by Amarjit Kaur
A close study of the facts reveals that the fruits of the Green Revolution have been reaped largely by the top 10 per cent of the owner-farmers like Prakash Singh Badal, former chief minister of Punjab. A World Bank study had warned of increasing social tensions caused by this kind of lopsided development, but apparently this has not been taken seriously.
The socio-economic profile of Punjab is fairly frightening. The number of cultivators pushed out of the land-owning classes was stated to be 7 per cent between 1961-71. Again, the area tilled by each agricultural labourer fell from 2.23 hectare in 1961 to 1.75 hectares in 1981. As Jagtar Singh noted, the real wages of agricultural labour also fell while its ranks swelled, with marginal farmers pushed out due to economic compulsions.
As with the rural areas, so with urban unemployment. The number of professionals and technically trained youth on the live register of the employment exchanges increased, unbelievably, from a mere 9,321 in 1966 to 64,771 in 1981. The number of those seeking clerical, white-collar jobs increased from 2,713 in 1966 to 45,708 in 1981 and the total number of those unemployed increased from 50,578 to 486, 081 during the same period. The picture becomes more alarming if one were to take note of the fact that not all who are unemployed register their names nor do those who are partially employed or underemployed.
Another painful fact has emerged from recent studies. This is that the average growth rate in terms of value added has been lower than the output, a situation which, incidentally, a Western farmer is aware of. The unwritten truth about the Green Revolution is that once growth rate depends upon steady provision of fertilisers and chemicals, the input/output ratio comes into operation. In Punjab, that has meant that only those farming households that have enough marketable surplus and the capacity to hoard have benefitted from the Green Revolution.
Another aspect of Punjab’s economy which has been partly responsible for the ‘persecution complex’ of the Punjabis is that, he is the biggest consumer of finished goods. It is stated that more liquor, for example, is consumed in Punjab than even in Maharashtra and Maharashtrians are no slouches when it comes to drinking. And yet, apparently, Punjabis drink more, quantity-wise and per capita than any other people in the rest of India. This means that unknowingly, money is siphoned off from Punjab to other states.
All these facts, coupled with the natural militancy of the Sikhs, have contributed to the growth of violence which has been exploited by various political groups. It is well to remember that since 1947 there have been three militant movements in Punjab, with the cycle repeating itself every ten to fifteen years. The first movement was led by Teja Singh Swatantra, in the then Patiala and East Punjab States Union (PEPSU) immediately after Independence and is credited with success in getting ownership rights to tenant cultivators. In fact, it is said, the first Tenancy Act in the state was passed by the PEPSU government under the pressure of Teja Singh’s Lal Party.
The second movement coincided, interestingly enough, with the advent of the Green Revolution after the birth of Naxalism in West Bengal, in 1967. It spluttered to an end five years later in 1972, but not before it claimed the lives of eighty-five people, including two heroes of the Independence movement, Baba Buzha Singh (85) and Baba Hari Singh Margind (70). The movement was crushed because it did not have a mass base.
The current – and third – movement comes in the wake of a decade and a half of the making of the Green Revolution, with the polarization of classes. One assessment is that most of those who joined Bhindranwale were those left behind by the Green Revolution.
The situation was ripe. In the first place, many scapegoats were available to hang the peoples’ frustration on. The peasants and landless labour invariably were Sikhs. But if the means of production were in the hands of the Sikhs, the marketing and distribution of produce was in the hands of the Hindus who could always be dubbed the exploiters.
Then there was the central government which had put a brake on Akali ambitions to monopolize patronage, and distribute the fruits of office. The Akalis could always say that, but for the centre – a euphemism for Mrs Gandhi – they would have provided more jobs and more employment opportunities to the people, forgetting the fact that most of the exploiters were the rich Sikh landlords themselves.
