Upon my insistence, the doctor finally agreed.
“Bring him to my residence, and I will take a look,” he said.
Raj and I took Rajan to the doctor’s house, and after a brief examination, the doctor said, “He may have lost his appetite due to the heat. Give him something salty. That will make him thirsty. Try giving him potato chips, and little by little, he will start eating and keeping cool.”
On our way home, we bought several bags of potato chips, something we normally didn’t allow our kids to eat, but we were hoping Rajan would eat as many chips as he wanted. Slowly, Rajan began eating, first the potato chips, and then a peanut butter jelly sandwich, and later, a cheeseburger. After a few days, his eating patterns returned to normal. After then, we made sure Rajan stayed cool and that his bedroom A/C was working at all times.
Rajan’s health was one concern continually on my mind. My cousin Ved Bedi’s wife, Usha, was a doctor. Every month, we took him to Usha’s clinic to get his blood drawn to monitor his creatinine levels, and even though we gave Subhash and Christopher regular milk to drink, Raj would mix Rajan a drink from the Similac PM 60/40, which we had shipped from the US in large quantities before we moved to India. The Similac was designed for children with poor renal function. Also, Rajan had grown little in the past year. I made several calls to Dr. Redmond in Cleveland to check on the growth hormone medicine. To my disappointment, he always had the same reply—it was not yet available.
Despite the challenges we faced, my family and I experienced fun, light-hearted moments, and the holidays in India were always a chance to let loose and celebrate life. Holi, in particular, is the most vibrant and joyful of all the festivals. It is a celebration of the arrival of spring, a season of joy and hope. We would go to Satish’s house in the afternoon, and we all would dump water of different colors on each other and rub red powder on each other’s faces. Out in the streets, the people of New Delhi ran about, throwing red, green, orange, yellow, and purple powders at each other. Afterward, we would share sweets with each other and laugh because we all were covered from head to toe in an array of color.
We also visited Mussoorie, also known as the Queen of Hills, a hill station in the State of Uttarkhand where the air was cooler. We enjoyed visiting local tourist attractions, such as Gun Hill and the temple Nag Devta, dedicated to the snake god, Lord Shiva.
One day in June 1984, Satish called. As soon as I heard his voice at the end of the line, I knew something was wrong.
“Bedi Saheb, have you heard the news?” he asked.
“What news do you mean?” I asked, even though I heard it on the radio that morning.
“Operation Blue Star,” he answered. “Today, Indira Gandhi ordered the Indian Army to attack the Golden Temple. Can you believe it? The Golden Temple. The Sikhs are not going to be happy about this.”
Everyone was talking about it, and everyone was on edge. The self-styled leader of a Sikh separatist movement called the Khalistanis, Bhindranwale, and his followers were taking shelter in the Golden Temple along with their ammunition. He was considered a freedom fighter by some Sikhs, but others saw him as merely a terrorist. Ordering an attack on Bhindranwale would rile up the Sikhs, posing a serious danger.
“I have heard, Satish Ji. I hope the Indian Army can keep the insurgents under control.”
“Yes, I am afraid things might get out of hand,” Satish said. “You remember what happened last October, don’t you? Those Sikh militants stopped a bus and shot six Hindu passengers.”
I heard about that attack when I first moved back to India a month after it happened, shocking me to know these tragedies still happened. The Sikh separatists were stockpiling weapons in the temple in an attempt to take over the state of Punjab and form it into their own country. The revered holy place had sustained much damage, and the Sikhs and others who worshipped there were furious that the Indian Army attacked the insurgents who were using it as their hideout. I told Satish I would be on watch for anything out of the ordinary.
Upon speaking with my parents, I learned there was a great fear spreading through the state of Punjab. Bhindranwale had gathered a following of hundreds of thousands of khalistanis who also wanted to create their own country, killing Hindus in the process. Now the people of my beloved home of Punjab trembled at the sound of his name.
