Whither The Khaliblog?

We have been thinking a lot about which direction this blog is heading.

When we started this blog, the three of us, Vini, Suni and Mai, we were very clear in our own minds what this blog was about. We had scoured the Internet and found a lot of information about the Indian atrocities of 1984, but very few personal stories. The main purpose of this blog was to help rectify this situation. We also hoped to be a platform where others could tell their personal stories.

The first purpose, we think, has been accomplished. Our stories are here; we've put a link to them a the top of the right hand column. Looking at Site Meter, we are pleased that those links are being used and our stories are being read.

We have been much less successful with our second objective. Only a very few have responded with their own stories. There might be several reasons for this. A big one is that many survivors don't have access to the 'Net, and many of those who do are either uncomfortable with English or unable to write in English. Another is that these stories are very difficult - painful - to tell, much less write. We hope that more will come forward. We do hope, as well, that our stories may have provoked discussions across generational lines about survivors' experiences. From e-mails we have received, we know that this is the case.

We would now like to issue an invitation to those who were not there, maybe not even born yet, to tell their own personal stories. Where were you when you first heard the news stories of these events? What was your reaction? Have you spoken to your elders about these things? What were their reactions? We would love to hear any such stories you would care to tell. Just send them to Mai at simayanan@gmail.com. We'll be happy to publish them, with or without your name, that's up to you. (Yes, anywhere on the 'Net you see 'Simayanan' no doubt that's Mai.)

Which brings us to this: For a long time now, Mai has been writing this on her own, with very little input from the rest of us. After some discussion, we feel we should officially turn The Road To Khalistan over to our Mai alone. Her health has improved and she seems able to handle it. We will always be here for backup and we both have her passwords (hehehehe), so we'll still be here in spirit. And if she gets too hot-headed, we'll try to rein her in a little - but only a little - her passion is one of the things we treasure about her.

So we two bow out and turn this over to Mai.

Go to it, Lady Khalsa!

Gurfateh and Chardi Kala to all!

Vini Kaur

Suni Kaur

*******************************************************

I admit that I'm a bit sad at dissolving our corporate person; at the same time, I am now more free to say what I want without clearing any controversial statements I may wish to make. Now I have complete editorial control, although, of course, my co-authors are always very welcome to contribute. When we started this blog, we were all inexperienced and very naive about the Internet. We didn't understand much about search engines and key words. We all thought that our little blog would be lost among the millions out there in the blogosphere. Little did we realise that putting 'Khalistan' in our title would get us noticed. I think that if we had realised, we would have found another name, something less conspicuous.. None of us wished to draw attention to ourselves and our very personal stories. I am pleased, though, that our stories are out there and being read, not because they are our stories, but because these stories need to be told.

Now it seems that I have a few decisions to make.

First, is there any point in continuing this blog? Yes, I think there is. We have a readership of about 45 each day, mostly from India, Canada, The USA and The UK - in that order. We also have a regular readership in Australia, Singapore and Malaysia. There are a few readers from other countries, too, some intrepid person in Oslo, Norway visits often, plus a smattering of readers in the Arabian Peninsula and Pakistan. We have occasional visitors from throughout Europe, Asia and Africa. Once in a great while, someone from South America stops in for a visit. There are a couple of maps in the right-hand column that you can check out, if interested.
As long as you keep reading, I'll keep writing. Is that a deal?

Second, what about content? I have pretty much been putting into this blog whatever comes up of a nature that I feel involved in as a Sikh. You'll keep hearing about the continuing saga of Brother Laibar Singh Ji, a person I am strongly committed to. An exception to this policy of covering all interesting things Sikh is that I have avoided involving this blog in the shenanigans of the High Muckety-Mucks in Amritsar. I find their manipulating Machiavellian machinations in Maya to be disgusting. Sikhi is my religion, my way of life, who and what I am. It is the core of my being, my great passion, my way of maneuvering through this life. It causes me great pain to see those who are supposed to be leading us acting like snot-nosed little brats who should be sitting on the 'naughty stool, not holding positions of power affecting all Sikh worldwide. I hate seeing one family set itself up as the Royal Family of Sikhdom - and it hurts me to see others accept their domination. That said, I do not see how my delving into this cesspool of dirty politics and ruthless, filthy ambition will in any way help my dear sisters and brothers, my fellow Sikhs. So I intend to continue to avoid these political issues. But my mind might be changed if it gets too outrageous.

