Beyond the Lines: An Autobiography

by Kuldip Nayar

  Because of my equation with Zia, Yahya Bakhtiyar, my senior in Law College, Lahore, asked me to find out from him, with whom the mercy petition was pending, what he was going to do with Bhutto. In fact, this was a suggestion by Bhutto who had read in the press that I was in town to interview Zia. Bhutto had been tried for ‘murder’ and given the death sentence.

  The following day when I interviewed Zia I began my questions on Indo–Pakistan relations but what I really wanted to know was whether or not Bhutto would be executed. I therefore soon switched over to questions on Bhutto’s mercy petition pending with Zia. ‘I believe you are under a lot of pressure from foreign countries like America and Saudi Arabia to commute Bhutto’s death sentence,’ I said. Zia vehemently denied any pressure, either from Washington or from Riyadh. He said there was a process for the disposal of a mercy petition which he had already initiated.

  The cursory manner in which he spoke about the mercy petition reflected his contempt for Bhutto. I inferred that Zia was determined to hang him. I asked Zia about the procedure. He said it was up to him to decide about the mercy petition. He had only to ring Lahore, where the crime had been committed, to complete the formality. He did not elaborate on the kind of information he was seeking but the confidence he exuded led me to believe that he had already made up his mind to hang Bhutto and now all that was left was the legal formality.

  Once again I pressed Zia to tell me when the entire procedure would be completed and when he would take a final decision. He asked me when I was returning to India. I told him the following day. His, ‘Oh’, in response, revealed his intention. I came to the conclusion that he was going to hang Bhutto, and would do that very soon.

  I narrated the entire interview to Bakhtiyar on the same day and expressed my fears. Later when I met Bakhtiyar before leaving for India he told me that Bhutto’s reaction to my interview was entirely different. Bhutto was convinced that he would not be hanged. He believed his death sentence would be commuted as a result of pressure from outside. ‘Kuldip got it wrong,’ Bhutto said.

  Within a couple of days of my arrival in Delhi I heard that Bhutto had been hanged (Bhutto was hanged at central jail, Rawalpindi, on 4 April 1979). Zia took only the BBC Correspondent Mark Tully into confidence and told him about the execution. The Indian public reacted strongly against the hanging. There were demonstrations in Delhi and elsewhere to condemn Zia who was called a ‘murderer’. Morarji Desai, who was then prime minister, merely said that it an internal matter of Pakistan. Pakistanis were undoubtedly unhappy over Bhutto’s execution but were afraid to voice their protest in public. I was disappointed over this response. Here were the people who Bhutto told me would come on to the streets if ever the military took over the country, but they did not dare to utter a word against Zia.

  My contact with Zia snapped when I criticized the hanging and described him as a ruthless dictator. His press secretary, Brigadier Siddiq Salik, met me subsequently in Delhi when Zia was on an official visit to India. I asked him why Zia was not giving me an interview. He said that after I had described him as a ruthless dictator he did not wish to meet me. However, Salik told me that Zia was seriously considering restoring civilian rule and holding elections. He said that the point he was pondering over was whether it would do any good if the status quo was disturbed.

  I was surprised when Zia was killed by a bomb blast in his plane on 17 August 1988. I have done my utmost to find out who was responsible for his killing. I suspect it was the US, and in support of this surmise I can only say that after Zia’s plane was blown up, a Pakistani military officer entered India and flew on to the US. Our government was aware of this, and I wish I knew more about it.

  Once the Soviet forces withdrew after suffering heavy losses, the US dropped Afghanistan like a hot potato. A large number of weapons were left behind, but more deadly was a battle-hardened force that was fired by the principle of jehad as they interpreted it. It was this force that unseated the communist government of Mohammad Najibullah Ahmadzai, the then president, and hanged him. His family had earlier fled to Delhi.

  The Taliban constituted a government that would strictly adhere to the ‘traditional tenets’ of Islam, the first Islamic fundamentalist government in the world. People worldwide were horrified when the government banned music, made the burqa compulsory, and stopped girls studying in high school. The Taliban destroyed many historic Buddhist statues, the largest and most magnificent the rock-cut figure of the Buddha at Bamiyan.