On October 31, 1984, a year after I’d returned to India, I was in Bombay to make arrangements with a transportation company to transport boxes of camera film to New Delhi. Satish had asked me if I wanted to be a part of his side business of importing film. While taking care of the transportation, I learned that at 9:20 a.m., Indira Gandhi had been shot at her residence in New Delhi. She was in critical condition and had been taken to a hospital.
Two of her Sikh body guards shot her as revenge for the Operation Blue Star assault on the Golden Temple in Amritsar a few months earlier. Indira Gandhi was declared dead that afternoon and the news of her assassination spread throughout the country like a tidal wave. Tension lurked behind the eyes of everyone I met, and it seemed the air was touched by an electric current of fear. The great prime minister of India had fallen.
At three o’clock, I called Satish to inform him that the consignment was on the truck, en route to New Delhi.
“Very good, Bedi Saheb. But please be careful. Right after Indira’s death was declared, riots broke out all over New Delhi.”
With the country in chaos, I boarded the plane from Bombay to New Delhi, arriving at 9:00 p.m. Instead of my chauffeur waiting for me as I expected, Satish’s driver waved me down. “Bedi Saheb, get in the car quickly,” he said. “We will be going to Punjabi Bagh instead of East of Kailash, because people are already damaging moving vehicles, and riots have started on that side.”
Satish had communicated with Raj, and she informed him that people were throwing bricks at cars, and it did not seem safe for my chauffeur to go to the airport. As Satish’s driver brought me to Punjabi Bagh, where Satish and his family lived, I couldn’t believe I was heading for the safe part of the city while Raj was alone with our three sons. I could not get them out of my mind, and I prayed continuously for their protection.
When we reached Satish’s house, he met us at the door, relief written on his face. “Good, you are safe,” he said. “Bedi Saheb, I just spoke to Raj on the phone, and she wants you to know she and the kids are okay. They have gone to the neighbor’s house.”
Satish and I went to the living room, and as he talked about the assassination and the riots, I felt strange being so far from my family while so much violence and chaos was around them. There was no telling what might happen in the days to come. That night, I could barely sleep. I spoke with Raj at around 11:00 p.m., just before she and the kids moved back to our house to go to sleep. They would have the chokidar stay awake and watch the house the whole night, but I still couldn’t sleep much. I did not like being away from my family on a night such as this.
The next day, I wanted to get back to my family, so Satish’s driver took the back streets until we reached my house. The riots were spreading all over New Delhi, and it wasn’t safe to go into the streets anywhere. I was overwhelmed with relief and happiness to be home, and as I walked in the door, my kids ran to greet me. Raj, especially, was relieved to not be alone with the kids while the riots were happening right outside our doorstep. We stayed inside the house, and every now and then, we would go to the balcony to see what was going on. People were breaking into shops and carrying out items such as TVs, radios, air conditioners, and clothes. Any cars that risked venturing out were pelted with rocks and bricks.
On the second night of the riots, our doorbell rang. With great hesitancy, I opened the door and saw a Sardarji standing outside. He was the owner of the taxi stand in front of our house, and although he was a Sikh, I was always friendly with him and his partners, speaking Punjabi with them and greeting them pleasantly. Even though I am not a Sikh, I have always had good relations with them, and so whenever I needed a taxi
, I would always get one from their stand.
On this evening, the Sardarji trembled with fear. He was taking a great risk to be outside our house at this moment.
“Saheb, can you help us?” he asked quickly.
“Sure, tell me what I can do,” I responded. I could hear the sounds of a fight breaking out just a block away.
“I have a nephew who is only eighteen, and he has nowhere to hide. Is it possible for you to give him shelter?”
Raj was standing next to me, and we both looked at each other, thinking the same thing: Giving shelter to this Sikh boy might put our family in danger. At the same time, my heart could not say no. Turning back to the Sardarji, I said, “Tell this boy, don’t say a word and just stay inside the garage.”
“I will do so. Thank you, Bedi Saheb. Thank you. We will not forget your kindness.” The Sardarji placed his palms together and bowed his head to me before rushing to tell his nephew the good news. The boy hurried to the garage and closed the door.