I intend to change my profile picture each month to reflect some current Sikh issue. I might or might not write about it, but it will be there. Last month, I showed the damage caused to a brother's back by a lathi in Mumbai. How deeply we are loved and appreciated by these Indian people whom we have saved numerous times! I guess seeing Sikh blood gives them a feeling of power. Or something.

This month, I am using a portrait by the very talented and equally modest brother simmal tree. Our former header picture, We Are Going To Battle, is also from him..He allows me to freely use his pictures, asking only that I acknowledge Vahe guru. Since anything good we do is really Vaheguru, I love doing that. To see the discussion on this month's painting, go here. I would also suggest that you click on his photostream there and look at some of his own pictures. This portrait, Daughter(s) Of The Khalsa, has several meanings to me. First is the way we Kaurs seem to have no voice. I think we need to find our voice ourselves. This Singhni is not bound or tied. What is stopping her from taking the tape off her own mouth? I also see this as a metaphor for the way the government of India keeps trying to subdue and silence us Sikhs. I have no idea what it will take for them to realise the futility of their tactics.

Another note. According to a poll I took some time ago, the majority of readers of this blog are young men in their twenties, mostly from India. I am aware only a small percentage of readers answer polls, and I think that is probably accurate, although quite a few female readers have comminicated to me privately and I also know of several older people, hurray! I want to assure all of you that I will never let The Khaliblog - my personal name for The Road To Khalistan - degenerate into a feminist rag. There is one very good reason for this. I am not a feminist. I do believe in the equality - or rather the equivalency - of the sexes, as Sikhi clearly teaches. I do not believe one gender ought to dominate. And I do not believe in one of the feminists' key beliefs, abortion on demand, for both moral and practical reasons. And I do have an outrageous sense of humour that has been very unappreciated by the feminists I have known. So, while I will continue to write on women's issues as they arise, I will continue to write on whatever concerns me.

The remaining author, Kamal Kaur, is my dear friend and younger sister. The Internet being what it is, and given the volitile nature of our world, we have thought it prudent to preserve this blog outside of blogger. She is helping with this and needs administrative powers to help me. She has never written here, but I heartily hope she'll one day write about how she first learned about the events of 1984, events that occurred before she was even born. Come on, Kamal, please? I'll even proof read it for you, if you like.

(BTW, I am aware that many of my readers do not have English as their primary language. I promise to try to avoid using expressions like 'manipulating Machiavellian machinations' too often, but I love the English language and can't promise I'll be entirely successful. I have put a dictionary widget in the right hand column. If anyone knows of a widget that will translate English into Punjabi, please let me know. I've installed the one that translates into Spanish, French, Japanese, Chinese, etc., but I haven't found one for Punjabi.)

So where is this blog headed? The answer is I'm not sure, except that it is running headlong into the Sikh experience in the Twenty-First Century of the Common Era.

There is a saying, if you don't know where you're going, you'll probably end up somewhere else. So let us gather up our chardi kala and stride into that 'somewhere else,' 'the road less traveled by', with our integrity intact, our heads held high, and courage and joy in our hearts.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

From: The Road Not Taken

by Robert Frost

Mai Harinder Kaur

WHY TRY TO FIT IN?
YOU WERE BORN TO STAND OUT!

A Poem For Suni

A reader sent this beautiful poem in response to Suni's Story with the Shaheeds

For Suni

“Whispers in the Night”

Sonnet In Honour of Anhad Warriors

composed by gupt sakhee dassNdaas

Often have i heard Whispers in the Night

softly chorus trilling, calling Your Name

In dark surrounding a Persisting Light

Enthralling, thrilling tongues intent proclaim



Sighing Singing, Pining, for One Beloved

Ceaseless voices overwhelming Rapture

Rent, enticing content to be so loved

Longingly declare in quiet capture



As Gathered lovers enrapture my ear

Rose red, my heart blossomed, listening bled

Glad madness in this unseen sound i hear

Crimson dewdrop tears spilling glistening shed



What ghost's candle is this haunting of mine

Who's flamed tongue’s burn eternal's love divine?

