The Ghosts Of Mrs. Gandhi

I ask each and every reader of this blog to please go to this link and read The Ghosts of Mrs. Gandhi. It is a compelling, first person account of the Delhi Pogrom of November 1984.

...Our next bus was not quite full, which was unusual. Just as it was pulling out, a man ran out of an office and jumped on. He was middle-aged and dressed in shirt and trousers, evidently an employee in one of the government buildings. He was a Sikh, but I scarcely noticed this at the time.

He probably jumped on without giving the matter any thought, this being his regular, daily bus. But, as it happened, on this day no choice could have been more unfortunate, for the route of the bus went past the hospital where Indira Gandhi’s body then lay. Certain loyalists in her party had begun inciting the crowds gathered there to seek revenge. The motorcade of Giani Zail Singh, the President of the Republic, a Sikh, had already been attacked by a mob.

None of this was known to us then, and we would never have suspected it: violence had never been directed at the Sikhs in Delhi.

As the bus made its way down New Delhi’s broad, tree-lined avenues, official-looking cars, with outriders and escorts, overtook us, speeding toward the hospital. As we drew nearer, it became evident that a large number of people had gathered there. But this was no ordinary crowd: it seemed to consist of red-eyed young men in half-buttoned shirts. It was now that I noticed that my Sikh fellow-passenger was showing signs of anxiety, sometimes standing up to look out, sometimes glancing out the door. It was too late to get off the bus; the thugs were everywhere...

...A survivor — a woman who lost her husband and three sons — offered the following account to Veena Das, a Delhi sociologist: Some people, the neighbours and one of my relatives, said it would be better if we hid in an abandoned house nearby. So my husband took our three sons and hid there. We locked the house from outside, but there was treachery in people’s hearts. Someone must have told the crowd. They baited him to come out. Then they poured kerosene on that house. They burnt them alive. When I went there that night, the bodies of my sons were on the loft — huddled together...

Please read.

To read the rest, go to the link.

WHAT A STORY - From Delhi 1984

A lady I know, Namjot Kaur, just told me her story of Delhi 84.

It's bloodier, nastier and more unbelievable than ours, and I'd like to share it with you, at least the strangest part. So I start in the middle.

The mob forced the Sikhs in the house onto the street, including the women and children. They separated the males from the females and threw kerosene on the males. Inderjeet, her husband, knowing what was about to happen, drew his kirpan and cut their son's throat - he was just a little boy of 9. That angered the mob and they turned their total attention to him.

As they set him alight, a man appeared beside him, with his hand on Inderjeet's shoulder. Inderjeet didn't move a muscle, just stood there burning, staring at her and smiling. Just before he died, he shouted. "Bole so nihal," and his body collapsed on the ground. Then he and their son, who whose body had been at his feet, rose and embraced the man and they both disappeared.

While Inderjeet was burning, the man's hawk kept dive-bombing the mob, which seemed unable to move. After the men disappeared, the mob ran off, screaming in terror, leaving the remaining Sikhs in safety.

Namjot is sure the 'man' was Guru Gobind Singh Ji, although he looked quite different from the pictures we see of him. This' man' was very rough-looking, a warrior with a full, bushy beard, not at all like the dandified pictures we see of Guru Maharaj Ji. The hawk, though, is a give-away. And the light around the apparition

I believe Namjot's story. I know Guru Papa Ji looks after his children.

There's much more to her story, of course, that's just the most dramatic part. I'm trying to convince her to write it out for this blog; I would even be willing to play Alex Haley to her Malcolm X, ie, I'm willing to ghost-write it, you know, as told to.

Chardi kala!

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.

IN MEMORY, 2007

WAHEGURU JI KA KHALSA
WAHEGURU JI KI FATEH

IN LOVING AND GRATEFUL MEMORY

FROM YOUR KHALSA SISTERS
VINI AND SUNI AND MAI

on the 22nd 23rd anniversary of your Shaheedi

the Second Battle of Delhi,
31 October- 4 November, 1984

TO OUR KHALSA BROTHERS

SHAHEED BERTRAM K. SINGH
SHAHEED BALBIR SINGH
SHAHEED EDUARD P. SINGH
SHAHEED MANDEEP SINGH KHALSA
SHAHEED MOHAN SINGH
SHAHEED SANDEEP SINGH

and our two little sisters who died unborn,

BABY KAUR ONE

BABY KAUR TWO

and to all the thousands of our other brothers and sisters who died in this battle/pogrom/massacre.