I shut the door, and Raj looked at me, a worried expression on her face. “I just couldn’t say no,” I told her. “What if he is killed tonight or tomorrow? I would not be able to live with myself, thinking that I said no and later learned this boy became a victim of the riots.”
Raj nodded in understanding. “I didn’t want to say no either,” she said.
On the second day, the Delhi government started a curfew to control the rioting. Hindus all over New Delhi were killing Sikhs, and the violence only seemed to be increasing. I witnessed with my own eyes a Sardarji being pulled from his scooter by a group of men who beat him, kicking and hitting him over and over. It was the cruelest thing I had ever seen. I did not like watching what was happening merely a few yards from our house, but there was nothing I could do. My heart aching with sadness, I went back inside and shut the balcony doors.
I advised the kids to remain in their bedrooms because I did not want them to see the violence. Raj leaned against the wall, her arms crossed as I came inside. Her face mirrored mine. We were not happy about these circumstances, and we wished for it to be over as soon as possible. In the meantime, we could only sit and wait it out, feeling helpless and praying that the riots would not affect the safety of our family. We also made sure our servant gave food to the boy, and we also instructed the servant to not spread the word that there was a Sikh boy in our garage.
After three days of rioting in New Delhi, the government finally put an end to the chaos and got everything under control. The Sardarji and his partners from the taxi stand came to us, each with both hands pressed together, palms touching, in front of them and thanked us over and over. The Sikh boy joined them, and our lives slowly returned to normal. However, it took several months for their taxi business to return to normal. Many Hindus expressed hatred toward the Sikhs by refusing to use their taxis.
Chapter 22
A few months after settling in New Delhi, I convinced my parents to visit with us. They agreed and came to stay for about two months, but they were anxious to go back to Malaudh. I didn’t understand why they were so eager to leave and would argue with them.
“We have come back to India,” I said, “and the reason we are here is partially so you can stay with us and live a comfortable life rather than live in Malaudh with my brother, who shows you no respect, and his children, who give you a hard time. It hurts me to know how they treat you, and yet you always want to go back.”
Many times during that visit I raised my voice, in a way, taking all my frustrations out on them. The hospital project was not going as planned, and now I was unsuccessful in keeping my parents with me. After returning to their home, they came to stay with us a second time for several months, but the story was the same. They still wanted to return to Malaudh.
In November 1984, my youngest sister, Sita, informed me that my father was not doing well. He was having heart problems and was in Ludhiana with her. Disheartened by the news, I told Sita I would come right away, feeling that I should be with my father while he was sick.
My driver and I left first thing in the morning. It normally took six hours to drive the two hundred miles from Delhi to Ludhiana because of the many different types of traffic on the road—bullock carts, tractors, bicycles, water buffalo, cows, and goats all traveled on the same single lane road. Plus we faced congestion in all the small towns and cities we passed through on the way. No one followed any traffic rules.
We started driving at 5:00 a.m. We had barely left the city when my driver got stuck behind a small herd of water buffalo meandering in front of us. Why don’t I drive? I thought. I will be able to drive faster and better than my driver, and we will reach Ludhiana in five hours rather than six.
“Why don’t I drive, Keshyp?” I said. “We will get there faster.”
My driver just shrugged his shoulders. “If you say so, Bedi Saheb,” he said, stopping the car and getting out.
A thick fog blanketed the early morning air, so one could see no more than thirty yards ahead. Once in the driver’s seat, I maneuvered around the water buffalo and began driving fifty-five miles per hour. After covering seventy miles in an hour and a half, a tractor trolley sitting in the middle of the road suddenly appeared out of the fog. I thought to go around the trolley, but another car was coming in my direction. Holding the steering wheel tightly, I slammed on the brakes, but I had been driving fast and did not see the trolley soon enough. The car skidded and crashed into the back of the trolley. My driver flew forward, hitting his head on the dashboard. I hit my chin on the steering wheel and felt a sharp pain from the ring of the wheel cutting my chin.
