Delhi - Again - TWENTY-TWO YEARS AND NO JUSTICE

Another possible flag for Khalistan.


This post was originally published by Mai in September 2006.

The link below shows some very graphic pictures , for example,
a dog eating the body of a shaheed in Trilokpuri. This link is not for people who have weak or queasy stomachs. http://images.google.com/imgres?imgurl=http://www.netphotograph.com/netphoto/Images/200312/12202003_n004_anti_sikh_riots_10665-004.jpg&imgrefurl=http://www.netphotograph.com/visitors/search/searchimages.zhtml%3Fkeyword%3D10665-%26start%3D0%26display%3D1&h=118&w=175&sz=3&hl=en&sig2=isRlxQEH-Qdvafz6cXpDJA&start=4&tbnid=aEnPj78CUT9K-M:&tbnh=67&tbnw=100&ei=G4fGRYWxG82IJMeJ7P0N&prev=/images%3Fq%3Dtrilokpuri%2B%2B%26svnum%3D10%26hl%3Den

(I know that this is an absurdly long address, but it's the best we know how to do.)

More pictures are also available in the links on the right, notably the Gatka Gallery. I know they are difficult to look at; I found the last photo on the Gatka Gallery page particularly horrifying. But...LEST WE FORGET...

Delhi

October-November, 1984

After 22 years, I cannot let go of those few days.

'Oh, get over it! It was all so long ago! Nobody cares about that stuff anymore. Anyway, India's changed. They even have a Sikh prime minister now.' (Puke.) Did he really apologise on behalf of the Indian government, as I have read?

TWENTY-TWO YEARS AND NO JUSTICE.

Thousands murdered, tortured, burned alive, children and husbands slaughtered in front of their wives. I know. I am one of those wives. We tried to fight the mob, but there were just too many of them. The death toll in our one home: two husbands, two sons, two brothers, two unborn children, whose first breath was their last.

TWENTY-TWO YEARS AND NO JUSTICE.

My sister/cousin, Suni and I come from fairly well-to-do families in Canada and India, so we did not, at least, suffer financial hardship, as so many of the '84 widows did. They lost not only husbands, fathers, sons, but also their livelihoods, and being destitute in India is its own special hell. It takes a very special sort of cruelty to kill off the men and leave the women to fend for themselves.

TWENTY-TWO YEARS AND NO JUSTICE.

At first I wanted vengeance. But - I have never told this to anyone - that was satisfied when the Air India plane went down in June 1985. My sister/cousin, Suni, who had also survived, and I were at my brother's home in Montreal when the news flash came on the television. We looked at each other and instantly surmised what must have happened and why. Our eyes met and we both burst out laughing. We laughed until tears ran down our cheeks.

I felt that the weight of the world had been lifted off my shoulders. I spoke to our dead shaheed men and told them that now they could relax. I am not proud of this reaction. In fact, I am so ashamed of it that I have kept it all these years as my secret. Now I am publishing it on the Internet for the whole world to see. I pray that Waheguru will forgive me; I will never be able to forgive myself.

I remember on 9/11 seeing a Palestinian woman with large glasses and wearing hajib, dancing and laughing, celebrating in the streets. I heard so many condemn her, but I understood how she must be feeling. I wondered who she loved that had been killed and felt a close kinship to her. Like it or not, we are sisters in this. I fervently pray that you reading this never find out what can drive a person to such a reaction.

I am surprised how easily this all flows out of me. That day, I learned that I was not the nice, civilized person I had always thought I was. I have this deep, horrible ugliness inside my being that I dare not give expression to except here.

My husband, who is not Sikh, just came up and read what I have written. He almost never tries to order me around, but this time he said, 'Delete it!' and walked away. I know what he is thinking, that I have said that Sikhs in post 9/11 America are having a hard enough time and I don't need to aggravate the situation. But this time he's wrong.