But the anger against domestic exploiters was easy to deflect with a fundamentalist like Bhindranwale breathing fire and brimstone on the scene. He had his own devils to excoriate, like modernism, heresy and westernization. An unsophisticated farmer’s son, he had earlier been unscrupulously used by Congress-I power brokers to break the back of the Akali agitators who had their own axe to grind. Once, largely because of Congress-I fumbling, Bhindranwale felt that he could be a power unto himself, he began to attract all the elements in Punjabi society that had a grievance: the lumpen proletariat, the ex-Naxalites trying to re-group, plain criminals, smugglers and dregs of society, wide-eyed idealists who felt that Khalistan was the answer to their economic and social problems and so on. The stage was set for a denouement.
The Sikhs had for long wanted to have a separate state where they could be the overlords but their case had always been weak. Lord Louis Mountbatten had pointed out that since in no district in the original Punjab had the Sikhs a majority, ‘it is out of the question to meet their claims by setting up a separate Sikh state’. ‘The Sikhs,’ he added, ‘have an exaggerated idea of their proper status in the future setup.’
This had been galling to Sikh pride. The Anandpur Sahib Resolution was the formulation of Sikh frustration and anger. According to the Resolution, ‘the Sikhs have been politically recognized as a political nation ever since the inauguration of the Order of the Khalsa in the concluding year of the 17th century.’ So, it was argued, the Shiromani Akali Dal ‘proclaims that the Sikhs are determined by all legitimate means to extricate and free themselves from the degrading and death-dealing situation so as to ensure finally their honourable survival and salvage their inherent dignity and their brithright to influence meaningfully, the mainstream of the world history.’
Towards that end, according to the Anandpur Sahib Resolution, ‘the Sikhs therefore demand, firstly that an autonomous region in the north of India should be set up forthwith wherein the Sikh interests are constitutionally recognized as of primary and special importance as the public and fundamental state policy!’
The Resolution added: ‘This Sikh autonomous region may be conceded and declared as entitled to frame its own constitution on the basis of all powers to and for itself except foreign relations, defence and communications to remain as subjects with the federal government.’
And what were to be the geographic dimensions of this Sikh autonomous state? The Anandpur Sahib Resolution is pretty clear on that. According to it, Khalistan would include ‘present Indian Punjab, Karnal and Ambala districts of Haryana inclusive of Kangra district and Kulu Valley of Himachal Pradesh comprised in Paonta Saheb, Chandigarh, Pinjore, Kalka, Dalhousie, Dehra Doon Valley, Nalagarh Desh, Sirsa, Guhla and Rattia areas and Ganganagar district of Rajasthan and the Tarai region of the UP recently reclaimed and colonized by the Sikhs out of thousand-year-old virgin and dangerously infested forests, thus bringing the main contiguous Sikhs population and traditional and natural Sikh habitats still parts of and included in India, within this autonomous Sikh region.’
At no time did the Akalis repudiate the Anandpur Sahib Resolution and in the circumstances it makes little sense to try to differentiate between ‘moderates’ and ‘extremists’ within the Akali camp. The goal of both was the same: an independent Khalistan. And it is the repudiation of the Anandpur Sahib Resolution that must precede any future discussion with the Akalis, ‘moderate’ or ‘extremists.’
Is it in the cards? Nobody can say. Terrorism, no doubt, will be contained in the course of time as the terrorists themselves see the futility of their ways or are fought to a standstill as happened in West Bengal or Andhra Pradesh. Earlier waves of terrorism have bee
n put down and they surely will be put down this time, too, the Congress(I) government having learnt the error of its ways. But for the Akalis to formally repudiate the Anandpur Sahib Resolution would be a major step. And yet, without the repudiation of that resolution, no negotiation would be worthwhile. All other demands put forward by the Akalis from time to time, such as the transfer of Chandigarh, change in centre-state relations were mere tactical ploys floated by the Akalis to feel the ground for the ultimate goal. Even if the Government of India were to unilaterally grant them, it would be of no use because the main cause for all the tensions to date would not have been resolved. The main cause is the Anandpur Resolution and the demand for separate Sikh statehood. Such a statehood cannot be granted, not only because it is not in the power of the centre to gift it, but because granting it would be to write off the unity and integrity of India. That, surely, is not negotiable?