  Pakistan was the only country to accord recognition to the Taliban government in Kabul. This was ominous. India was seriously concerned about the Taliban government and the nexus between Pakistan and Kabul. Indira Gandhi, who was in power, secretly discussed the matter with the US which was still angry over India’s abstention on the Afghanistan vote in the UN.

  I rarely had an occasion to meet Indira Gandhi during her post-Emergency prime-ministership. The only opportunity I got was at a function where we folded hands in namaste. This time she was in command and not Sanjay Gandhi. She, however, lost him soon after her return to power.

  On 23 June 1980, Raj Thapar, a close friend, rang me to tell about the crash of Sanjay Gandhi’s plane. Sanjay was an adventurous pilot. A few days after the crash, his mother-in-law, Menaka’s mother, rang me to say that it was sabotage, not a crash. She wanted me to find out how another aircraft could have been flying above Sanjay’s plane. I had not heard that before and was unable to verify whether another plane had flown above Sanjay’s. What was factually correct was that Indira Gandhi revisited the site of the crash and collected ‘something’. What it was still remains a mystery. Could it have been Sanjay’s account number in a Swiss bank?

  Indira Gandhi’s return to power resulted in my leaving the Indian Express. Soon after her assumption of power, RNG called me to his room and told me that he wanted to make up with her. ‘You know...,’ he said but did not complete the sentence. He said he wanted to effect drastic changes in the top editorial staff but did not elaborate. What he was hinting at was evident.

  I did not understand whether he was under pressure or whether he was doing so on his own accord to placate the new establishment. The man who doughtily fought against the Emergency was now wanting to ride Indira Gandhi’s bandwagon.

  A couple of months later, he told me that Malgaonkar, the then editor, would leave the post and function as an advisor. The new editor, he said, would be Nihal Singh, then resident editor with the Statesman, who had worked under me as a political correspondent. Then he looked at me and asked what I would do. I told him that I would submit my resignation because that was what he wanted. I recalled the conversation I had with him earlier when he had given me a hint.

  Ajit Bhattacharjea, also a marked man during the Emergency, resigned at the same time. A cryptic announcement appeared in the newspaper thanking us for our ‘services to the paper’. Strange that the struggle we had waged together during the Emergency ended without even a proper farewell. I told RNG that I would start a syndicate service to disseminate my column and wondered whether his paper would be interested in subscribing to it. He said he would let me know but never did.

  Indira Gandhi was not the same person after Sanjay Gandhi’s death. Outwardly she stoically bore her grief but those near her told me that she was broken from within. Soon after Sanjay’s death, she evicted Menaka, his widow, from her house and that too at the unearthly hour of 11 p.m. Menaka was politically ambitious and wanted to play an active role but Indira Gandhi offered her only the position of social secretary. She did not want even remotely any friction to affect her plan to ensure Rajiv Gandhi’s succession.

  He was a pilot and initially expressed his unwillingness to join politics. Sonia Gandhi, his wife, was reportedly vehemently against his joining politics. However, the entire country was certain that he would be Indira Gandhi’s successor. One day, long before the succession, I checked with R.K. Dhawan who candidly said that whatever the denials, and there would be many, Rajiv G
andhi would be installed as prime minister.

  There was some drama in Menaka’s departure from the prime minister’s house. Indira Gandhi refused to leave Varun, Menaka’s only child, and locked herself with him for two hours. A senior police officer told Indira Gandhi that they would be in a fix if Menaka were to go to a police station and file an FIR. To the police’s relief, Indira Gandhi relented but wanted Menaka out of her house immediately at the dead of night, which was very chilly at that time. Menaka took a taxi and went to her mother’s house. In consequence Indira Gandhi was viewed as a harsh and unsympathetic mother-in-law.

  Indira Gandhi’s priority during those days was what had come to be known as the Sikh problem. It was she who had carved a Punjabi suba from the united Punjab and it was now she who concluded that she had to curb the Akalis.

  13

  Operation Bluestar

  Punjab in Flames

  When I first met Jarnail Singh Bhindranwale, he was already cast in his role of both hero and villain. He was as prominent as Sant Harcharan Singh Longowal, the head of the Akali Dal. Although the demand for a Punjabi suba had been conceded (the Punjabi-speaking districts were grouped together to form Punjab state) the Sikhs were generally unhappy with the solution. They aspired to a separate entity, which the formation of the new Punjab state did not fulfill, and therefore the community was seeking ways of achieving that much sought-after separate identity. The two sants, Bhindranwale, haughty and violent; Longowal, meek and dignified, were a study in contrast.