YOU WILL NEVER BE FORGOTTEN

WAHEGURU JI KA KHALSA
WAHEGURU JI KI FATEH

OUR SEARCH FOR JUSTICE CONTINUES UNABATED.

KHALISTAN ZINDABAD!!

An Unexpected Encounter

I had not intended to write this particular post - it seems a little self-serving to me - but the people involved, especially the lady, have asked me to, so how can I refuse?

Since the stroke a year ago April, my main source of exercise has been walking, first around the house, then around the block, now around the neighbourhood. I enjoy these walks; aside from stretching my muscles, I have met many of my neighbours, almost all of whom are very nice people.


I have recently had a miserable cold that put me out of commission for a while. About a week ago, I was able to resume my ramblings.

Just down the street from us, a few houses away, a Sikh lady about my age was working in her front yard. I had seen her many times, always wearing a pale coloured salwar kameez and a filmy white chunni, usually on her hands and knees, working in her garden. She had always looked up at me and smiled slightly and nodded in greeting, but had never said a word to me, although I always gave her a 'sat sri akaal.' I wondered if she was mute or maybe just shy of talking to strangers.

This time, she jumped up and was suddenly directly in front of me on the sidewalk, blocking my way. She was tall and looked very strong. Her hoe was in one hand and she had a serious, determined look on her face. I greeted her as usual, 'Sat sri akaal.'

She shook her head and looked directly in my eyes, then pointed at my kara, my hair covered by a scarf, my left waistband and then the front of my stomach. The Five Ks? I guessed at what she wanted. 'Waheguru ji ka khalsa, Waheguru ji ki fateh.'

She actually grinned.

She led me into the soil in her garden. With the handle of her hoe, she began writing in the dirt: a nine, a lower case t with an off-center cross bar and a fishhook on the end, the same t without the fishhook and an 8 with the top broken.

Everyone knows that I lost my Punjabi in the stroke and along with it, my ability to read Gurmukhi. But I have been working on relearning Gurmukhi, starting with the numbers, so I knew at once what she was saying, '1984,' I said out loud to her.

She smiled briefly, then pointed to her eye and brought her finger down her cheek, then pointed to her heart. The meaning was unmistakable - and painful. I repeated her movements and pointing to the scars on my arm said, 'Yeah, me, too.'

She stared at me for a minute, then in a very small, rusty voice said, 'Mai? Harinder Kaur? Blog?'

I had to make a quick decision. I am very jealous of my privacy and have no desire for anyone to know exactly who I am. But she was clearly my sister and I could neither lie to her nor refuse to answer. I said, 'Yes.'

She looked up, gave me a beautiful, unclouded smile - and burst out laughing.

Immediately, the door to the house opened and a young woman, an older woman, a younger man and a little girl came flying out. The younger woman was screaming, 'Mata ji! Mata ji! Mata ji!' over and over again. She grabbed me and demanded, 'Who are you? What have you done to my mother?!'

'Mai. Harinder Kaur,' the lady said, enunciating very clearly. The whole family burst into tears.

'You don't know, but my mother hasn't made a sound since that night in Delhi. Nothing. We thought she'd never talk again. Maybe even her vocal chords were broken or something.'

I, of course, was astonished. I knew she was quiet, and I had suspected she might be a 1984 widow.

We all went inside where we had juice and biscuits. They explained that they had found this blog on a Google search of 'Khalistan' some time ago and had been following it, as well as my personal blog. Although she didn't talk, this lady read and wrote both English and Punjabi and had told them that her story was like mine in some ways.

Her story is actually much worse. She, her husband and her son were visiting in Trilokpuri visiting on that day and were trapped there. Her husband and son were burnt alive in front of her. She was treated as all Sikh women were there that day and left to live or die, with two shaheeds watching over her. Yes, she saw the shaheeds, too.

I will not tell her story beyond that. Perhaps she will later tell it herself in this blog or better still, maybe she'll start her own blog.

After our talk, I asked them for a promise. 'I can tell you're not,' I said to the man, 'but are you women amritdhari?'

All three said, 'Yes.'

'OK, then, will you promise me on your word as Khalsa, and you, on your word as a Sikh, that you won't tell anybody who I am?'

They didn't want to, but in the end they all agreed. I suggested to the man that, although he was quite handsome with just neck-length hair and a trimmed beard, he'd look and feel a lot better if he joined the rest of his family and took amrit. None of my business, perhaps, but I'm neither shy nor reserved about speaking my mind on this matter. And his wife agreed with me, vigorously!