To begin with, most Americans have no idea what a Sikh is. They see a turban and a beard and they see a Muslim. Also I think I have made it clear that my reaction was immoral, uncalled-for and disgusting. If any friends or relatives of people on that plane see this, please know that I am sorry for my reaction. I cannot take it back and I don't ask for your forgiveness. I have never been able to forgive those who cheered on the murdering bastards who killed my family or those who today have the nerve to say, 'Get over it!' I cannot expect you to do what I am unable to do.
But still:

TWENTY-TWO YEARS AND NO JUSTICE



Note from Suni: Everything Mai has written in this post applies equally to me.

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!

Vini Speaks

(We have stayed up all night and day working on this. Again, please read gently. Our Maman is very reserved and we're really proud of her having the strength and courage to tell this. Almost all the words are hers exactly as she told us.)

I usually let my two daughters-in-spirit, Mai and Suni, do the talking, but they are insisting that I tell my story and Mai, especially is an irresistible force, so what choice do I have? They say to do it however I want, they'll transcribe, we'll edit together and put it together to sound good and make sense.

I was born in 1926 in Srinigar, Kashmir to a Sikh family. Girls married very young then, so I married my husband, Jotinder, in 1939 and we came illegally to America shortly after our marriage. Both families thought I was far too young to travel so far only to live illegally, but I insisted on going and they finally fgured out a way to smuggle me in. This was unusual because quite a few young men emigrated at this time, but very few risked taking their wives into foreign countries illegally. But young as I was, I adored my husband and refused to be separated from him. Both of our families have strong-willed women.

We joined my husband's father who had been in Canada for quite a long time. I bore our son Mandeep in 1941 when I was 14. My body was too young for child-bearing, so he was our only child. We were in America when he was born, so he was American by birth, but we moved right away to Canada where eventually we managed to get him legal papers like a birth certificate.

We were not really welcome in either country at that time, but we were resourceful and, as they say now, flew under the radar. We always knew Mai's family. Although they were Punjabi and we were Kashmiri, our families had always had close ties. It was good that we had friends.

Mai was born 10 years after Mani, as he was always called, and we always hoped the two would get married. It was one of our happiest days when they did. About a year later, their son was born. Guruji said that the child's name should start with 'S' and Mani thought that 'Mandeep and Sandeep and Mai,' had a great sound, so that's how he got his name. Everybody was very happy for a long time.

Mani and Mai had often spent summers in India when they were young, but Mai was never comfortable there and after their marriage they stayed in Canada. Mani, however, wanted very badly to go back to Harimandir Sahib in Amritsar and was always pestering Mai for them to go.

He finally persuaded her and they left in early May, 1984. I remember Mai was in a dither about the trip and tried to get him to postpone it until their fifteenth anniversary in 1985, but he refused. As far as I know, it was the only time he ever refused her anything. I don't know, but I have always wondered if he had some particular reason for wanting to go then.

They went to Amritsar.

I got letters from them, telling that there was a lot of tension, you could cut it with a knife. During Operation Blue Star they were taken in and questioned. I have saved the letter I got from Mani about that which he wrote after their escape from the Punjab because the Indian government wasn't letting anyone in or out at that time. A whole post earlier in this blog was devoted to that incident. He was so proud of her and her behaviour, but I began to urge them to come home. I had a bad feeling about them being there.

They stayed, though, and travelled some, but not much because Mai was pregnant with twin girls and he didn't want to risk her health. I love her, but even she will admit that she should be more careful about her health, and she wanted to keep moving around. They spent most of the time in the countryside near Delhi, but outside of the city because with her pregnancy, the smell of the air pollution made Mai sick.

The last week in October they returned to Delhi, with plans to fly home during early November. As you know, that didn't work out.

I remember hearing the news on the radio that Mrs. Gandhi had been shot, followed immediately by the news that it was Sikhs who had shot, or more properly executed, her. I immediately called them in Delhi and by a miracle, got through. They said it was good they were in the capital, that if there was trouble, that at least Delhi would be the safest place to be. We said good-bye. I never spoke to my son or grandson again, of course.

