by Amarjit Kaur
When I met Bhindranwale on the evening of 3 June 1984 in the Akal Takht, I did not know that I was perhaps the last journalist to meet the lion in his den. The meeting took place when the curfew was relaxed between 5 p.m. and 9 p.m. on 3 June. I entered the Akal Takht at about 6 p.m. and left at 7.30 p.m.
My impression of Bhindranwale was of a man who has somehow usurped the seat of holy authority – a sant sans saintliness. His objectives were far from spiritual or religious and I could not see how a division of the country would help the Sikhs. There was something cruel about him, something that disturbed me; but I guess it was this same quality that brought hundreds of youths to him. They were lured by the cult of violence that he succeeded in romanticizing. He impressed upon them that power came out of the barrel of a gun. Maybe it was that mad gleam in his eyes; or the overconfidence with which he conveyed in no uncertain terms that he was the supremo. He looked crafty, like a man who was exploiting his position to influence the gullible.
Bhindranwale had a remarkable way of applying a veneer of Sikhism to all he said. He sought to identify himself with the Sikh community. But from what numerous Sikh friends tell me, they did not identify themselves with him, in any case not at least until the Operation Bluestar was launched.
The shock waves of the military operation have not ceased rippling two months later. There are a large number of Sikhs who appear to be influenced by what some pro-Khalistan Sikhs abroad are saying and doing. But none seems to have recovered enough to question these Sikhs abroad if they would like to come and settle down here or if they are simply interested in fomenting trouble and creating divisions. The unhealthy influence of these elements hostile to India is reflected in the thinking of the Akali Dal and the SGPC. Many find it abhorent to describe Bhindranwale as a martyr and the army as the aggressor. But this is the method that perhaps the Akali Dal and the SGPC have found of shocking the conscience of the nation.
I went to the Golden Temple on the evening of 3 June, somewhat keen on meeting the man everyone dreaded, including those in the Akali Dal and the SGPC.
I walked barefoot down the Parikrama and the causeway to the golden canopied sanctum sanctorum. I knelt before the Guru Granth Sahib, touched my forehead to the ground, prayed and, as on earlier visits, made a small offering. I stretched out my hand for prasad. To my surprise, I was asked to proceed (agey chaliye). I did not wait to argue; I walked on, looking at the expression of hurt on the faces of those who gazed at the bullet holes on the canopy, the result of the exchange of fire on 1 June.
As I enter the Akal Takht, I am frisked by an armed guard of Bhindranwale at the foot of the narrow, high and winding stairs. Santji is talking to his followers. As I have to wait for some time, I find the conversation with the wiry young Harvinder Singh Sandhu, general secretary of the All India Sikh Students Federation, fairly absorbing. ‘All talk of Gandhian ahimsa is poppycock,’ he remarks. He sees nothing wrong in accepting military assistance from Pakistan because New Delhi sought to treat both, ‘Sikhs and Pakistan, as outsiders.’
I am summoned inside. Santji is ready for the interview. We squat face to face on a dirty old floor mat. Behind him sits Amreek Singh, president of the banned AISSF. Here are some excerpts from the interview:
Q:
What do you think of the army takeover in Punjab?
A:
It is done to suppress the Sikhs. But the government will not succeed. Previous regimes have also never succeeded in such efforts.
Q:
Do you believe that the army will enter the Golden Temple?
A:
No, the army will hang around this place like the CRP and BSF have done for the last two years. Except truth and justice, nothing but evil is expected of this government. It is premature to say anything about the timing of the entry (of the army) and its possible impact. Their behaviour and intentions will be known in a few days.
Q:
What do you think of Longowal as a leader?
A:
No comments.
Q:
Will you not be outnumbered by the army which has superior weapons too?
A:
Sheep always outnumber the lions. But one lion can take care of a thousand sheep. When the lion sleeps, the birds chirp. When it awakes, the birds fly away. There is silence (laughs).
Q:
Did you listen to the prime minister’s speech yesterday?
A:
No, there is no need to; it is not important.