Thinking the car might catch on fire, I stumbled out, hurried to the passenger side, and pulled my driver out by the shoulders.
“Keshyp, are you okay?” I asked.
He rubbed his forehead for a moment and looked at me. “Yes, I think so.”
The front of the car was smashed up, the hood had popped open, and the radiator was spewing water on the road. The car behind us honked, and as traffic backed up, several people yelled at us from their windows. I opened the passenger door on the driver’s side and took out my shoulder bag, which held my .22 caliber revolver. While it made me feel more secure, owning a handgun was also a status symbol in India.
Keshyp and I stood on the side of the road. I could feel blood dripping from my chin, and I pressed the front of my shirt against the wound to stop the blood flow. No one stopped to help us or to see if we were injured. I stuck my thumb out, trying to hitchhike as it was done in the States. No one hitchhiked in India, but I thought I’d give it a try. The cars and buses simply passed, seeing we obviously got in an accident with the trolley. While disheartening, it came as no surprise. People simply sped around our car and the trolley, and the traffic pandemonium continued on as before.
I was shaken up, my adrenaline still rushing as I realized we might both be dead if I hadn’t hit the brakes hard enough. I kicked myself for making the decision to move to India. Nothing seemed to be working out, and here I was bleeding on the side of the road. In the US, I thought, the ambulance, police, and first responders would quickly arrive at the scene to help us. I told myself that as soon as I recovered from this accident, we would return to the States. Another thought crossed my mind: Here I am trying to be with my parents in their old age, yet where would my own family be if I died just now? These thoughts circled in my mind until a car slowed to a stop several feet from us.
“We need a ride to Naraina,” I told the person sitting in the back, who appeared to be the owner of the car. He nodded and gestured for us to get in. Naraina was where Satish and his family lived. It was about sixty-five miles on the way to New Delhi. We arrived at around 8:30 a.m., and with my hand still covering my chin, I told the servant, “Go tell Saheb I’m here and I’m hurt.”
The servant returned several moments later. “They are sleeping,” he informed me.
“Wake them up,” I said, feeling exasperated.
A moment later, Sat
ish came out. “Bedi Saheb, what happened?” he exclaimed, a worried expression on his face. He frowned at the sight of my bloody chin.
After I explained, Satish called Raj right away to tell her what happened and to let her know I was okay. Raj was concerned, and so Satish’s driver drove Keshyp and me home. As soon as we arrived, Raj ran downstairs to see how I was. “Kris, your chin!” she exclaimed, worry in her eyes. Hearing the commotion, the boys ran into the room, and their mouths dropped open when they saw my blood-stained shirt and the deep gash on my chin. Raj hurried to the phone and called Usha, telling her to come immediately.
“This may require stitches,” Usha remarked when she examined my chin. “Let’s find a small private nursing home to admit you. They are usually like mini hospitals with only fifteen to twenty beds. You will receive good care compared to a public hospital.”
After checking into a private nursing home, we were told I could have either a general surgeon do the stitching or, if I preferred, I could get a plastic surgeon who would do a neater job. Since it was my face we were talking about, I decided to go with the plastic surgeon. I waited several hours for him to arrive, and after he performed the surgery, he came out to talk to Raj, Usha, and Satish.
“Krishan will have a small lump right under his lip,” he told them. “This is because I had to stretch his skin in that area.”
“It doesn’t matter what he looks like now,” Raj remarked. “I am already married to him.”
I stayed at the nursing home for three days, and during that time, I would joke with the manager, asking if I could have a beer. He told me he would check with my doctor, but of course the doctor always said no. The manager promised he would present me with a six pack when it was time for me to go, and he did. My family looked amazed when I came out of the nursing home carrying a six pack of beer. It became a joke that when that facility discharged you, they threw in a little something extra. They also joked about my chin roll, saying, “Don’t worry, you’re looking okay, so Raj isn’t going to leave you.”
Engineering a Life Page 27