What
the fire burnt away.
The post Partition Punjab, having gone through a great
divide as far as territory and belief are concerned was now a stagnant, broken
State of confusion with unresolved issues regarding religion, language and
identity. Even as the Green Revolution was introduced as an attempt to
establish industry and wealth, the divide between the social classes only
increased, as the limited well offs were the only ones to truly and often
falsely benefit. At the same time, fear psychosis had taken over its people as
territories had been snatched and many were made homeless in the near past.
Many lived in fear, stating their language and religion to be another for their
own safety. Many longed for their home back in Pakistan.
Extremists and terrorists had a game plan: to make Punjab a
separate country called Khalistan, powered by international forces and Indian
political parties. Terrorists exploited these unresolved issues, luring many a
lumpen people to jump onto the terrorist wagon. The only widespread industry in
Punjab was to earn money quickly, in whatever way. Power from weapons and
wealth was baited as temptation and reward to increase the extremist force.
Weapons were amassed in the holy Golden temple in preparation to start a major
armed uprising.
Newspapers and magazines were threatened to state their
extremist views. The media thus went through a divide. Statements were
published and extremist beliefs and ideas were propagated. Readers and
believers reacted in agreement and disagreement; national flags and
Constitutional texts were torn in protest. Terrorist groups hijacked buses and
killed all Hindus aboard. Terrorists went on shop raids and killed all Sikhs as
suspects. Terror was brewing, and the boil was inevitable. These killings in
1984 were the very first dominoes to fall, and the next one fell heavily onto
my family.
Sumeet Singh (Shammi), first husband to my mother and elder
brother to my father, was lost to this violence in February of 1984 at the age
of 30. Two Sikh terrorists shot him, as they refused to believe him Sikh
because he was clean-shaven and had short hair. His Kada, which he wore on his
wrist, wasn’t proof enough for them. It took nine shots- seven in the chest and
two in the head to kill the youth of Shammi, who had love for life flowing in
every part of his body. My father carried his brother’s lifeless body back
home, the home of Preet Larhi -the oldest Punjabi magazine that had been run by
three generations of socially valued literary thinkers. Thinkers, who studied
the world and its people, and wrote of freedom, equality, and harmony. Believers of change including famed writers,
actors and artists of his time loved Shammi. He was a sensitive writer, a
photographer, a designer and an artist. He was a lover of music, technology and
fashion. He was an enthusiast in love with life.
In his last editorials, he had been steering his readers
away from extremist thoughts and hatred in response to the state of Punjab. He
wrote for his readers, “Every body is chanting Bhindranwala’s (the leader of
the extremist force, demanding a separate country in the name of the guru)
name, and you will hear the echoes of this chanting wherever you are. But imagine,
when he does meet god and proudly lists what he did to save the almighty’s
name, god will only rebuke him asking, “Were you to save me, or I, you?””
After his body was cremated, the only thing that remained was
his Kada (an iron wrist band)- one of the five things that mark Sikhism-
blackened by the fire.
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