We soon heard about the antiSikh violence in Delhi and I nearly went mad. We tried and tried and tried to call, but couldn't get through. For nearly a week we had no idea what had happened to them. Then, Alain, Mai's eldest brother, came and told us that they had Mai and Suni and Guruji, but the others were all dead, and Mai was badly injured and would probably die. I am trying now, as Mai would say, not to bleed emotionally all over the computer, but that was the worst moment of my life.

I wished I could faint or maybe wake up and it was all a nightmare, but it was real. Every mother loves her child, but Mani was the kind of son everyone wishes they had, but not many really have. He was so wonderful, loving, strong, good to everyone and funny, he always made us laugh. I didn't understand how anyone could kill him. And Mai was as close to me as any daughter could be; growing up her own mother was usually gone and useless when she showed up - I'm sorry to say that, Mai, but you said to tell the truth - and when her father needed a woman to deal with her, I was her second mother. My grandson was pure joy, full of life and laughter - how could they be dead?

I will tell what I have never told anyone ever. I cursed life, I cursed the Gurus and I even cursed Waheguru. Not the way a Khalsa woman is supposed to react to the shaheedi of her family.

Mai was in a coma for 24 days, as I recall. During this time, Suni gave birth to a healthy baby girl, but refused to let her be named. She said Mai would name her when she woke up. We were all afraid that the baby would never have a name.

Then, one day, we were in her hospital room, where we spent most of our time and we heard a loud voice cry out,"What the fuck am I doing here?" (That really is exactly her first words.) We all jumped out of our skins, but we were overjoyed. "Where are Mani and Sandy?" We all fell silent. Someone had to tell her, but we all hesitated. Then she said that she knew they were dead, why wasn't she with them? Alain looked her square in the eye and said," I guess you weren't found worthy of martyrdom." They glared at each other for a time. Then she started laughing. Mai usually laughs like that when she doesn't know what to do.

We all gathered around her, not knowing what to expect next. Then the baby started crying. Suni held her out to Mai, who touched her wet little cheek. Suni said at once, "Mai, she needs a name." Mai said, "I'm not Guruji. But it seems we all need a little hope." So she became our little Hope, and she has always lived up to her name. She is now a lovely young lady of 22, just ready to graduate from the university. (She asks us to also include her name Harjinder, even if it's rarely used since it wouldn't do for her to have only a Western name.)

I remember all this vividly, but it all happened through a thick fog. It cleared a little with Mai's survival and I realised that I could not go through life filled with hatred and bitterness. The words of the Mool Mantar washed over me like a cool, healing stream,... nirbhao, nirvair... and I began to recover my senses. I have never recovered completely. As I have heard, you don't recover, you don't get used to it, you just learn to live with it. Or you don't.

Mai left us in 1985 to deal with her loss in her own way. Unknown to her until recently, I always made sure that I knew where she was, always, always hoping that some day she'd come back to us. It took twenty years of her searching for peace and healing and nearly dying again, but now we have become a family again. Although I am visiting now from India, we still live half a world apart in distance, but we are united as a family. Suni stayed with the family, went to the university and earned her doctoral degree in clinical psychology, while raising her daughter. She has specialised in helping people deal with and overcome Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD). Neither of the girls has ever returned to India.
(We two add: Or ever intend to.)

In 1986 my husband died of a heart attack, a broken heart. He hardly spoke ten words from November 1984 until he died. I am not ready to discuss this part.

Since the bitterness and hatred, with the gracious help of Waheguru and the very Gurus I had cursed, had left me, I felt the need to take Amrit again, which I did.

After my husband's death, I moved to Amritsar, where I have lived since with his family. I shouldn't say this, but I went in hopes of helping to build our Khalistan by any means necessary, so this could never happen again. I still hope there is some way we can have our country, our sacred homeland, but now without killing and bitterness. The people of the Punjab, Sikh, Hindu and Muslim have been through too much. I pray we find a way to establish our Khalistan without causing more pain.

