Sometimes an entire journey crystallises into a few moments. Vagabond days on the road end with only a bundle of totems—tangible or otherwise—as reminders. One such journey took me to three portraits hung in a forgotten corner a few steps from a house of worship. The place had once been rendered a slaughterhouse one hot summer afternoon three decades ago.
“Are you a reporter?” asked one of the caretakers of the Central Sikh Museum. Two others, perhaps also caretakers, watched suspiciously. The museum is on the first floor of a building on the western entrance of the Golden Temple complex, and obviously not many people visit it. I was among the first few that day. “No,” I said, rattled by the rather inimical greeting, “I am here to see the portraits.”
The caretaker was in his 50s, his face softened by the years. The red turban he wore had faded with years of washing and the beard carried more grey than black. Only his eyes retained a knife-like sharpness and a sadness that often comes with wasted years. The pervasive glow of the Golden Temple, shimmering gracefully in the lake, came through the open window and reflected on his face. He must have been in his 20s when Operation Bluestar took place. Perhaps he had been here in Amritsar and watched the incident unfold.
“Yes, they are here,” he pointed to a room behind me.
Faces on walls
The walls were a sea of portraits, starting with the handsome Shahid Bhagat Singh in prison shackles, followed by Sikh scholars and saints. Then, a few steps later, thousands of faces stared down, mutely but piercingly, from the bleached walls: some gruesome, their faces distorted by death, some gentle, their pictures taken when they were alive. All were portraits of those killed in the war with the nation.
I was two when Operation Bluestar happened; I have no recollection of it. It never figured in any talk at home; not a word was spoken, not even by my mother—which was surprising— given that she has the remarkable ability to casually unwrap even the most complex political story and lighten it up for easy feeding. It was my mother’s commentary, often humorous, that brought me an understanding of politics and, more importantly, of how normal families react to it.
We spoke of the Emergency and about caste. Terrorism and political assassinations were discussed. But Operation Bluestar was never mentioned. I learnt about it from a feature in a news magazine 12 years after it happened. I dismissed it as a minor blip—what wasn’t spoken of at home couldn’t possibly be relevant.
But over the years, I came across it again and again in different forms: the Kanishka bombing, militancy in Punjab, Chief Minister Beant Singh’s killing, and of course Indira Gandhi’s killing. Who were these men, I remember wondering about Satwant Singh, Kehar Singh and Beant Singh. And how do those who remember the assault at the Golden Temple remember them today? More importantly, what do these events mean to me and others of my age? Only one place could give me the answer. So I set out for Amritsar.
It was early morning and the streets leading to the Golden Temple were quiet. The clattering and noise and the shops spilling over from both sides was yet to begin. The white walls of the temple complex emerged on the horizon. Removing my shoes and washing my feet, I walked in to see the famed golden dome of Sri Harmandir Sahib glittering in the still-weak morning sun. Comforting notes from a solitary harmonium and muffled shuffling from bare feet were the only sounds at this hour. I sat for hours on the bank of the Sarovar, the water body that surrounds the temple, watching the comings and goings. There were people of all faiths: some carrying buckets of water to the community kitchen, some scrubbing the floor, some deep in meditation. Despite the horrific spasm of bloodshed it has witnessed, the gurudwara has remained resolutely secular. Doused in this little cheer of optimism, I walked into the museum when it opened.
Standing inside, I was battling a flutter of unease when the caretaker pointed to the portrait of Jarnail Singh Bhindranwale. To its right hung a rendition of the destroyed Golden Temple. ‘Sri Akal Takht after Military Attack, 6 June 1984’—the plaque read—‘under the calculated move of Prime Minister of India Indira Gandhi, military troops stormed Golden Temple with tanks’.
Further to its right hung portraits of the three men—Kehar Singh, Beant Singh and Satwant Singh—involved in the murder of Indira Gandhi. The pictures hung next to each other on the second tier of the wall overlooking the few visitors who came by. The titles of each of them read ‘Shahid’.
Two perspectives
Isn’t it strange that the killers of a country’s prime minister are treated with a respect suited to martyrs who fought for the country? Is it defiance, I wondered.
“The Jathedar of the Sikh community bestows siropa (robe of honour) on the relatives of these quami shaheeds (martyrs of the community) every year,” the caretaker spoke on cue, as if reading my thoughts.
I stood with him for some time, both of us looking at the portraits. The air, thickened with melancholy, carried to us the hymns from the Akal Takht. However hard I tried, I couldn’t bring myself to imagine how this sombre temple could have witnessed the horror that I had read and heard about. My intellect refused to believe that people had died here; that the three men I was staring at did what they did. But I knew it had happened.
“Do you think this is right—celebrating these killers?” The words burst out involuntarily, and I regretted the question the minute it was out.
“I will tell you what’s not right, sahibji. The country has not punished the murderers who butchered the Sikhs after Indira’s killing. That’s a bigger shame” said the caretaker. An act of defiance started a chain reaction that peaked with close to 3,000 Sikhs being killed in the riots that followed the assassination of Indira Gandhi.
As I walked back to collect my shoes, I kept looking at the pictures of the three men, which I had secretly photographed. I did not want the feeling to dissolve, for I would wonder later if what I saw was real. The journey was over. I was left with those distinct moments that had defined it; the few minutes we spent inside, facing the portraits on the wall—one man reliving the ghosts of the past, the other standing in rejection. But despite our different trajectories, we were still bound together in some indescribable way.
The author, an adrenaline rush-seeking travel writer who lives in Malmo, Sweden, hopes to travel the world in a boat.