They wanted to meet Suni and Lilly, who were just a few doors away, but they were as sick as I had been the week before, so that had to wait.

Oh, how did the lady know who I was? After all, she had no picture of me and such descriptions as I have given of myself could apply to thousands, maybe millions, of women. All anybody could get out of her was, 'I had a dream.'

The lady herself has read this and tells me it is accurate, and she has chosen the illustrations.
--
WHY TRY TO FIT IN WHEN YOU WERE BORN TO STAND OUT?

Other Survivors' Stories

Few survivors have written their stories. That's understandable; it's a horrible, painful chapter and to write is to relive.


Here are a couple of links about some others survivors of Delhi '84. The first, by a young man with cerebral palsy is especially moving to me. Revisiting 1984 by Amrit in the Writing Cave
















Here are eighteen short eyewitness

accounts. These are brief, but contain a lot of information. Not for the squeamish.



This story is about a reporter who was a witness to Trilokpuri, a poor section of Delhi inhabited at the time by S ikhs, Muslims and Hindus, where some of the worst violence occurred.

This picture of the dog eating the roasted man is from Trilokpuri.




I am adding these gruesome links just as evidence that our stories, while more personally told than most, are not really unusual. I was going to put some more links, but I think this is enough to make my point and, frankly, I've had enough of this for now.

Read and weep.


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

Reprinted from sometimes - 2

Mani

[Back to the mean streets]

This post is about Mani, Vini's son and Mai's husband, who was one of our men who achieved shaheedi in the Battle of Delhi, 1984. If we three were able to accomplish anything outstanding at all, it was from his good, loving, strong leadership. We believe he was one of the great people of the Twentieth Century, but, of course, we might be a little bit prejudiced in his favour.

He used to say that we had to be prepared for whatever might happen because 'anything can happen to anyone at any time.' How right he was! Among us, he was the one who believed in the necessity of Khalistan; until all this happened, the rest of us thought he was something of an alarmist.

Please read this gently, as it was very difficult to write.

Mai writing: All this happened many years ago, and this is how I remember it.

How can I write about my husband, knowing others will read it? He was, possibly, the most nearly perfect human being of our generation.

I married him in 1970, lived our whole life together, every single day, until he achieved shaheedi in November 1984. I have absolutely no complaints about him as a person or as a husband. I knew him literally from the day I was born, when I threw up on him, until that day. I had never had any interest in any other man. I knew him to be intelligent, self-disciplined, kind and a bit fastidious. I knew he would never be interested in any woman who didn't live up to the standard he held himself to, so I always kept a tight rein on myself. Dad was always afraid I'd get involved with some idiot boy at school. He had nothing to worry about. How could a boy interest me, when I had always intended to marry this man? He was ten years older than me, so he was settled and grown up by the time I was expected to start to notice boys.

This is also the chance to be introduced to my Dad, who was 67 when I was born and, fortunately, missed all the horrors of 1984, dying peacefully at age 97 in 1982.

One day, when I was 17, I went to Dad, and said, 'I want to get married.'

He looked at me a minute and said, 'Aren't you a little young?'

'No, I know what I want. After all, you taught me.'

'When a young lady comes to her father and says she wants to get married, I would assume she has someone in mind.'

I nodded.

He looked at me for a minute. I said nothing.

'Not one of those little boy fools you go to school with, I hope.'

I shook my head. 'I don't want to marry a child, damn it. I have a little more sense than that.'

'Anyone I know?'

I felt suddenly shy. I nodded again.

'Dare I ask who?'

A third time, I nodded.

'Princess, you're driving me mad. Who?'

In an uncharacteristically tiny voice. 'Mani.'

Bellowing, 'MANI??? You've got to be kidding. Why him?'

'I never thought of anyone else. I always wanted to marry him.'

Dad gave me the strangest look. 'Really?'

'Didn't you notice I never wanted to date or anything?'

'I just counted my blessings. I'm an old traditional Punjabi Sikh. I wouldn't have any idea how to handle a dating daughter.' (I have written a short fiction piece about this which I'll publish in a lighter moment)

I giggled at the thought. 'You'd scare the poor boy half to death.'

'I'd try, I'm sure.' He kept looking at me with that weird look.

'Why are you looking at me like that. Is he secretly my brother or something?'

Laughing, 'No, no, no. Nothing like that. Are you 100% sure?'