Once the Anandpur Sahib Resolution is repudiated and the Akalis swear by the unity of India, many windows would then get opened. But will the problem be solved? As long as this country is divided along linguistic lines, the Sikhs will continue to grumble and as long as we talk in terms of minorities, the Sikhs will consider themselves an exploited minority. Both the concept of majority-minority and of linguistic states have to be scrapped. As long as we continue to think in terms of minority and majority, there is no incentive for the minority to join the mainstream. Why should the so-called minorities bestir themselves to get along with their fellow citizens when it is more paying to retain a distinct identity of their own and to foist on the so-called majority a giant guilt-complex? One of the demands of the Akali Dal, incidentally, is the removal of the limit of two per cent in Sikh recruitment to the armed forces. About the time of Partition, the Sikhs constituted almost nine per cent of the armed strength of the country. Subsequently, in order to establish equity and fairness in the armed forces, the government set a limit of two per cent to Sikh recruitment. This has been taken as one more attempt to put the Sikhs down, which is a travesty of truth. As a matter of fact, we have it on the authority of Lt Gen S.K. Sinha (Retd.) that Sikhs had not even in recent times filled in the two per cent upper limit. Even as it is, there are as many as 1,50,000 Sikh jawans serving in the Indian Army which would suggest that as many homes have a steady, if small, income to fall back on. And again, while pensions, too, are low, there certainly is some money coming in. Considering that as many as 598.70 million people out of a total population of India of about 700 million have a per capita expenditure of less than Rs 1,200 per annum or about Rs 100 a month, Punjab cannot be doing all that badly. Of how many regions in India can it be said that some 1,50,000 men are on government payroll on a regular basis and that almost as many of them must be on pension? Surely not Gujarat, Orissa or West Bengal?
India is large enough for all peoples, whether Hindu, Muslim or Sikh. It is catholic enough to accept all as equals, though instances of inequality can always be pointed out. This is a country of minorities. There is no one majority one can rile against. Punjab is better off than many other states and Punjabis have much to be thankful for. The financial cake available to the centre is small and it has to be parcelled out as equitably and judiciously as possible among many claimants, not all of whom get a fair share. If only the Sikhs realize how lucky they are and have been, they would be more understanding of the problems of the centre. In any event, violence and terrorism are hardly the means to be adopted to get desirable goals. It will be claimed on behalf of the Sikhs that not all of them were involved in the recent events and that a good percentage of them abhor violence, of any kind. It is equally true that people do noten masse protest against violence, even if they be dead against it, for that is not in the nature of man. To that extent it would be right to say that the sins of Bhindranwale should not be visited upon all Sikhs, indiscriminately. For the government it can be said that it surely hasn’t any intention of tarring all Sikhs with the same brush, but how is one to distinguish between a terrorist and an innocent citizen? The problem for the innocent citizen is compounded by the fact that should he reveal the whereabouts of a terrorist, he himself stands to be killed. That, clearly, was the dilemma of the Sikh intellectuals many of whom preferred to remain silent than be critical of the thugs who ruled from the Golden Temple premises.
Could the events in Punjab have been prevented? Hindsight shows us that they could have been. But we can now go only forward, not backward. The repair of the Akal Thakt, no doubt, will go on, whether by one or other group. This article has attempted to bring all the issues that have contributed to the breakdown of peace in Punjab in broad outline. No doubt more details could be filled in, especially the relations between Zail Singh and Bhindranwale and the role of Congress(I) in encouraging terrorism. But enough has been stated, one hopes, to show that nothing is as simple as it seems.
The Great Divide
SUNIL SETHI
In the summer of 1982 Jarnail Singh Bhindranwale was still an easily approachable, less-than-formidable figure. The Golden Temple was not yet an area cordoned off by fear and outrage. And Amritsar was a self-assured boom town, unaware that its life would so quickly be short-circuited by a reign of terror and retribution.?
There were those, of course, who saw the government’s organized, and highly publicized, surrender of Bhindranwale at Chowk Mehta as a dangerous signal. But there was no one to predict that he could be transformed into an all-powerful, malignant force. No one imagined that he could hold Punjab on a short fuse. At best, he was a dispensable pawn in a political game. At worst, a combination of half-clown, half-loon.
