A letter from my Dad

While my friends all heard nursery rhymes and quaint bed time stories, I was cooed to sleep with two different techniques: Sikh prayers and stories about Indian sacrifice. Japji Sahib (the morning prayer, though taught to me at night!), the martyrdom of the Gurus, Partition, Panjab. I feel myself being enveloped in diasporic cliché as I type. Every night, I was told to recite words that I did not comprehend, and that to search for the “meaning” by mere translation was to miss the point of prayer entirely. “Just listen,” my mother would say. Easier said than done. The Indian stories were delivered in English, set in a frighteningly foreign context that I just couldn’t grasp. No concern that we just didn’t “get it.” These were stories to be believed and unquestioned.

I could never forgive my parents for their sectarian grief over events they never truly witnessed. Born seven short years after Partition, they couldn’t have marched in kafilas or confronted ’47 violence in any appreciable way. This was before I understood constructions of racial difference, that outside my Long Island house was a white world that would lead me to call myself “brown.” This is before I understood the empirical quality of their fictions. I didn’t give my immigrant parents enough credit. How Jhumpa fucking Lahiri of me! And, though I’m wary of subscribing to overwrought and invoked diasporic cliché, I imbibed my father’s unexperienced stories as memories of my own lived experience. I imagined a tradition of generational uprootedness that culminated in my sister and I. Add a tally next to your narcissism tab! And then I would drift off to school and learn about the geography of Long Island, and I’d momentarily forget, but just until my kara would jingle against the table and I’d glance down to see my turmeric stained nails.

I disremember the context that elicited my father’s narration of 1984, but I do remember it happening later on; maybe I was in high school or college? But why was he silent for so many years? Why did he always talk about Partition and never 1984? About two months ago, I called him from India and asked him to write his account from ’84 so that I could better understand what he saw, what he tried to forget. I’m still grappling with his narration:

Well, here it is…  This is about a pogrom, etched in my memory bank that exposed & shattered my belief system. To this day I’m laden with fear, courage and guilt. Yes, I’m talking about a nightmarish Halloween when devils pervaded and usurped human sanity. Oct. 31, 1984 may be logged in the Indian history as a black Wednesday when Indira Gandhi was assassinated by her Sikh body guards, but the thousands of Sikhs, victims of the holocaust that ensued, are still waiting for it to record their plight. The assassination was indeed a dastardly act and it had severe repercussions on the Sikh community in New Delhi and its suburbs. As luck would have it I was caught right in the middle of this byzantine storm, orchestrated at the highest level by the ruling government henchmen. 

 I was in Delhi for a day, to have my return flight seats confirmed with Kenyan Airlines. I was with the family of my wife’s uncle, Gur Darshan Singh, in Bengali market, when the news broke out. We turned on the TV where Doordarshan was carrying the gory details. Around noon, pockets of disturbances against Sikh businesses had already started. Observing the mood in town, Darshan Singh ji suggested that it would be in my interest to leave for Chandigarh as soon as possible. I hurriedly packed my bag and decided to head for ISBT (Inter State Bus Terminal) immediately. GD Singh, as he was popularly called, offered me a ride on his Vespa scooter. As a pillion I could see the dirty glances we were both getting as we drove towards ISBT. Sensing imminent trouble, he made a u-turn and headed back home. We made it back to Bengali market safely. Now the problem was how I get back to Chandigarh.    

Here I was, visiting my parents after four years of separation and now unsure what lay ahead in the coming hours. Mr. GD Singh, got hold of one of the local security guards and requested him to drop me off at the train station on his bicycle. After initial reluctance he agreed and off we went driving thru’ deserted streets. At one point we encountered a small crowd which scared the security guard and he unceremoniously dumped me on the street and rode off. Luckily a three wheeler saw me and offered to take me to the railway station. This guy was GOD sent. He whisked me away – with very little to no conversation on the way. He could sense I was a Sikh even though I did not have a turban on. I thanked him and paid him more than what he wanted to charge. I felt relieved having reached the train station safely.