Q:
Do you support the creation of Khalistan?
A:
I never opposed it; nor have I supported it (looks at me rather jubilantly to see if I am impressed by his taciturn reply).
Q:
But is it your contention that the Sikhs cannot live in India?
A:
Yes. They can neither live in nor with India. If treated as equals, it may be possible. But frankly speaking, I don’t think that is possible.
Q:
What can be done to stop the slayings of people, including journalists, in Punjab?
A:
(Raising one eyebrow) Ask those who are responsible for it.
Q:
If some harm were to befall you, who would be your successor?
A:
(With a quizzical look in his eyes) Time will tell. I can’t name anyone. It is not an elective post. I think whosoever attains the status of God will come up as my successor. (Even as I discern a trace of pomposity in his voice, I also notice a flicker in Amreek Singh’s eyes, his first movement since the interview began, as he sat like a marble white statue of a handsome Greek god).
Q:
Do you fear death?
A:
(Eyes nearly blazing with anger) He is not a Sikh who fears death and he who fears death is not a Sikh.
It is now Santji’s turn to question me. ‘Do you know this man?’ he asks, pointing to the elderly Sikh in a silk kurta and a flowing grey-white beard. ‘No,’ I reply. Santji finds my reply hard to believe. You have never seen him, he asks again, he is Shabeg Singh, a former major general.
Oh yes, of course, Shabeg Singh. The major general who was court-martialled and sacked from the army, suspected of directing the Dashmesh Regiment; and known to be the chief adviser to Bhindranwale in fortifying the Golden Temple complex and procuring the weapons with which to wreak vengeance on the Indian A rmy. The former major general said he had every right to be beside Santji as an Akali Dal member. If some ex-generals could join the Congress, why could he not join the Akali Dal, he asked.
If we cannot defend the temple, it is not worth being a Sikh, he commented. He had no qualms in describing Santji as God incarnate. The army was here to liquidate Santji, he said, and was confident that death would not affect him in any way.
How soon did he expect the army to start its action? ‘Maybe tonight,’ he said grimly. The reply jolted Sandhu into reality. Married on 5 May to the daughter of a wealthy Sikh businessman in Bombay, Sandhu must have begun thinking of ways to stay alive.
Shabeg Singh posed for a picture outside in the balcony. Then, he did not want to be disturbed as he began looking from a pair of binoculars at an army position in a tall building opposite.
As I walked out of the Akal Takht, and along the Parikrama to the Ghantaghar, I felt that several pairs of eyes were upon me, watching every step. I expected a burst of fire any minute, so tense was the atmosphere. An eerie silence gripped the whole area. Something terrible was going to happen.
What? And when? I asked myself as I drove back to the Amritsar International Hotel. I settled down to write my story along the lines that ‘the army seemed poised for a major crackdown on terrorists and extremists entrenched inside the Golden Temple...’
But it was of no use. The cops were in the hotel. All links with New Delhi wer
e snapped. There was no way of getting the story out. Would I like to be taken to Jullundur? the Inspector asked me. It is a futile night vigil on 3 June. There are no lights in the Golden Temple. But from the hotel terrace, I can see that it is bathed in a glare of floodlights. There is something being said on the loudspeakers. I cannot hear the words, but it might be an appeal to those inside to come out and surrender.
It is at 4.43 a.m. on 4 June that the suspense is broken. The action begins. The deafening boom of guns shatter the stillness, sending flocks of birds screeching in the air. The target appears to be the gun positions atop a tall building near the Akal Takht. I can see sandbags in the brief flash accompanying the red ball of fire striking sand and brick. Light machine-gun fire is returned.
But after that initial firing, there is a lull. There are only sporadic bursts of fire the next day. It seems as if the army is holding back fire after sending out feelers to test the mood and reaction of the militants. The latter replies shot for shot, not wasting any ammunition.
