understand the difference between war and Proxy war.

We had accepted that.

We inflated our chest when they made us believe that Pakistan does that because it can’t defeat us in 

a war and it does all such crass and inglorious acts of inhumanity.

But isn’t attacking a strategically important air base is same as attacking India?

Should we utter some hard words, issue a puny ultimatum and leave it to our vexatious neighbour to 

deal with the miscreants who dwell on its land and forget everything in cold blood yet again?

Since 1947, Pakistan has not stopped troubling us and we have behaved like a pardoning big brother. 

We have answered it in wars started by it.

We didn’t encroach on an inch of its territory. We say we are mightier but we failed to bring back 

Kashmir to normalcy. We have failed to win the trust of Kashmiri’s beguiled by our troublesome 

neighbor.

Let’s confess we are cowards.

Let’s confess our Prime minister lies about his 56’ chest.

WE HAVE BEEN ODD, LET’S BE EVEN NOW….

                               
         WE HAVE BEEN ODD, LET’S BE EVEN NOW….

                                                             ….FOR OUR OWN GOOD

National Green Tribunal pulls up the Delhi government for failing to reduce pollution and outcomes proposition that private vehicle will run on alternate days on odd-even arrangement starting on the first day of 2016.

The knee jerk reaction was among a slew of measures taken by the mortified government, comprising of proven novices on account of frequent U- turns.

The move has received a mixed reaction. To some, it is senseless, impractical and illegal.  We Indians surely know logic. 
Some argued feasibility, people having two cars would take one car one day and the other on next day and plan may fail if people buy more cars.

Some unabashedly refused compliance citing the in adequate quality and quantity of public transport.

Here are some of the comments-

‘I would do anything to avoid getting fleeced by auto and taxi drivers’

‘Every day we hear about incidents of chain snatching and other crimes. There is no option but to buy another car’

‘In case of emergency should we act or take care of odd- even numbers of our vehicles’

True, the move of ration road space is certain to inconvenience commuters but can anything deny that the present situation of demands drastic and immediate measure? Can we gain without pain?

A renowned author who is a self- acclaimed reformer and one who beats his own trumpet about changing the country, criticised the odd-even traffic rules.

He says, ‘At a time when we need economic growth and jobs, somebody decides to get half the vehicles off the roads and destroy productivity.’

The bragging author got his reply.

Many others reproved Delhi Government for thinking something to improve the city’s toxic air quality. All right, I agree the decision is tough, unfeasible, impractical, absurd and whatever. But do we have a better solution?

I’m not a great fan of Arvind Kejriwal and maintain that he preaches more than he practices. And to add that, the blunders he has made in his endeavour to establish a foothold in mainstream politics further spoils his image.

He has delivered less than he promised and his covenant of providing people clean governance proves mendacious by his own rapacious implementation more for self-fulfillment than for the ‘Aam Aadmi’.

I, a common man, feel beguiled and betrayed. However, without any predilection, he merits benefit of doubt on the ground of inexperience and despite of going bungling ever since he has worn that crown of thorns.

I admire him for this prompt and tough decision of curbing pollution that many cities in the world had experimented successfully with in the past.

All of us were not born rich and have gone through many years of life without having the luxury of private vehicles. If not so, then there are an uncountable number of less fortunate in our country who commutes by public vehicles and  counter exigencies. If they can, we can too.

There are arguments that people would buy a second vehicle with odd or even number. Okay, but for whom this proposition is being brought? It is for us and nothing can be implemented if we are not ready to cooperate. If we are prepared for the doom, let it be.

Another argument is what if a party stretches beyond midnight.

We can always plan accordingly if we are willing to make the city air clean. And, wouldn’t it be nice if the parties end timely?

I asked my students for their views on the rule. Most of them favoured it and mentioned numerous advantages of the rule. Most astonishing thing they said was, ‘We do not want to go to college or to work with an oxygen cylinder hanging on our backs.’

Let’s accept with all humility that we have zealously contributed to worsening the situation and now it is imperative for us to participate in remedial measures with equal fervency.

Nothing is possible if we are not willing. At least, accept it for a few days as the government has promised that it would be taken back if it causes inconvenience to public.

So let’s shut up and cooperate for our own good.

