Anti-Sikh riots of 1984 and the experiences of an on-field Journalist

The riots of 1984 have been among the darkest hours of Independent India, horrors of those butchered bodies continue to haunt not only the victims but also those who have witnessed them. These horrendous happenings have been carried on in the popular literature, still, the individual experiences hold a unique value to gaining insightful perception of the incidences and the larger scheme of things. Following it, here is an excerpt from Shiv Kunal Verma’s book: Life of Industani. [caption id=“attachment_11830411” align=“alignnone” width=“207”] The Book: Life of an Industani, written by Shiv Kunal Verma. BlueOne Ink[/caption] Excerpt: ‘Ok, move,’ somebody said, and I was propelled forward. Simultaneously, the ‘public’ was also allowed to file past, but they were in the porch outside, from where they could get a glimpse of Indira Gandhi. Almost everyone was crying, or had tears streaming down their faces, for the moment was poignant in the extreme. I went past, and Rajiv, though he obviously had no idea who I was, accepted my hand in both his. ‘I’m so sorry…’ I had barely said the words when there was a loud commotion in the porch. A group of Nirankari Sikhs, their spotless white attire and dark blue turbans tied in a distinct manner, had reached there and suddenly the crowd erupted… ‘Khoon ka badla khoon se lenge’. In a second the entire situation had become ugly, and it looked like a riot would break out as some people tried to hit the Nirankaris. Rajiv Gandhi left my hand and went past me, plunging straight into the crowd, saying ‘Nahin nahin… aise nahin… aise nahin’ (No… No… Not like this… not like this…). Seeing him amidst them (I am not sure if he had already been sworn in as the prime minister or not) the crowd immediately cooled down. The Nirankaris—there were at least a dozen of them—then walked in a group towards the gate, making a dignified exit. I had followed Rajiv into the crowd, and I decided to follow the Nirankaris. Leslie had handed me the Pentax. By then a crowd had built up outside Teen Murti as well, and the moment the group came out of the gate, the crowd started baying for their blood again. A hail of stones rained down on them. Courage under fire is one thing, but the group of Nirankaris were stoic in their reaction, looking straight in front and walking purposefully. Stones and broken bricks were hitting them on their head and bodies, and some of them were splattered in blood, but not one man broke ranks or tried to run. I believe it was their dignity that saved them—had one person tried to run or even fallen for that matter, the mob would have been on them, and they would have been lynched. The group turned onto Willingdon Crescent (later Mother Teresa Road) and thankfully the hail of stones died down. By the evening on 1 November, the killings had taken on a completely different complexion. Sikhs were being hunted down and systematically lynched all over Delhi. There were hushed whispers about what was happening in Trilokpuri, but it was obvious the killings were far more widespread. With Leslie I watched in horror as the area outside Azadpur Mandi was littered with charred bodies, almost all of them having been murdered with burning tyres tied around their necks. A lot of corpses were still in a sitting position, their hands and feet bound together. There was not a single policeman in sight, or an ambulance or a fire engine. In some alleys, bodies were piled on top of each other and were being doused with kerosene by small groups of men, so that there would be no evidence of the massacre in a few hours. Watching all this helplessly, one couldn’t help but recall stories of what had happened during the Partition riots. Just how systematic the killings were can be gauged from the fact that there were no large mobs going wild, just small groups of about a dozen men who were going about the gruesome business. They seemed to have divided areas amongst themselves and knew exactly what they were doing. No one was spared. Even army officers, those travelling on trains were chased and butchered on railway tracks. Mostly it was the menfolk who were hunted down and killed. Hundreds of Sikhs had frantically cut their hair and shaved off their beards, but frankly that made no difference for it was easy to make out who had just gone under the razor. For my generation, the Sikh riots of 1984 were undoubtedly India’s darkest hour. The emphasis shifted to the Mrs Gandhi’s funeral which was on 3 November. I didn’t cover that, for by the end of the previous day was just too exhausted, both physically and emotionally. With the embers of Mrs Gandhi’s funeral pyre dying out, the killings also seemed to stop… perhaps because there were no longer any identifiable targets left. On the afternoon of 4 November, Vicki called me into her office and said I was to fly to Amritsar the next day. “It’s the first flight into the city after Mrs G’s assassination. See what kind of reactions you can pick up.” Samuel gave me my air ticket, and then asked me, “Did you come to the office on the 31st evening?” “Heh… what was that?’ I had been waiting for him to sooner or later ask me that question. Before I could say anything more, Vicki called me back to her room. “Maybe you can get an interview with one of the head priests of the Golden Temple. That should be interesting.” She handed me a Walkman- type tape recorder and a Sennheiser mike. She then smiled, “Kunal, you’ve got to decide if you want to be a correspondent for Associated Press (AP), or a journalist. It’s our job to report things. Our emotions have no place in this business.” I kept a straight face, or at least I thought I did. Come to think of it, both Vicki and Samuel would have known the papers had to be taken by me. Nevertheless… one thing I had learnt at the Doon School… never admit anything. Just follow the mantra—Who Sir? Me Sir? Oh No Sir! IC 433 to Amritsar on 5 November had the strangest manifest. All the passengers were male, and with the exception of Dilip Ganguli and myself, everyone was a Sikh who had that look of a freshly shaven face that went with unevenly cropped hair. Quite a few had injuries on their faces, some had broken arms, but almost all their eyes had a sad, humiliated look. It was almost as if they collectively wanted the earth to open up and swallow them up. No one was talking, each man acutely aware that he was extremely lucky to be alive. I had met Dilip briefly once before. He was with Agence France- Presse (AFP) and on the flight he was getting hysterical. He was convinced the moment we landed, all the Sikhs on the flight would be on their ‘hometurf’ and would beat him up. He obviously hadn’t volunteered to go to Amritsar. He then kept telling me how his elder son was also named Kunal and hence we must stay together. I had a car waiting that had been fixed by Samuel from Delhi. It was a half hour drive to the Hotel Mohan International. After checking in, I told Dilip I was off to the Golden Temple to meet Sahib Singh, who was the head granthi and would catch up with him at the hotel later. Dilip, however, was determined not to let me out of his sight and insisted on coming along. I tried to shake him off, but he was a determined soul. In the temple complex, we were ushered into Sahib Singh’s quarter in the area near the rebuilt Akal Takth, where he graciously received us. He only spoke in Punjabi, which created a problem. Though I had grown up listening to my maternal grandmother speaking to me in Punjabi, I had never as such spoken the language. Nevertheless, I took out the recorder, plugged in the Sennheiser and pressed the ‘record’ button. Sahib Singh was a smallish man, wearing a kurta with a cross-belt holding a small kirpan. Before I could ask him any question as such, he decided to address the entire ‘Sikh kuam (community)’ through the good offices of AP. He spoke crisply, without any show of emotion, but his words were chilling. In effect, he was telling Sikhs across the globe that reports were coming in of the horrific things that had happened to the Sikh community in Delhi, and it was the sworn duty of every man to avenge what had happened. The statement was about two minutes long, and after he finished, he seemed to lose interest in us. Dilip had no clue what had been said. At first, I thought I was getting Sahib Singh wrong, but then I knew that I had understood him perfectly well. My glance fell on a black telephone, and I asked the granthi if I could use it. Fortunately, I knew the civil number for the military exchange and luckily the operator at the other end of the line put me through to the GOC 15 Division’s residence without any fuss. Hearing a familiar voice at the other end, I said in a hushed tone, ‘Winnee Aunty… this is Kunal Verma. It’s an emergency… can I speak to the general…’ Major General A. K. ‘Chicky’ Dewan had been the deputy GOC of the division during Op Blue Star. He had taken over command from General Jamwal when the latter had moved to HQ Delhi Area. I heard Mrs Dewan call out to him… ‘Chicken… it’s Kunal. He says it’s an emergency…’ I could hear his footsteps approach and then he was on the line. ‘Sir, I won’t be able to answer any questions… I am in the Golden Temple with one of the grant his and this is his telephone. I have just recorded a statement by him asking Sikhs across the globe to avenge the Delhi riots. I am heading back to Mohan International now with another journalist. Sir, please have the police meet us there and forcibly confiscate the tape.’ The general just said, ‘Copied!’ I hung up. My mouth was dry, and my heart was racing by now. We left Sahib Singh’s quarters and made our way out… I deliberately stalled for time, pointing out key features of the temple complex to Dilip. The tape recorder was in the bag with the camera, and together it felt like they weighed a tonne. We got our shoes, then found our car. It was barely two- and-a-half kilometres from the temple to Mohan International and all I could do was now hope the cops had been scrambled. Leaning against the reception was Superintendent Sheetal Das, an Indian Police Service officer who used to wear his pistol with the butt pointing outwards. Half-a-dozen armed policemen were standing around and they converged on us as soon as I identified myself to the receptionist and asked for my room keys. Sheetal Das caught me by the nape of my neck and slammed my face into the counter. ‘Where is the tape?’ he hissed in my ear, then let loose a string of profanities in chaste Punjabi. I could taste the blood in my mouth. He yanked my head back, and with his pistol he hit me again. In all the ruckus, I heard Dilip scream as he too was being worked over by the cops. I opened the bag and took the recorder out. Sheetal Das took it from my hand, ejected the tape and put it in his breast pocket. Then he deliberately smashed the recorder on the floor.12 The cops were abruptly gone. Dilip was on his knees, and he was violently throwing up. Luckily for me, though there was blood on my spectacle lenses, they were still intact. The beating and the smashing of the tape recorder had come out of the blue and I wondered how on earth was I going to explain this to Vicki! Someone helped me pick up the pieces and the telephone operator and the reception staff were applying wet towels too. Someone said, ‘call a doctor’ and we were escorted to my room. It seemed one of the policemen had hit Dilip in the stomach with his rifle butt. Cops in the Punjab had their own set of rules. P.S.: Sheetal Das would be in the news a few months later. One of his own informers had turned on him, grabbed his pistol butt, yanked it out of the holster and shot him dead. Published after the assent of the Publisher and the Author. Shiv Kunal Verma is a military historian and a documentary filmmaker. Views are personal.  Read all the  Latest News ,  Trending News ,  Cricket News ,  Bollywood News , India News  and  Entertainment News  here. Follow us on  Facebook,  Twitter and  Instagram.