  Once I caught up with Bhindranwale in his very untidy room and I asked him why he was surrounded by so many armed men toting rifles and Sten guns. His reply, in rustic Punjabi, was to ask why the police carried arms. I told him that the police represented the authority; to which he retorted, ‘Let them ever challenge me, and I shall show them who has the authority’.

  This was typical of the man. He believed himself to be above the law of the land; an individual who had been chosen by God for a mission. His ambition was to wield so much power that all the police and all the troops in India would not dare challenge him. That was his tragedy. While I was with Bhindranwale, Central Minister Swaran Singh barged in. As I was sitting on the only chair in the room, he squatted on the floor. Before I could offer him the chair, he remarked that he preferred to sit on the floor in the presence of the Sant.

  Bhindranwale did not own responsibility for the assassination of Lala Jagat Narain, owner of Punjab Kesri and Hind Samachar murdered in broad daylight outside Ludhiana. Not even regret was expressed over the murder when Bhindranwale went on to describe Jagat Narain as ‘a person who had abused the Sikh quaum’. My friend Romesh Chander, Jagat Narain’s son and the editor of the two papers, was also murdered by Bhindranwale’s supporters. I felt the tragedy all the more acutely because a day before Romesh returned to Jalandhar on an urgent mission he had promised to go to a cinema show with me.

  Bhindranwale’s emergence on the political landscape of Punjab can be traced back to 1977 when the Akali–Janata government came to power after the Congress defeat in the assembly polls. Zail Singh, the defeated chief minister who later became president of India, was most unhappy, not only because he had lost power but also because the Gurdial Singh Commission appointed to look into his conduct as chief minister, had found him guilty of misuse of power.

  It was Sanjay Gandhi, known for his extra-constitutional methods, who suggested that some ‘Sant’ should be put up to challenge the Akali government. Both Sanjay and Zail Singh, particularly the latter, knew how the former Punjab chief minister Pratap Singh Kairon had fought the Akalis. He had built up Sant Fateh Singh against Master Tara Singh, the Akali leader, who had become a hard nut to crack. Zail Singh and Darbara Singh, who was a CWC member and later became chief minister, selected two persons for Sanjay’s evaluation.

  As Sanjay’s friend, Kamal Nath, a member of parliament, recalled: ‘The first one we interviewed did not look a “courageous type”. Bhindranwale, strong in tone and tenor, seemed to fit the bill. We would give him money off and on,’ Kamal Nath reminisced, ‘but we never thought he would turn into a terrorist.’ Little did they realize at that time that they were creating a Frankenstein. Zail Singh too maintained contacts with Bhindranwale, although he denied this after he became president.

  Bhindranwale got his first opportunity to get into the limelight on 13 April 1978, Baisakhi day, when a band of Sikhs clashed with Nirankaris who called themselves ‘Sikh’ but were not considered to be so by the community. They were like the Ahmedis who are not considered to be ‘Muslim’, although they follow the tenets of Islam.

  Sixteen Sikhs died in the clash on that Baisakhi day. Bhindranwale said that the killing of Sikhs when an Akali was the state chief minister was outrageous. There was indeed anger in the community throughout the country. Chief Minister Prakash Singh Badal was in Bombay at the time of the incident. He rushed to Amritsar, suspended some police officers, and arrested the Nirankari chief, Gurbachan Singh. This did not however mollify the Sikh community, nor did his call for a boycott of the Nirankaris assuage its feelings.

  The important part of the resolution was that ‘in Punjab and other states the Centre’s interference would be restricted to defence, foreign relations, currency, and general communications’, and for these departments, ‘Punjab and other states [should] contribute [central funds] in proportion to [their] representation in Parliament’. This eventually took the form of the Anandpur Resolution, which New Delhi interpreted as a demand for secession.