All day long, in those early days in Guru Nanak Niwas, he would lie on the rooftop, stretched out on a camp cot, his long black beard glistening in the sun and his eyes narrowing expectantly at the sight of visitors. These were few and far between: a straggle of journalists quizzing him about his dubious past or ambiguous present or groups of curious villagers who had struggled up the eight flights of stairs to view a man surrounded by recent controversy. In those days Bhindranwale was looking for visitors, especially those from the media. I remember how eager he seemed to please. Springing from his seat at the sight of a camera or notebook, he was all effusive, greeting and ordering glasses of cold water to be fetched. He showed all the nervousness and excitement of a man looking for attention; he seemed genuinely flattered that he was getting it. And there was little in his conversation, other than his railings against Nirankaris, that was provocative or incendiary. He stuck to long, rambling, disconnected sermons about the Sikh faith, delivered in the manner of a village preacher. Clouded as these were by a turn of phrase and metaphor so rustic, they were not exactly crowd-pullers in the city. Questioned a little explicitly about his alleged connection in the murders of the Nirankari leader Gurbachan Singh or Jullundur editor Lala Jagat Narain, he betrayed an awkward evasiveness. He was liable to fall silent or mumble non-commital comments under his breath. His chief source of information as far as the media was concerned seemed to be the Akali Patrika. And this was at a time when it was hard to get him to say anything against the Akali Dal chief, Sant Harchand Singh Longowal, or SGPC president, Gurcharan Singh Tohra, then counted as the heavy-weight Sikh leaders.
In the year that followed after that first encounter, I met Bhindranwale about a dozen times, occasionally for meetings that stretched over a whole morning or afternoon. In retrospect, it seems difficult to pinpoint on which visit precisely the transformation from a village preacher to national figure seemed discernible, just as it is difficult to say when the humble welcome turned into an arrogant swagger and, finally, into preemptory dismissals of journalists he did not wish to speak to. But I do recall instances, at least three, that give a fair example of his stiffening clout, his growing sophistication in handling the media and his hardening communal stance.
The first was in late 1982 when his anti-Nirankari tirade developed into anti-government and anti-Longowal onslaught. Imperceptibly at first,
and blatantly later, the utterances became anti-Hindu. It is impossible to translate into English the particular venom with which these statements were delivered in a crude peasant’s Punjabi or the obnoxious innuendos they were loaded with. It was as if Bhindranwale, with the arrival of every interviewer, was sharpening his invective to keep the presses turning. Each visit yielded sayings more inflammatory than the last. His favourite story, for example, of atrocities committed upon Sikhs by Hindus was the instance of a village near Moga where the Hindus had ganged up against a Sikh girl. ‘She was harassed and then beaten,’ he said, ‘and then in full public view stripped naked. As if that was not enough, they (the Hindus) forced her father to have intercourse with her.’ I heard him tell this story at least three times. And if at all times Hindus were not actually singled out as the aggressors, it was clear to the growing congregations, listening in rapt attention, who was. And if he did not actually specify the nature of the reported assault, the phrase he used in Punjabi was so suggestive that no one was in any doubt as to the implications of such a monstrous action. But when asked to furnish details of the name of the family, village, etc., Bhindranwale turned evasive and belligerent. ‘I expect nothing but these foolish questions from you,’ he snapped angrily at me once when I pressed him for details, ‘if you were a Sikh you would be able to believe it.’ It is only an indicator of the media’s discretion that it repeatedly exercised restraint in reporting such stories.
Yet it was his consistent pandering to the media that was equally perverse. Being a heavy smoker I sometimes found my patience exercised by his hours of endless rhetoric. Sometimes I would slip away and drive out as far as the police station about a kilometre away to return after a cigarette break. He either noticed my absence or my breath gave me away, because he once conspiritorially asked me when there were not many people around, if I smoked. ‘Yes,’ I answered. ‘Well,’ he said grinning with his long, yellowing teeth, ‘why don’t you just go in that far corner and get it done with.’ ‘Mind you,’ he shouted as I gratefully crept away, ‘don’t blow any smoke in Darbar Sahib’s direction.’