Waheguru ji

Mohan And Balbir

This is Suni. I haven't written here for a long time, but now I'm married and pregnant and happy and I'm ready to tell you about my first husband and our son.

I come from a wealthy khatri Sikh family. I mention that because it is important to my story. While I was at university studying psychology in Delhi, Papa Ji decided I needed a husband. Without consulting me, he looked and looked until he found me the perfect man. Then he told me. I agreed to meet him, but you'll find out later why I knew it would be a useless meeting.

The man was very nice. He was about 30, fair and handsome, educated, sophisticated, rich and seemed like a good man. He was a turbaned Gursikh, of course. Under normal circumstances I would have wanted to get to know him and maybe I would have married him. He could have provided me with a very prosperous life. My life would have been happy and uncomplicated.

Mohan was the problem. I had met him at university and he was just the opposite. He was my age, tall and handsome, but dark and he came from a very poor family. He was Sikh, but before he knew me he had never grown his kesh and took off his kara at night and when he showered. In short, he was what is called a 'dalit Sikh' and was at university only because of reservation. Although he was intelligent, there was no other way he could have gotten an education. When I met him, he was a bit scruffy and countrified, but when he spoke up, he always had something insightful and interesting to say. His background was completely different from anyone I had ever known because I had grown up in a cocoon of wealthy Sikh India. Of course, he fascinated me.

I made it a point to get to know him. I have never been the shy, demure Indian lady of the stereotype. If I really want something, I go after it. The long and the short of it is that I fell in love with him. I knew my family would never let us get married, but I was young and reckless. We secretly got married. This was before I was introduced to Papa Ji's gentleman.

I didn't know what to do, but I had to do something soon because Balbir had already been conceived. Terrified, I took a picture of Mohan and visited my parents. I told them all about him and about our marriage. It was worse than I had imagined. My father screamed and hollered and yelled. And then he struck me and knocked me to the floor. I didn't expect that. I had never known him to be violent. Then he turned and stomped away, leaving me with my mother. She picked me up and put her arms around me and cried. That was when I told her that I was going to have a baby. Then she really cried.

When my father returned, he was more calm, but no less angry. He apologised for hitting me and handed me a large cheque. 'I won't have my daughter living in poverty, but I can't condone this marriage. Now go and don't come back. You have joined this nobody's family. You're no longer my daughter.'

I left, but nothing is ever that simple. I knew if I destroyed that cheque, there could never be any hope he'd ever soften, but if I brought it home, it would be a terrible blow to Mohan's pride as a man. I deposited it in the bank and didn't tell anyone.

The break with my family was painful, but also a blessing. Now we could begin our real married life. We moved into a small flat, not very pleasant, but it was our first home and I loved it. The estrangement from my family wasn't total, either. My mother secretly stayed in touch with me, and my younger sister and my brothers sometimes visited. It wasn't comfortable, though. Mohan wasn't comfortable with them and they were, I'm sad to say, a little snobbish toward him. By this time, he had a respectable jura and was tying a dastaar, so he looked like a proper Sikh. I think that helped a little.

Now let me tell a little about him. He was from a village north of Delhi and came from a very large family. He had 13 siblings. They were poor but not destitute by Indian standards, they managed to eat and stay healthy. I think they must be from very strong stock. They were the opposite of my family in every way. They lacked money, but there was so much love there. They laughed and worked hard and I think in spite of their poverty were much happier than we were in my family. At first they were a little bit afraid of me and I admit I was apprehensive about them, but we got to know and love each other quickly. His mother first looked at me and said something like "I don't know how to be a mother-in-law to such a grand lady!" I laughed and told her to treat me just like any daughter-in-law who married her son without a dowry. We became friends at once. We lived in Delhi and built a little vegetable market business and made enough money to send some to them. We also made some investments that turned out very well. Mohan had a talent for investing.

Mohan was very even tempered most of the time. He was calm and able to take life as it came. He considered his background uncouth though and was ashamed of his family. This hurt me because they are good people and deserved better from him. He was big and strong physically, but unlike my Canadian cousins, he was no warrior. He was a great negotiator. He acquired the reputation of someone who could get people to settle disputes and he became a sort of neighbourhood small claims judge, sort of like The People's Court. He was kind and loving to me, an almost perfect husband. He felt guilty about my estrangement from my family, but I did my best to convince him that we both knew their reaction would be negative and we just needed to accept it and move on. When he was blessed with Amrit, he changed. It was as if all the lack of confidence and that lurking inferiority complex just vanished literally overnight.