Well, it was short lived. The station was packed. I don’t remember if I purchased a ticket or not. There were a lot of penetrating eyes in my direction. HE came to my rescue once more. A coolie charged at me, held my arm and whispered in my ear to just come along. For some reason I did not doubt his intention and went along. He asked me where I was headed… Chandigarh… I shot back. He told me there was a train to Ambala about to arrive and that would get me out of this mess. This coolie not only helped me on the train but got me a seat as well. I’m not sure if he asked me to put away my kara or I did it on my own but I did. 

After about 10 minutes, the train started to drag itself away from the station and soon gained some semblance of speed. I was sitting on the corner of a bench seat, the crowd, a mix of people with some Sikh gentlemen who looked like Afghani Sikhs. They were dressed in salwar kameez – typically Afghani style – short statured but smart looking. As the train was crossing Dadra station, a group of miscreants started throwing stones at us, for some unknown reason the driver slowed the train and, I heard this later from other passengers, few of them boarded the train as well. Soon, there were some new faces inside the compartment who were basically scouting the passengers. I did not like the look on their faces, a fear engulfed me and I felt very cowardly at the time. Instinctively, I put my left hand under my left thigh. My left hand has a tattoo showing the Symbol of One Creator – Ek Onkar. I remember crying later at my inability to hold on to the standard set forth by our tenth Guru Ji. I still carry that guilt in my heart.

Before the train could pull into Sonepat, someone pulled the chain to stop the train. It came to a screeching halt. Looking at one another, one could feel others’ heart beating faster. Then the most degrading, humiliating acts followed. One by one, each turbaned Sikh was asked to get off the train. They pleaded, begged to be left alone, but the evil ones would have none of it. From what I witnessed, they were severely beaten up by the crowd – their turbans went flying, their salwar was set on fire. I could not see what kind of injuries they suffered. One Sikh ran off towards the open field with a screaming/shouting group behind him. God alone knows what happened to him. My mind was growing crazy – a voice kept telling me to jump in and help these innocent souls and the other kept reminding me of my wife and 3 year old daughter. Sometimes I wonder, would it have been better if I were to become a martyr that day. They say Earth is for the Valour – but this was not the time to show that. 

Eventually a few cops showed up and the train started moving again. At Sonepat station I switched to a first class compartment. The rest of the ride to Ambala was uneventful but had left me very drained and demoralized. I reached Ambala around 7:00 p.m. and found that both, Punjab & Haryana bus service to Chandigarh had been suspended. I was left in no man’s land. I was desperately looking for assistance to get back to Chandigarh. And then, I happened to spot a very wealthy family at the Ambala train station and approached them for help. It turned out these folks were from Chandigarh and had two cars heading back. I explained my situation, showed them my passport. For some strange reason, these people loaned me their car with a driver who was asked to drop me at my residence. Who on Earth does that? The ride from Ambala to Chandigarh was full of emotions, ready to explode. We stopped for a few security checks on the way and I was finally home around 9:00 p.m. – hugged and kissed Amy – thanked Vaheguru for carrying me through the ordeal – narrated the whole story to the family – still remember their jaws dropping and thanking God in unison.

 I got very little sleep that night – still thinking about the fate of the Afghani Sikhs. I went to the Gurudwara Sahib in sector 19 the next day and offered my prayers and thanked Baba Ji. I never really went into any details about that eventful day with any one until now – and only because you coaxed to narrate my experience. Amidst the horrific display of human atrocities, I still remember the good deeds done by the Security Guard who imperiled his life to give me a ride on his bike, the scooter walla who came out of nowhere to save me, the coolie – how he read fear on my face and helped me and finally the industrialist family from Chandigarh – and you know what, I never got to thank them personally for their unselfish acts but I pray that Vaheguru provide them as well in their time of need. 

This life may not be a utopian cockaigne, but it should be cherished, valued and above all loved. Love your life, family and friends and don’t forget to thank HIM for it is HE who has made this possible.

With lots of LOVE,

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