'Yes.'

'I have absolutely no objections. In fact, if you'd let me find you a husband which is, after all, my responsibility, I would have chosen him.' In an uncharacteristically small voice, a bit sheepishly, 'In fact, his parents and I did choose him. We've been trying to figure out how to get you two stubborn, modern kids together for years.'

'Daddy!' I was appalled.

'Are you still serious? Do you really want to marry him?' He was staring at me.

'Yes.'

'OK, I'll call his parents. How much have you discussed with him?'

'Not a word, but he's always wanted to marry me, too. I know you think I'm young and inexperienced, but I have always known. Especially after he sang at my sixteenth birthday party.' I mimicked him singing.

'Since you've grown up your future is sewn up. From now on you're gonna be mine.'

By that night we were informally engaged.

His family and ours had always been close. Dad had been the business partner of Mani's grandfather and of his dad. He was his parents' only child and also my youngest brother's best friend, so he had always been around. In fact, he was the first nonfamily member to meet me when I was born, and the reason I got the nickname, Mai. The way the ten-year-old boy and new-born baby looked into each others' eyes and then she threw up on him had become a favourite family legend.

By the time we got engaged, he had been to medical school and was a fully certified physician. He was also a devout Khalsa, which he would put before being a doctor or a husband or a father. It was the only thing, in fact, that he put ahead of me, which was fine. That came before everything, even wife, even child, even his own life, everything.

I think I can describe him in that one word: Khalsa. Pure. A true son of Guru Gobind Singh, if I can sound a bit cheesy, from the moment we woke up before dawn and took those horrible cold showers to when he fell asleep at night. He never tried to force me to do as he did, like those pre-dawn cold showers but in a true marriage, it's natural to stand together. He admitted to me after some years, that he didn't like those cold showers any more than I did, but he did it out of love and also as self-discipline.

I would like to say something about him that doesn't involve being Sikh, but that was so much of him that there is nothing else to say.

I remember once I asked him,"What do you think you would be if you weren't Sikh?'

His answer tells it all, "Someone else.'

Maybe a physical description. Tall, athletic, kind of light brown skin in winter, darker, of course, in summer, as we spent a lot of time outdoors, rather bushy eyebrows, thick, curly black eyelashes (why do the men always have those?), a nose slightly too large for American tastes, but perfect for an Indian, steel grey eyes, courtesy of his Kashmiri mother (That's me, Vini!) and all that hair. He wouldn't even let me see it until after we were married. I told him he was as bad as a Muslim virgin, but he just laughed at me. It was thick and straight and longer than waist length and was as black and shiny as obsidian. I felt almost naked with my dark brown, rather thin hair. At least I could match him for length in those days. His beard did have just a touch of red in it, maybe again from his Kashmiri side. I enjoyed looking at him, and he could hardly take his eyes off me. We were the most perfectly matched couple I have ever seen. We had fourteen incredible years together, and would have had many more, if he hadn't been killed.

I don't feel like describing that day again, so let me jump to immediately after the mob had left and I had regained consciousness. As it turned out, at that time he was also still alive.
Whatever kind forces exist in the universe, whether Waheguru or Guru Nanak Dev Ji or some other benevolent being or just the universe itself, we had a few peaceful minutes talking together before he died. Most of that conversation was so intensely personal that I can't write it down. I will only mention three things.

First, I pulled lightly on his beard and asked him, 'Has it all really been worth it?'

He said softly,'Yeah.' Then he breathed in deeply, and said in his strongest voice, 'Yes. Hell, yes! People don't even dream of living the kind of life we've lived because they could never believe it's possible. Too short, I guess, but better too short and too good, than longer in the hell most people seem to live in. And, you know, for me there's really no better way to die. Given the choice, this is what I'd choose.'

Then he insisted on a promise from me that I would remarry, so as not to spend the rest of my life in useless grieving for him. As if marrying another man would end my grief! But I have done as I promised, and my current husband treats me like a queen, and I have come to love him deeply, too.

Then he asked me to sing the last verse of How Can I keep from Singing?, an old Quaker song. My singing voice is between a crow and a foghorn, and I can't carry a tune, but I complied.

When tyrants tremble, sick with fear,
And hear their death
knells ringing,

When friends rejoice, both far and near,
How can I keep from
singing?
On gallows high or dungeons vile,
Our thoughts to them go
winging.

When friends by shame are undefiled,
How can I keep from
singing?