Balbir was a different story. From the beginning, he was always in trouble. He was a finicky, colicky baby who grew into a cranky toddler. Please don't misunderstand me. He was our son and we both loved him so very much, but he was a problem. He lied. He stole. He hit the other children. We tried to teach him our values, but he was always in trouble. When he was of school age, we sent him to stay with Mohan's family in the country. We were hoping that he would get into less trouble away from the temptations of the city. We had been sending money regularly and the village school was good enough for the beginning of his education. It was a good move. His aunts and uncles simply wouldn't tolerate his misbehaviour the way we did. He had to do his chores and they were greatly increased with each incident of stealing or lying. He was intelligent enough to learn really fast that good behaviour made life more pleasant and bad behaviour made life quite unenjoyable. This was really hard for me. I missed him and it seemed too much like training a dog.

When he finished primary school, we brought him back to Delhi. At first, he was well-behaved, but I'm afraid I was too indulgent and before long, he was getting in trouble again. By this time, we had bought a nice house in a good area of Delhi and were quite respectable people. Mohan didn't want his son to throw jellybeans into the machinery of our lives. Luckily he took over the role of disciplinarian, but Balbir remained inwardly defiant.

It was in June, 1984, that Mani and Mai and Sandeep came to visit us. They had been in the hands of the Punjab police and had been let go when they realised they were Canadians, and then they had a hair raising escape from Punjab. When they showed up here, they were tired and dirty and Mai was pregnant like me but not so far along. The men were psychologically in bad shape, but Mai was in chardi kala. She has already explained about that. She was physically injured, but she didn't seem to care. I had known her from childhood when her family and Mani's would visit India in the summer. She always amazed me because she would do anything that came into her head that seemed interesting to her, no matter how outrageous it was. I'll leave it to her to tell about the time she flew off the roof. I think her biggest stunt was when she ran away and came home on the shoulders of a Nihung. That was Mai. She always had a sort of style.

You have heard that some people mix like oil and water? Well, Mohan and Mai mixed like sodium and water. BOOM!! He dislikes loud, brash, pushy, over confident, vulgar, uncouth women who think they're men. That was one of his more complimentary descriptions of her. Her description of him, under her breath was 'pussy wuss.' When he learned that her father was jatt, that did it. The only people hew hated more than brahmins, even our nice neighbours were jatts. She became 'that half caste jatt brahmin bitch who pretends she's a Sikh.' to him. Never mind that those terms are all contradictory, that was just his way of being insulting. He did admit she was beautiful, though. On the other hand, she sweetly shared with me that he was too damned weak to be a sant, much less a sipahi, but he was very handsome. I wonder if they could have gotten along if they would have both dropped their prejudices?

Sandeep had a wonderful effect on Balbir. He had a good effect on everyone, though. A few people are like that and Sandeep was one of them. Mohan was even willing to overlook that Mai was his mother and he loved Sandeep, too. Sandeep was a Gursikh like his parents and from the first had decided that he and Balbir had to arrange to take Amrit together. Amrit? Balbir? Our delinquent son started getting up at amrit vela to pray, can you imagine? He had always kept his kesh, but wore only a patka and really didn't take good care of his hair. That changed at once. Sandeep stuck out his chest and said, "What's wrong with you? I've been tying a dastaar since I was seven." So Balbir started tying a turban, and Sandeep insisted it be tied well. At this time also, Balbir wanted to be called Billy. Sandeep would have nothing to do with that. "They tried to call me Sandy. Sandy! What kind of a name is that for a Sikh? And Billy is even worse. Bilbar is much better. Isn't that the name the Guru Ji told the panj piyare to give you?" After a time, Sandeep relented a bit and they began calling each other Bilbo Baggins and Samwise Gamgee. Sandeep also began teaching Balbir gatka. How I wish he had taught Mohan as well.

That leaves Mani. All he could see of Mohan was that he hated Mai. Mani was a very rational, logical person, except where Mai was concerned. She was perfect and that was that, so those two were metaphorically at each other's throat whenever they were together. Poor Mai. She wanted peace, I think. I think she also enjoyed the way he stood up for her though. As they say, he had her back.