I have started talking and it seems I can't stop. I'm afraid that I am bleeding all over the computer. I hope someone will read this and then be willing to tell their own story. It is difficult, especially after being silent about it all for so long, but it is also a relief. We are Sikhs and we are strong and we are truthful, and this is a truth that needs to be told. It was not only those who were there whose lives have been devastated. Each of us who lived through that time has a story to tell. For me, this has become my time to tell.

Aftermath

Now I complete my account of the events of November 1984. I last left off with Mani's death.

I lay down and either slept or passed out. I believe I slept because I was aware of the passage of time. When I woke up, it seemed that my mind had cleared a bit. I sat up, still on the floor, and looked around.

Bodies and blood everywhere. And the smell. I have never read a description of the smell of the aftermath of a battle; I think no one really wants to describe it. Blood, of course, and urine and, pardon me, shit, mixed with the odour of violent death. Yes, there is an odour associated with violent death. Having experienced it, it cannot be forgotten.

Suni was sitting in a large chair, seemingly uninjured, still clutching the Guru with both arms around him. She glanced at me, but there was no recognition in her eyes. She turned her attention back to Guruji and ignored me.

I struggled stiffly to my feet and stood up. I had been badly beaten and, as it turns out, had gone into premature labour; in fact, it would take me many weeks to recover. At this time, though, I was experiencing no physical pain; my body must had produced a surfeit of endorphins.

From somewhere, I remembered that dead bodies were supposed to be washed with fresh yogurt (curds). We had some that Suni had been culturing in the kitchen. I went there and brought back a pail of water, some washcloths and the yogurt. Passing the body of the [male human] with the slashed neck, I kicked it in the head.

I went first to Mohan, washed his face with water and then yogurt, closed his eyes and kissed his forehead.

Next, I went to Balbir, washed his face with water and then yogurt, closed his eyes and kissed his forehead.

Having taken care of Suni's men, I went to my brothers.

I went to Bert, washed his face with water and then yogurt, closed his eyes and kissed his forehead.

I went to Eddie, washed his face with water and then yogurt, closed his eyes and kissed his forehead.

Last, I went to my men.

I went to Sandeep, washed his face with water and then yogurt, closed his eyes and kissed his forehead. Last,

I went to Mani, washed his face with water and then yogurt and kissed his forehead.

Done with that, I picked up the bowl of water, now red with blood, and the cloths I had been using. Glaring down at the body of the [male human] with the slashed neck, I stopped for a moment. Its eyes were still wide open in terror, the mouth gaped loosely. I looked at it for a moment, then tossed the cloths and dumped the bloody water on it. 'You wanted our blood? There, have it!' I cried out loud, my voice echoing in the silent room. I thought for a moment of mutilating the body in the way HT had been forged for, but, as our men's bodies were left intact, I chose not to.

I walked to Suni. 'Do you have a picture of Guru Nanak Dev Ji or Guru Gobind Singh Ji?' Still with a blank dazed look, she reached inside her shirt and pulled out some pictures. I looked through them and took the two I wanted. I held them up and told them. 'You see what has happened? They're all dead. You better be proud of them.' I started laughing, hysterically, I guess, and handed the pictures, now bloody from my hands back to Suni. She stuffed them back down her shirt.

My work done, I walked back to Mani, lay down beside him and

...the next thing I knew someone was trying to pull me off his body and I was refusing to let go. There was a lot of confusion and yelling in Hindi, a language I had trouble understanding in the best of times. I was, by this time more dead than alive; I couldn't move or talk or even open my eyes. My thinking was not rational. I knew only that nothing would get me away from Mani. Then I heard Suni scream at me, 'Mai, they're going to burn down the house. If you're here, you'll burn with it! You've got to let them take you! We're Sikhs. Even Hindus don't commit sati any more!' Sati? She really didn't understand. Or maybe she did. Please, just leave me with my husband. Looking back, I'm horrified. I can only say that, from the beating and from a large loss of blood, I was near death and my brain wasn't functioning properly. People kept pulling at me...