MENSTRUATION AND MEN

           MENSTRUATION AND MEN

Boys take a while to know about the periodic bloody experience women have to undergo through the major part of their lives and even longer to understand its significance. 

For most of the men, the elucidation comes largely through education or after getting married or when they are in a relationship.

Though I am no exception but I had a fair idea of women’s monthly cycles earlier than I should have. Thanks to my dumb-ass, traditional, superstitious and hypocrite clan.

We are Suryadwij Brahmins (ancestors of Sun God). I grew up seeing my grandparents practising strict rules at home connecting them to spirituality. They didn't eat onion and garlic. Even when a peel of these forbidden smelly vegetables came inside the house (brought by the wind or stuck in shoe-sole), they would wash the house. Many more were there. Most of them are weird and laughable. 

One regarding the menstruation of women is nearly impossible to follow, now. It didn’t seem tough then because of the big family size and the Joint family system. 

The woman in her periods was not allowed to enter the kitchen at all. She couldn’t cook, she couldn’t wash dishes or clothes, and she couldn’t enter the temple and couldn’t pray. She would eat in separate utensils, kept outside the kitchen for the very purpose.

As kids, we often heard elderly women saying ‘She doesn’t have a hand, she will not cook’. Nineteen people of the family would widen their eyes and stare at the girl strangely. All except the children knew she had become ‘untouchable’ for a few days. Curious, we would ask the mother what did that mean and left her embarrassed. She would distract us to escape answering.

My father worked in the Indian Air Force. When he was posted to another city, we had only one woman, my mother, who could cook. The rule could not be followed. So the ‘doesn’t have a hand’ phrase soon, erased out of our memory.

As I progressed in my academics, I learnt about the monthly ritual of the uterus of a woman and could relate to the frequent havoc it created in my big family.

After my father voluntarily retired from his services and settled at Delhi in his own house as a nuclear family, my mother continued not following the rules. Consequently, our relatives, including my grandparents ‘disowned’ us and stopped visiting us. 

My parents have left for their abode in heaven and the things are still the same. I, being the only son of my parents, am an outcast.  However, I refuse to abide by the weird practice just to mingle with them. When somebody visits them during the time when the woman in the house is in her periods, the man works in the kitchen and proudly tells the visitor that 'She doesn't have a hand'.  

My predecessors were all decently educated. All men, conversed with each other in English at home and the women understood what their husbands and sons talked. They themselves used many words in their routine conversation. But, is it something I should feel proud of when I know the absurd and baseless system they followed.

Menstruation cycle is something men should feel more proud than the fairer sex for it signifies their existence.

It’s a periodic phase of fatigue and pain. Women experience painful cramps due to muscle contraction. There is a severe pelvic pain, unbearable backache, tired and heavy legs that the women endure during the difficult five days that visit and revisit them for a good part of their lives.

Women need care and love during those days, not neglect and hatred.

This makes sex education in schools more imperative. Men must be made to understand that it is a unique physiological process in women that enables human beings to continue their population on the only planet to have life. Women can’t be hated and should not be disowned in those days of a month.

I may be wrong but in India, the women are more responsible for their exploitation. When they realized this and tried to change, it was too late and therefore, is taking longer to put things in their place.

Some Excerpts from my Novel RAPESCARS…They Never Heal….

1.     “…Like all girls, menarche had hit me at twelve, transforming me into a woman. We used to have a lot of discussion about who had and who had not got their periods in school. We girls experience bouts of pain and carry ourselves on the fatigued legs, but for years we don’t realise the significance of bearing menstruation. And when we do, we understand that it had made us a woman. The reasons our mothers and sisters give us are inadequate and inappropriate.

The cramps and pain it gives may be horrible, but the way menarche changes our psyche is fascinating…”

“…I am not an atheist and respect God for everything but I believe he too has been unfair to women. It is iniquity on God’s part to make women bear the pain and unease of menstruation as early as ten- twelve years. He denied them of the pleasures of adolescence, an epoch that visits the lives of only men amidst childhood and adulthood. Girls become women out of a child because nature blessed them with ovaries that seem to be in a hurry to release the eggs. Each woman, the suppressed creation, suffers almost two thousand days of her life in pain, bleeding and cursing herself for being a woman when her womb dutifully dresses up and prunes itself during those five odd days every month. Nothing is more optimistic than the uterus of a woman..."