We all went to stay for awhile with his family in the village. We were two pregnant ladies and the air of Delhi was thick and grey black and barely breathable. If only we had stayed there. We decided to have a big family reunion in Delhi. We invited their families from Punjab and Kashmir and Canada and Mohan's and mine. My parents refused to come, but my sister and brothers were there. In all we had 39 people, quite a big crowd.

That is how we were when SHE was executed. When it became clear that Sikhs were being murdered, we quickly divided into two groups, cut the hair and run and hide, and Sikhs. When the dust settled, we Sikhs were 11, including three unborn children. I cannot express how proud I was of my husband and son at that time. They both stayed. I think even Mai and Mani gained some respect for Mohan. Mohan, however, wasn't gracious. He went to the room where they were staying, brought her purse and passport and return ticket. He handed her those objects, then he tossed the car keys at her and told her to leave, this is a battle for Sikhs. I thought Mani would kill him, but Mai held him back. I have never seen anyone as cold as she was then. Her voice would have frozen hell. "It doesn't matter whether I'm a Sikh or not. This is my family and I stand with them. " She sat the purse and passport and ticket on the table, walked over to him and dropped the car keys at his feet. They glared at each other for a moment. I had no idea what would happen, but our sons stepped forward and separated them. They said that there were people who wanted to kill us, we should save our personal differences for later. Mani muttered, "This isn't over."

It was over though. They never had the chance to have it out with each other.

Those are my first husband and my son. We had a good life together and loved each other and made a nice family. In the end, when it counted, Mohan became a sipahi and they both died as shaheeds.

That cheque my father gave sat in the bank all those years building interest. I still had our investments and Mai's family in Canada have enough money, so I never needed it. It has been donated where I believe it has done some good.

Details - 4 November 1984

(Cross-posted with sometimes - 2)

Warning, this post does get a little bit graphic.

Suni's story is in blue, Mai's in red.

Someone suggested in an e-mail that we really should include more details of what happened in November 1984 to our family group. I am not sure what that person really meant, but we think it is about the actual fight. We, Mai and Suni, are here together on this anniversary and will make an attempt to tell in more detail, what happened.

We think it was 4 November. Everything had been very quiet all morning. We, of course, were on edge, but had done our prayers and a lot of singing, some kirtan, but mostly popular stuff. About 1:30 PM, we heard a commotion outside and knew that this was it.

Suni: A few minutes before, I saw a party of shaheeds enter the house. There were about quite a few of them, I didn't count, but I think maybe 40 or 45.

Mani shouted, 'Bole so nihal!' We responded and took up our positions. Suni was seated in the big chair, holding Guru Ji. I was on the stairs leading to the second floor balcony. My brothers were to the left and right of the front door. Sandeep, my son, was in the kitchen doorway. Mohan and Balbir, Suni's husband and son, as the least experienced fighters (Suni: totally inexperienced) were upstairs on the balcony. (I had argued with Mani that I should be in Sandeep's position, since I was a strong fighter, but he refused because of my pregnancy.) Mani, as our commander, was across the room, but directly in front of the door.

What none of us had expected was that they entered from the front and back simultaneously. That one came so fast behind Sandeep that I don't think he ever knew he was hit. I saw it, though, and felt the blood rush to my head in an anger and fury indescribable. He went down with the first blow of the iron bar across the back of his neck, his head at that bizarre angle that I'll never forget.

I remember then Mani shouted, 'Guru Gobind Singh! Waheguru!' and lunged forward. I ran from my position toward the bastard that had killed my son, intending to kill him. Something happened, time seemed to stop. Suddenly there was no noise and no one was moving except me and him. I approached him with my kirtan/dagger (it was now a weapon) drawn and ready. He was terrified. If I live forever, I will never see such fear in anyone's eyes again. His eyes were wide open, as was his mouth - although I heard no sound from it - as I slit his throat from ear to ear. I think I nearly decapitated him. Blood spurted out all over me, my face was wet with it. He stared at me for a moment and then fell at my feet, mouth still gaping open, eyes staring wide. I felt a great satisfaction, as I licked the blood from my lips. Is that enough detail for everyone?