The next thing I was aware of was being in a hospital room in Montreal, about four weeks later.

Suni has many times assured me that the house burnt down with the bodies of our men inside.

I would love to be able to tell you how we were rescued. Unfortunately, the people who saved us, for their own reasons, do not want that story told and have refused me permission to write it here. So let me just say that, while their story will remain unwritten, their courage and sacrifice will not go unacknowledged.

Reading this now, I realise how gruesome it is. I have tried to tell the story without all the grizzly details, leaving those to your imagination. I have purposely not written a blow-by-blow description of the actual battle; it would add nothing positive to our story. Suffice it to say we fought hard and skillfully, but were too badly outnumbered to accomplish much. Also, I remind you that this was a home invasion, we were in no way the aggressors. All peaceful means had failed. And we took up the sword, as we had been taught.

I am most proud of the way we fought, each of us to the best of his or her ability, no one backing off. None of us, living or dead, are victims. Our dead men were, each of them, true saint-soldiers, deserving of the title 'Shaheed,' and we can all be proud of them and all the others who died during this battle. May the rest of us never forget their sacrifice and may we all live in a way that honours them and what they fought and died for!

Up to this point, all these posts have been adaptations of entries in Mai's personal blog. We are trying very hard to get Maman (Vini) to write or dictate her story, which has never been recorded. We hope that will be our next post.

If anyone reading this wants to start their own blog, go to the top of this page and click on the words 'Create Blog' in the right hand corner. and you will get full instructions. You have a choice; if you choose, you can make it public as we have and others can read it, or you can make it private, so only those you give permission to can read it. So please, don't hesitate. If you have a story to record please do it before it's too late. Remember, if we don't tell our stories, only the accounts of our enemies will remain.

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

Resting, Relaxing and Laughing - BELLOWING

These first few posts have been incredibly heavy, as indeed they must be. However, it is important even on the road to Khalistan that we not forget to stop and laugh, once in a while. If you only want the heavy stuff, we'll be putting more of our experiences of 1984 on soon. I am running these two posts from another blog together, so they can be read in the correct order.

All three of us have gotten into trouble for our quirky sense of humour, so please try not to let us offend you.

I have some great pictures to go with them, but because people are actually reading this, I don't include them, not wanting to run into copyright problems.

So we start here:

...And They Bellow

I came across this in Bulletin 318 of the IHRO (International Human Rights Organisation) Bulletin 318, Article 9:

Khalsa males often come across as
militaristic, they
wear swords and they bellow.

Sikhs in general are noisy,
compared to Buddhists and
Protestants and Catholics etc. Sikhs often do not
fit Western stereotypes of
what Holy people are like and Gurdwaras seem
noisy and exotic to visiting
Westerners as well.

That so perfectly describes my whole crazy family, except Suni and Hope. I have been known to bellow and Maman does it as well as any of the men! I suspect Suni and Hope are quite capable of it, too; I just haven't been there.

But Dad had to be the world champion bellower. When he got going, you could hear him thundering in the next province! And on a really extreme day, no doubt in the next country. That would be America. Was he a Holy person? To me, of course, but objectively? I'm not sure. But I am sure that our dear Guru Gobind Singh Ji and he could have been great friends. Of my brothers, only Robert is not a bellower, but then he's the only one that isn't a Khalsa. Maybe this is a silly post, but it made me laugh and I guess after murder and mayhem and other such nastiness, it's time for a laugh.

This is Maman (Vini): I don't bellow, I just growl and roar in a very ladylike manner, very, very loudly!