That evening, well before sunset, I hear the unmistakable rumble of tanks. To begin with, it was one tank and one APS (armoured personnel carrier). An hour later, there are a dozen tanks and a dozen APCs in all. The stage is set for the battle of the Golden Temple. In half an hour, eight to ten thundering blasts shook the city of Amritsar. The tanks are positioned at Sultanwind.
After dark, the cops come in again. I am hustled out of the hotel. Clear your bills and take your bags, I am told. They take me to Ritz Hotel. Sheetal Das, SP, is in a temper. Mark Tully of the BBC has told him he will not leave for New Delhi that very night but the next morning. A top brass of the army tells Sheetal Das outside the portico: all foreign correspondents and all Indian correspondents representing foreign papers: OUT.
Only two Indian correspondents stay behind. I am one of them. But I do not wish to stay in Ritz. Though owner Mehra is a charming person, the hotel terrace hardly offers a glimpse of the scene of action. I am permitted to return to my hotel. And my reentry delights the staff which is discussing my fate.
Just when the bus-load of foreign correspondents and Indians working for foreign newspapers is driving out of Amritsar early that morning does the day’s action begin. It is 4.45 a.m., 5 June.
The first few shots of 5 June are out of a war film. As a shell crashes on to a rooftop pillbox, the construction material goes up in a cloud of reddish dust. Another boom and I see sandbags and bricks being tossed up high in the air. A cloud of smoke billows up. There is a rapid exchange of fire. Knowing the astronomical rate at which modern weapons spew bullets per second, it is obvious that in the first round of combat, precious lives have been lost on both sides.
The reverberating bursts of fire are followed by death-like silence. Two helicopters circle high above the temple complex thrice. They disappear and radio gun positions that have to be knocked out. Firing starts again. The rat-a-tat of guns is heard all day long.
The mellifluous strains of the Shabad Gurbani come wafting with the breeze. There is prayer on one hand, combat on the other. It is an unprecedented combination. I had covered the 1971 liberation of Bangladesh as a war correspondent and seen part of the 1965 Indo-Pak conflict in Khemkaran, Burki and Icchogil Canal. But the environment of battle here and its cause are vastly different. Never before has our army been given the task of flushing out terrorists and extremists from a place of worship.
All of 5 June, the Akal Takht is under fierce attack. The outer line of defence around the temple complex is gradually knocked out. Militants firing from atop the high water tank are silenced. Around high noon a shell hits one of the tanks. And water gushes out like a water fall. The strange sight is visible for almost half an hour. The tank has a capacity of about 10,000 gallons. Then, after it dries up, there is the darkened gaping hole only, a reminder of the action for weeks and months to come.
The Burj or old observation towers built during Ranjit Singh’s time are vantage positions for Bhindranwale’s men. The 150-year old towers with their almost impregnable thick walls take a lot of banging.
Indeed, the entire attention appears to be focused on one tower from where the militants are letting loose a volley of fire. So heavy is the pall of dust and thick smoke arising from the counterattack that at one stage, it appears that the tower is tilting and is about to fall. But nothing of the kind is happening. My vision is playing tricks on me. It is not built by the CPWD, quips my Sikh friend.
Next to be taken up for demolition is the Langar. Clouds of smoke rise to tell their own story. And from wherever Bhindranwale’s men fire, the army fires right back.
June 5, 1.15 p.m. the shelling of the Akal Takht begins. Till 3.35 p.m., there are light exchanges of gunfire interspersed by heavy bouts followed by silence. The air is hot with the energy expended from guns of all sizes and shapes. At 3.45 p.m., half a dozen helicopters fly in formation of threes. They keep away from the temple complex. I wonder who the VIPs are. At 6.20 p.m., there is a shell burst at the overhead tank, indicating that all areas are not yet clear. At 6.40 p.m., there are reddish clouds of smoke arising from the vicinity of the Akal Takht. Fifteen minutes later, two tanks are on the move. At 7 p.m. I see the first corpse carrier vehicle going towards the Chatiwind cremation ghat. The death toll has begun.
The breeze carries an acrid smell, the sickly, clinging smell of burnt flesh.