This is Suni. When I sat down with Guru Ji, two Singhnis took up positions on either side of me. Both were tall and strong-looking and heavily armed. The one on my right smiled at me and gently patted my stomach. I could eel her hand.

When Mai went toward that [person]. I also saw everything stop and it happened as Mai has described it, but she could not see herself. The person [he] confronted looked nothing like my cousin/sister Mai. She was huge and tall and black. Her eyes were red and she was the very embodiment of the outraged mother. In short she looked like a most terrifying depiction of Ma Kali. I think that is what that person saw that scared him so much. Of course, I do not believe in Ma Kali, but he did and that's what matters. All the shaheeds just stood and watched.

Mai again. Normal time resumed. Mohan and Bilbar were side by side on the main floor, doing their best to strike with drawn swords, but I saw Bilbar get hit in the stomach with an iron bar and drop his sword. I saw my brothers moving, but I couldn't see clearly what was going on. Two [males] had converged on me and I was busy with them. They kept hitting my body, but I was able to protect my head and kept going. I felt no pain. I could not see Mani, at all.

Suni: They never seemed to notice me sitting there Somehow the shaheeds were able to make me invisible to our enemies, I think. I saw my son drop his sword and geddit in the head with one of their bars. My husband foolishly went to his aid and forgot to protect himself. The two fell in a heap together. The Hindus beat them and beat them with their iron bars.

Mai's brothers were expert fighters, but each was fighting off three opponents and fell. Someone picked up their swords and stabbed them over and over in the chest. There was a lot of blood. By this time, the smell became overwhelming. Not just blood, but also urine and feces. I could barely breathe.

Mani was in control of himself. I could see his mouth moving. 'Vaheguru, vaheguru, vaheguru...' He sword was swinging in rhythm to his words. There were just too many of them and eventually he went down. Mai was a fury. She looked like something out of a Chinese martial arts movie. Eventually, though, she went down, too. They beat everyone after they were down, over and over, with their bars until all of them were bloody all over. I am sure many bones were broken, too. I could tell when someone died because shaheeds would gather around that person, I think to act as an escort and honour guard. I knew that Mani and Mai were still alive, but all the others were dead.

When they finished beating the bodies, for some reason, they left. I'm not sure why. I just sat and clutched Guru Ji. My two lady shaheeds were still with me, so I knew it wasn't over.

We have already described how Mai regained consciousness and got to Mani and their talk, his death and then cleaning the faces. We are not going to retell that now.

Eventually, the mob returned with cans of petrol. They looted the house, then drenched all the bodies with the petrol. Just at that moment, by Guru's grace, a loud voice shouted 'Naamaste!' They stopped dead in their tracks. It was our neighbours, the brahmins. They ordered the mob out and came and rescued me. I knew Mai was still alive and they carried her, bleeding profusely - she was in premature labour by that time, in addition to her other injuries - to their house. The shaheeds followed her and, I think also acted as an escort to her two daughters.

They wanted to relieve me of the burden of carrying Guru Ji, but I wouldn't surrender him to them for anything. As we left the house, the mob, waiting impatiently outside, entered and torched the house. I really didn't know that brahmins had that much power still, but the mob was willing to let us two live. I don't think they ever knew that Mai was a woman.

Picture: We do not know who these women are, just our sisters, survivors like ourselves.

A Statement From Suni

Waheguru Ji Ka Khalsa! Waheguru Ji Ki Fateh!

I have been asked what has become of Guruji.

He has been installed in my home, where he is treated with the utmost love and respect, and where he is consulted usually several times each day by me or Hope or one of our visitors, always lovingly and with the dignity and respect he deserves.

I have been reading the Respect For Guru Ji (R4G) website and want to assure everyone of this.

During our battle, I held him with all the love and strength I had. He, in turn, gave me all the love and strength I needed to endure. Afterward, when our rescuers tried to relieve me of the 'burden' of carrying him, I refused their help. I know that we could not follow all the usual rules of caring for him during this time, but he was always given all the love, respect and care that was possible.

By the grace of Waheguru, he came through our battle completely uninjured.

I most sincerely hope that I have not offended anyone.

Suni

Waheguru Ji Ka Khalsa!
Waheguru Ji Ki Fateh!