I ran across this and am adding it on this post because it seems to fit and I like it:

Says T. Sher Singh:

Sikh identity is a state of mind: the
resolution to act as leaders.

We have a legacy of leadership in Sikh tradition, whether in battle, on the streets, in the classroom, or at the roundtable.

You are saint-soldiers – leaders in our world– above all.

.http://korematsu.blogspot.com/2006/11/my-first-sikh-conference-miami.html

And we refuse to be victims!

Of course...and we bellow .

__________________________________________

This now is an encounter with some 'ladies' who have been trying to drive Mai crazy. And you reading this will realise we are just three normal women, not the saints you seem to imagine us to be.

...And I Bellowed

(This is Mai) I take some pride in keeping myself under control. I simply do not lose my temper. I hadn't had a real explosion since 1984 - until this incident.

Consider my hair. Having a heart attack, a major stroke and being twice zapped with I don't know how many volts of electricity by a defibrillator within less than a year, have taken their toll. My hair is breaking off, falling out and, in general, a mess and now it hardly passes my shoulders. All women, and most men are quite vain about their hair. This, of course, multiplies infinitely if the woman is Sikh. So I was really annoyed to begin with.

OK. That is background.

I was resting when they banged on the door. The Church Ladies. At first, I ignored them and didn't answer the door, but then they came banging on the window and wouldn't leave. I finally, now wide awake, answered the door. I guess I should have just told them to go away, but they helped take care of me after the stroke and I didn't want to appear ungracious, so I let them in.

It was bitterly cold outside right then, around -8 Celsius, yes, minus. And snow on the ground. They wanted tea, of course. I said, 'No, I'm tired. I'm taking a nap. Please, I need to rest.'

They decided that I needed tea and they would be helpful and make it themselves. In MY HOME. Without my permission.

But I am civilised, so I kept repeating to myself, 'Sat Naam, Sat Naam,...' I calmly asked them to knock it off and go home. But it really was miserable outside, and I am not heartless, so I let them have their tea.

At this point, Maman and Suni, who had been grocery shopping, walked in.

While the CLs were drinking, one of them commented on my hair. 'If you'd just trim it a little to even it out..' (Wrong!)

Then she got up, walked to me, grabbed my hair and pulled on it. (Wrong, WRONG!!)

I wasn't sure what she had in mind, but the last time someone did that to me, I broke his arm.

I didn't break her arm, but I did growl at her. Yes, I have been told that when I get really angry, I growl. All my frustrations at the CLs rush out.

...And I bellowed.

'Take your f****** hands off my sacred kesh!!'

Then I suggested that she do a few things that are very obscene and probably anatomically impossible. They were quite astonished at me.

I have always been civil to them, if not really friendly. And I may have used some words and concepts they had never heard of.

...And I bellowed.

Anyway, I quite scandalised them. I don't think they'll mess with my hair anymore. And maybe they won't be back at all.

Maman and Suni thought it was hilarious and said they had had it coming for a long time. Suni started singing,

'They have fangs, they have teeth, cry the dark bells of Neath...'

meaning me, not them. Writing this now, it sounds kind of funny. I admit I scare myself when I lose control.

At least this time, there were no physical injuries to anyone. I'm sure the dear darlings are either consigning me to eternal damnation or praying for my salvation. Impossible even to guess which.

And I can imagine, 'You see now what THEY are REALLY like. THEY pretend to be all godly and righteous, but underneath, THEY really need our Lord Jesus Christ.' And self-righteous agreement all the way around. Or something similar. Am I too hard on them?

And should I lay off the bellowing for another 22 years?

That is Mai's account. This is Vini (Maman). I think my Mai isn't the only one who gets tired of being tolerant, but she's really very good at it most of the time. I've known her since the day she was born and I'd never seen her lose her temper before. But these meddling biddies really did deserve it.

We hope we haven't terribly offended anyone, but we had to get out of 1984 for a while to preserve our collective sanity. We do have more to say about that, but let it wait a little while.
DKK