  The Akali leaders were on the defensive about the resolution. Whenever I discussed the Anandpur Resolution with them, they would say there were many versions of it. One of them told me that it was Kapur Singh, a former Indian Civil Servant (ICS), dismissed from service, who had drafted the resolution. It was in English, which Fateh Singh, then the Akali president, did not understand. The resolution was only ‘explained’ to him by Kapur Singh, and Fateh Singh, reportedly, never realized all that was being incorporated in it.

  Perhaps Fateh Singh did not understand the implications but the drafting committee had men like Balwant Singh, former Punjab finance minister, Surjit Singh Barnala, former union minister for agriculture, and Gurcharan Singh Tohra, president of the Shiromani Gurdwara Prabandhak Committee (SGPC), as its members. They could have stalled the resolution or watered it down, but there was nothing surprising about this development because, whenever the Akali Dal was in the wilderness, the party adopted a militant stance. The resolution therefore fitted in with and reflected its politics.

  Bhindranwale thought that every young Sikh was a potential follower of his. During his discourses he would hark back to the past; to the days when the Sikhs were rulers and called for a restoration of that superiority. He was not impressed by Longowal or his non-violent methods.

  It was apparent that Indira Gandhi and the Akalis were on a collision course. The moderate among the Sikhs were in a minority. People like Prakash Singh Badal, Balwant Singh, and S.S. Barnala were not part of the meeting convened by Bhindranwale to consider the future course of action. Punjab education minister, Sukhjinder Singh, who had stated that the Sikhs should establish Khalistan with the assistance of China and Pakistan, attended the meeting, as did Gurcharan Singh Tohra, who had brought along with him Basant Singh Khalsa, who after losing in the Lok Sabha elections had said that the Sikhs should have a separate electorate.

  The prime minister could not accept the Akalis’ demand for a separate territorial entity for the Sikhs. Longowal was in two minds. The extremists played on his feeling of betrayal, arguing that Indira Gandhi had gone back on her commitment even on religious demands. To placate the moderates, Longowal nominated Badal to be the first to court arrest in a morcha to win a separate state for the Sikhs. Badal, ever ready to go to jail, was elated when he was assured that he would be the first satyagrahi because this coincided with his desire to be the number one.

  What, however, clinched the matter was the fear in the minds of the Akalis
that Bhindranwale, who had made the Golden Temple the base for his activities, might eventually take over the gurdwara if the Akalis did not show any resistance. More than that, morchas, as the Akalis knew by experience, always became a matter of prestige for the Sikhs and received traditional support from the countryside, with volunteers numbering in the thousands. The Golden Temple automatically became the fulcrum of any such demonstration.

  The morcha began on 4 August 1982. Badal was the first satyagrahi, leading a batch of 300, all of whom were arrested when they emerged from the temple for violating the order banning the assembly of more than five persons. This became a daily affair over the next two and half months, and was all very civilized.

  The satyagrahis would move out amidst full-throated cries and the beating of drums. Bhindranwale, who was staying in Gurunanak Niwas, in the premises of the Golden Temple, would be surrounded by armed guards followed by a horde of Sikhs. Longowal usually walked almost alone, unnoticed, towards the niwas, where the two lived.

  Once when I was invited by Harcharan Singh Longowal to witness the movement I wondered why every Akali agitation eventually assumed a religious flavour. Was it because religion and politics were considered two sides of the same coin, peri and meri, or was it because no morcha could be sustained without it acquiring a religious fervour?

  The moderate among the Sikhs were still in control. Longowal did not fail to chide anyone raising demands other than those that the Akalis had made. The day I attended one of these congregations, when a slogan was raised for Khalistan, Longowal not only condemned it but also said that those who raised the slogan were ‘agents of the Congress Party’ and that the Akalis were strongly opposed to it. Till then he was in control. Bhindranwale who was sitting beside him did not utter a word.

  Longowal sent Balwant Singh Ramowalia, MP, to drop me at the railway station. He was closely following the developments and did not hide the fact that there were differences between Longowal and Bhindranwale, and saw the latter increasingly impressing the Sikhs because of his extreme stand. Ramowalia wondered what was in store for the Sikhs. Bidding him goodbye at the railway station, I told him to convey to Longowal that the movement he had built was so large that it even exceeded his comprehension. ‘I hope Longowal will be able to control it because I fear Bhindranwale taking it over and using it to support his extremist line’.