As Mani lay in my lap dying, he looked into my eyes and said, 'Good-bye for now, love.' Then he closed his eyes and, holding onto my hand said his final pronouncement, in a loud, clear voice, slowly, syllable by syllable, a battle cry and an affirmation:

'Wa...he...gu...ru...Ji...Ka...Khal...sa!!...

Wa...he...gu...ru...Ji...Ki...Fa...teh!! '

As the final sounds came out of his mouth, he opened his eyes and looked, first at me, then beyond me. An expression of astonishment and pure joy (ananda?) came over his features.

'A glimpse of gold in the iron grey, the proof of all you never dared to
believe.'

His hand went limp in mine, but I held it for I don't have any idea how long, until I dropped it, closed his eyes and kissed his forehead. It all sounds so romantic now, the fallen martyr soldier-saint, the grieving, loving pregnant widow, herself nearly fatally injured, the lull in the battle. At the time, with the signs of violence all around us, I, paradoxially, felt a deep inner peace. I lay down beside his body and passed out/went to sleep. That is the end of his story.

Do not seek Death. Death will find you. But rather
seek the road that makes
Death a fulfillment. Dag Hammarskjold

To any man reading this, just a suggestion. Try to be a man your wife would write so lovingly about. You can do it and she'll be most grateful, I'm sure.

DKK

A Radical's Evolution - Part II

Our second stop on the road to Khalistan

I/We have received several personal responses to the previous post, as well as a comment.

PLEASE

I/We do not want to incite anyone to anything. We are simply three Sikh women who have decided we want to tell our stories in this forum.

This type of thing has happened to many other people, but their stories remain untold. It is our fervent wish that others, many others, would also blog their stories so that when anyone went blog surfing, they would run into us and would not be able to ignore what happened.

Unfortunately, it is still not without some personal danger to speak up.

But as followers of the Gurus, and especially of Waheguru, we abhor actions done from spite or malice or anger or hatred or fear. Violence is acceptable only to protect oneself or to right a grave injustice, and then, only if all other means have failed.

I/We make the assumption that anyone making the effort to read this understands the significance of the words

WITHOUT FEAR
WITHOUT ANGER...

This is how we endeavour to live our lives.

However, as they say, those who do not know history are doomed to repeat it.

I/We are now going to post SUNI'S STORY, the second part of this account. It takes place during the Battle of Delhi.

These two entries are from another personal blog, but we have decided that they belong here, as well.

SUNI'S STORY

Mai thinks this is just hysteria or an overactive imagination, but I know what I saw. I was about to go into labour with Hope when Mrs. Gandhi was executed and everything fell apart.


Being nine months pregnant, I didn't feel up to running with the others, so I stayed in the house with Mai and our men. We all knew that if our house was targeted, we would all probably be killed. Since everyone knew we were Sikh, we knew we would be targeted. The boys, Balbir and Sandeep, both insisted that if they were to be martyred as Sikhs, they had the right and obligation to take Amrit. After some discussion, mostly with Mani, who was our leader, it was agreed. We had everything necessary, so the ceremony went ahead. It should have been a happier occasion, but it was really a sweet sadness for all of us. All of us, especially, I think, we two mothers, were proud of our boys, who we agreed had earned the right to be called men. I remember Mani's admonishment to them, 'You realise this is a lifelong commitment, however long or short that might be? If you survive, you're stuck with it.' They both answered emphatically and solemnly, 'Yes!'

Afterwards we all bathed again and changed into our 'battle' dress. I'm not sure where all the blue cholas came from; Mohan must have stored them away without my knowledge. We all had saffron turbans, too. I'd never worn a man's turban before and it made me giggly. Get Mai to tell the story of Mani's turban; it's really nice. (Mai: Aw, shucks!)

WE LOOKED HOT in full bana. I'm not sure how, but they even managed to make Mai, wiry and six months pregnant, look like a boy. If we were going down, we were going down in style and with some class. We took some snaps and then put the film down the front of my clothes.

Then we sang songs, a really odd variety of kirtans and popular songs, and waited. Then some people came in silently, without opening the door. They were dressed as we were, but they had very long swords. Some men, some women, I don't know how many. I was the only one who reacted to them. I told the others, 'It won't be long now. The shaheeds are here.' They laughed nervously at me, everyone thinking that this pregnant lady had gone nuts.

Before long, we heard the mob outside. Guru Ji, properly wrapped had been sitting on his stand. Someone handed him to me and told me to protect him. So to do that and witness everything was my job, since I obviously couldn't fight.

