1984

Lost No More:
I Remember 1984

BHUPINDER SINGH MAHAL

The June 1984 attack by the Indian government troops on Harmandar Sahib so lacerated the psyche of the Sikh people that even an iconoclast like Khushwant Singh was driven to returning his Padma Bhushan award, the high civilian honour bestowed on him in 1974.

In my own case, the trauma of the assault on Sikhdom's holy of holies, if measured on the Richter scale, was magnitude 6.0, compared to my outrage at the massacre of innocent Sikhs in India’s major cities, towns and villages that began on November 1, 1984, which measured 8.0 or higher.

The dastardly pogrom unleashed against the Sikhs was to engender a paradigm shift in my politico-religious thinking.

As I, who had until then lived a life in a self-induced cultural and religious vacuum, watched TV coverage of the murder, looting and torching of Sikh homes, my faith in the good-heartedness of humans was dashed, evoking a long, quiet introspection.

My soul-searching led to a politico-religious awakening and comfort with my faith, culture and heritage giving credence to the old Urdu sayng: "subhaa ka bhoola agar shaam ko ghar aa-ye to usay bhoola nahi kehtay" - "The lost one who returns home at the end of the day is lost no more!

To appreciate my metamorphosis, I must first rewind the reel of my life and replay it from the beginning.

I was born in Uganda but grew up in Kenya, mostly in Nairobi.

My mother was a devout Sikh. She proud possession was a nitnem gutka (breviary), wrapped in linen cloth, which she would uncover to recite her prayers in the early hours of dawn, at dusk, and again just before retiring. She would sit me in her lap and tell mesmerizing tales from the janamsakhis and, as I grew older, she would sit me by her side and sing the song of Sikhism.

On Sundays she took my siblings and I to the gurdwara.

My father was less passionate about his faith. In appearance, he was the Sikh of the Guru. He wore the five kakkaars. He did not wear the kirpan per se but had a miniature simulacrum embedded in his kangha that he anchored in the joorrah of his hair before tying his turban.

The infighting that split the Nairobi congregation along clannish loyalties so disenchanted him that he rarely went to the gurdwara.

From childhood, I never grew long hair because of chronic scalp infections. In my teens the virus was gone and my mother began imploring me to grow my hair and stop going to the barber. My father was neutral to the idea. Growing hair long had lost appeal as all my school friends were shaven.

I became estranged from my family soon after matriculation. At the time I possessed only a rudimentary understanding about my faith. I journeyed as a nomad, moving from country to country, continent to continent.

In the early 1950’s, I made my home in England. At the time, the only known gurdwara in my vicinity was located in Shepherd Bush, London, and was far from my flat in Belsize Park. I emember visiting the gurdwara just on two occasions during my eight years in London.

Among a handful of friends of mine, mostly English, the only other Sikh was like me. Cultural or religious exchanges were rare. It was no surprise that my malleable mind of a liberal began to be forged in the crucible of my environment, resulting in an inevitable seepage of religious values which were supplanted by secular ideas and attitudes.

In the winter of 1961, I was recruited by a British conglomerate as a senior executive for overseas posting in British Guiana (now Guyana). The country is populated by descendants of indentured labour, principally from the eastern seaboard of India, brought in to work in the sugar plantations in the West Indies following the slave emancipation in 1838.

Though the name ‘Singh’ is fairly common in Guyana and Trinidad, people bearing the name on the island had no religious affiliation to Sikhs -- they were Hindus from Bihar and the United Provinces (now Uttar Pradesh) . Hence, there was no gurdwara around.

I was the only Sikh in the country; one of four Punjabis. One of the Punjabis was a priest hired by an Arya Samaj (a Hindu sect) mandir while the other two were there, lured by business opportunities.

In 1963, I was to marry a local girl, who though of East Indian descent, belonged to the Muslim faith. Her guardian-brother was firm on holding a nikah (Muslim ceremony) at his home and was not averse to a parallel ceremony performed in another faith. My Punjabi priest friend offered to solemnize our marriage under Vedic rites.

This was the first time since leaving Kenya that I faced a religious quandary. As I faced crossing the religious Rubicon, the song of Sikhism that I listened at my mother’s knee echoed in my mind. I explained my religious dilemma to my wife to be, who, at risk of falling-out with her guardian and family members, agreed to a civil marriage.

Consequentrly, she became a persona non grata with her family, and some months later out of her own volition changed her name by deed poll.

Our daughter was born in Georgetown. Her birth is first ever to register the name ‘Kaur’, a prerequisite for a Sikh female, and we stipulated “Sikh” in the box marked "RELIGION".

In 1967, we relocated to Canada. After spending a few years in Ontario, we moved and made our home on the outskirts, west of Montréal. We made new friends. Among them were two Sikh families, one Muslim family, a Muslim bachelor and several Hindu families. There was also a wider circle of diverse acquaintances.

In the early 1980’s, a bunch of us started a ‘puploo’ school (a variation of the card game, Rummy), convening once a month on a rotational basis. I was the sole Sikh player making up the group of five.

In mid-June 1984, the game was scheduled at the home of a Muslim host. As we sat down at the card table, a Hindu player remarked about the assault on the Golden Temple. His words, I felt, were pregnant with double entendre. As I mulled over a riposte, our host pleaded that politics be left at the door and put an end to any further comment.

Frankly, I doubt I had an articulate rejoinder. At the time, I was outraged by the assault on the Golden Temple and at the same time, influenced by the press coverage from India, I was equally troubled by what I felt then was an unwarranted occupation of the Akal Takht by Bhindranwale and his supporters. On occasion, at a social gathering, for example, Hindu friends and acquaintances goosed the Sikhs to comment on the assassination of Indira Gandhi, the idea of Khalistan and what they termed as Sikh-upon-Hindu violence, as a way of questioning Sikh loyalty and placing all the guilt on the Sikh community.

Some Sikhs, sadly -- outnumbered -- sang from the same hymn page as the Hindus. I stayed mute.

The socio-political status quo remained unchanged until Saturday, November 3, 1984, when two of the calls that I received on that day were to cause a paradigm shift in my thinking.

The first call was from the wife of a very close Hindu friend, trying to allay my anguish at the killings of Sikhs in Delhi by imputing the killings to “taangewalas” (hansom cab drivers), a metaphor for poverty-stricken, low-caste people hankering for mischief.

She meant well but blithely ignored reality on the ground showing unmistakable images of prominent politicians quarterbacking a mob in the resettlement colonies, Trilokpuri in particular, to systematically kill, rape, loot and torch Sikh homes.

The second caller was my brother-in-law living in Sarnia (Ontrio, Canada). We talked of the massacre, the provocative slogans such as  “khoon ka badla khoon” ("blood for blood!") heard from the mobs in India, government inaction to deploy the army to stop the killing and failure of Hindu friends to commiserate with their Sikh friends who may have lost relatives.

Reminding me of my brief stint as court reporter for “The Daily Chronicle” (Nairobi) and freelance contributor to “The Current”, the Bombay weekly newspaper founded by D. F. Karaka, my brother-in-law urged me to take up the cudgels to inform the Canadian public of the unvarnished truth about the goings-on in Punjab.

A few days later, the first of my several letters to the Editor of the Montreal Gazette and the Globe & Mail was published.

I quickly learned that the Hindu community was outraged by my letter.How dare I challenge the official Indian story?

As subsequent letters got published, the ire of the Hindus multiplied and their blind indignation was manifested in the social ostracism of my family and I.

Thus began my journey to reclaim my culture, religion and heritage.

read other articles in 1984