The night of 5 and 6 June is perhaps the fiercest. The gun fire reaches a deafening crescendo, drowning the kirtan. Both sides are giving it all they have. It is as if a last-ditch battle is on. The ferocity with which Bhindranwale’s men are fighting demonstrates that they have plenty of weapons and ammunition and that they will not give up, come what may. Though his men in the nine-storeyed golden-domed Baba Atal Gurdwara have been annihilated, though most of the fortifications have been blown to smithereens, they want to fight to the last man, the last bullet. There is no buckling under pressure.
For the first time, I sense that my friends are wondering whether the army has not taken too long to complete the task. A mere Sant has held them at bay for three days. Some of the markets around the temple complex have caught fire. I can see huge flames leaping up and dancing devilishly in the air. I wonder whether the entire city will be engulfed in flames if the fire spreads.
On 6 June I see that the clock towers are structurally intact but the clocks have been broken. The helicopter resumes its aerial surveys. Twice, there is firing at the Baba Atal Gurdwara. One of the bursts leaves a black blob on the white face of the stately gurdwara. There is hardly any abatement of the clouds of smoke that come up all night from the areas in the walled city which have caught fire. This blanket of smoke is pushed by the breeze in the direction of the Pakistan border about 15 kilometres away.
There is a lull in firing at about 8 a.m. but soon thereafter, tank fire blasts shake up Amritsar again. But relatively lighter guns are used to fire at the clock towers from where snipers are shooting away. They are silenced. It seems that during periods of lull, both sides take up fresh positions. Word goes around that the men are out on the Parikrama now and the army is seeking to enter the temple complex. By 10 a.m., there is intense firing. My friends express concern over the impact the military operation will have on communal harmony. It is said that the army is in such an awkward position that neither can it extricate itself now nor go ahead swiftly because of the unexpectedly stiff resistance.
On the afternoon of 6 June, curfew is relaxed for two hours. Since all vehicles are banned everyone is walking. All roads lead to Darbar Sahib. People spill on to the roads like potatoes bursting from a sack. I join the multitude. The SSF boys in their blue battle uniforms are standing near the Dharam Singh Market. Between the Kotwali and the Jallianwala Bagh, there are four tanks. And another three tanks are lined up outside the Ghantaghar. The crowd watching the pockmarked exterior of the temple walls and broken clock forms a 100-deep phalanx. Some
of the Sikhs and Hindus fold their hands in prayer from the middle of the road.
As I enter a side lane, I see an army truck emerging. Its cargo is two dead jawans. They are laid on the rear benches as if they are asleep.
On the streets further in, I see corpses of two civilians. People cover their face and nose with a handkerchief.
I wonder why this area was thrown open to the people. Obviously, the army truck driver had no inkling that curfew would be relaxed. Or else he would not have been driving into a huge crowd.
On the way back to the hotel, I witness a scene at the Kotwali which is blood curdling. This is where some jawans were kicking some of the 11 suspected terrorists as they knelt on their bare knees and crawled on the hot road surface. Among the officers directing this operation was a Sikh. His face contorted in anger when he lashed out at his fellowmen who he thought were traitors. But the hundreds of spectators who saw this incident felt anguished. The sight put them off.
A journalist colleague of mine based in Amritsar tells me that Bhindranwale has moved from the Akal Takht to Harmandir Sahib and has put up LMGs and MMGs all around it and that Tohra and Sant Longowal had surrendered and been moved to a safe place. The first part of his news was incorrect. By that time, Bhindranwale is dead. His body is found on the night of 5-6 June.
There is more firing that night (6 and 7 June). Indeed, I hear the longest burst of fire at 6.30 p.m., barely an hour after curfew is reimposed. There is intermittent fire thereafter. At 5.30 a.m. on 7 June, I see thick black clouds of smoke come out from the vicinity of the Guru Nanak Niwas. If there is a fire there, it does not spread. What is this fire which sends up cloud after cloud of black smoke? And why the putrid smell? Someone on the terrace suggests that corpses are being burnt. This smoke continues for a good two-and-a-half hours.