They burst in and all hell broke loose. Someone immediately hit Sandeep, Mai's son, from behind with a metal bar, I think breaking his neck. He went down first. As each of us went down,a group of shaheeds went and stood beside him. Some of the shaheeds were surrounding me and giving me protection. Mai has said not to get gruesome, so I'll leave out the details. My poor Mohan knew less about fighting than a child. They killed him next, then Bert, Mai's brother, then Balbir, my son, and Eddie, Mai's brother. Finally, Mai and Mani were the only ones left standing.

Then everything stopped. I was not hallucinating and I am not making this up. Mai grew very big and black and her eyes were fire. She and the [male person] who had killed Sandeep were the only ones moving. Even the shaheeds just stood and watched. She calmly walked up to him and cut his throat. The blood spurted out all over her. She threw back her head and laughed. He had a look of terror that you couldn't imagine as he fell at her feet. I am a Sikh and, of course, I don't believe in such things as goddesses, but for that moment, my cousin looked like pictures I have seen of Ma Kali.

She became my cousin Mai again and time resumed. What followed looked more like a Chinese martial arts movie than anything that could really happen.

Both of them fought unbelievably. You can't imagine it. Finally Mani went down and Mai stood and stared for a moment, then she fell. The others were dead, but she wasn't. They beat her and beat her. Finally they left.

The shaheeds stayed gathered around her through all this, but didn't interfere. Several of the shaheeds came over and looked at me holding the Guru and bowed. After a time, Mai sat up and then kind of drug herself toward Mani. I could not believe she was still alive.

Then HE groaned. She crawled to him and sat up. The shaheeds withdrew some distance from them. Mani and Mai talked for a while. Then Mani smiled and shouted, slowly and clearly and deliberately, 'Waheguru Ji Ka Khalsa!' The shaheeds all gathered around him. 'Waheguru Ji Ki Fateh!' The room lit up and something happened. I have no way to describe it, so I won't try. Then, one by one, they came over and bowed down to Guru Ji and left.

Mai did her thing cleaning up the bodies. She got some pictures of the Gurus from me to show them what had happened. She gave the pictures back to me and then collapsed across Mani's body.

Shortly thereafter, some people came to rescue us. We can't get their permission to talk about that part, so this will be sketchy. They tried to pull Mai off Mani's body. They thought some sort of reflex kept her gripping him tightly. I know her, though, and I know exactly what was going on. She wasn't going to leave him, no matter what! She knew very well the house would be burnt and she'd burn with it and his body if she didn't get out. Our rescuers could believe she was unconscious; I didn't. I had to convince her to let go. But I was still clutching Guru Ji and still hardly able to walk. All I could do was scream at her that sati was totally unacceptable to a Sikh, even more so to a Khalsa and she had to let go and get out of there!

Finally, they pried her loose and carried her and helped me walk out. They took her to safety and I stood nearby, totally numb, still with a tight grip on guru Ji, and watched the house burn, while our rescuers stayed by me for my protection. At least our men's bodies were properly creamated intact and undefiled.

I tried to pray, but all I could do was picture some Gurmukhi words. Mai was dead, no heartbeat, no breathing, but they managed to revive her. Some time later we were put on a private plane that eventually landed us in Montreal. Mai was in a coma for four weeks, but, as you know, eventually recovered.

I gave birth to Hope in Montreal without incident.

Now, please do not try to tell me that I didn't see what I saw! I know what happened to other women in my situation. I was not molested or harmed; the mob seemed to be totally unaware of my presence. The shaheeds protected me and guarded over all of us, believe what you want.That is my story. Mai has promised to post it even though she thinks it didn't happen.

And whoever reads this, don't believe those libelous stories that say we were just slaughtered. Some of us fought, and fought well. I know. I was there. I saw it.

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It has just occurred to me that both of us report manifestations beyond the ordinary in these two stops on the road. I wonder if this is the norm? I think it can't be unusual as we are ordinary Khalsa women (if anyone can actually call any Khalsa ordinary) caught up in these events I have heard vague stories of nihangs appearing and the like during other violent events in Sikh history. Had it not happened to me, I would have found it hard to believe.

If anyone else would like to post something similar here, please contact us. Of course, it would be great for you to start your own blog. It's easy to do and the more blogs we have, the greater chance that someone will actually read it. Or if you would be willing to list your relevant website or blog here, we'd love it.

DKK