The Red Sari: A Novel

by Javier Moro

  “Can the army assault the temple without causing too much damage?” Indira asked the head of the army, General Sundarji, who had replaced her old friend Sam Manekshaw.

  The general spread out over the table some aerial photos taken the day before showing that all the windows, doors and other openings of the building were protected by sacks of earth or had been walled up. He explained that the terrorists managed to supply themselves with weapons, food and ammunition through a labyrinth of tunnels that linked them to the outside. That way they could go on forever. “The chances of causing extensive damage are very high,” the general stated. Aware that religious sensitivity in the country with the most religions in the world could make the fragile balance in the nation explode like a powder keg, the fathers of independence had set up a tacit agreement on holy places in accordance with which they were all untouchable. Brindanwale had entrenched himself behind that agreement, certain that the army would never dare to intervene. Opposite him he had a tired, fearful woman, wounded deep in her soul, worn out by power and lacking in the self-assurance and passion of a fighter which had made her victorious in the Bangladesh conflict.

  Feeling she was hostage to some terrorists who did not leave even the narrowest margin for negotiation made her despair. With growing unease, Indira realized that the only solution to this defiance was the use of force. The situation reminded her of the Bangladesh crisis, when she also knew she would have to declare war in the end. Only then there was no internal religious problem at all. The enemy was abroad and the consequences could be weighed up better. Now they were unforeseeable. When her friend Pupul, seeing her so depressed, asked her if it was not all too much for her, at first Indira did not reply, but then she said, “I have no way out. It’s my responsibility.

  32

  In 1983, a year after Rahul had joined Doon School, it was Priyanka’s turn to go to Welham School, the boarding school that was the girls’ equivalent of her brother’s school. It was also in the mountains, some two hundred kilometres from Delhi. Suddenly, Sonia found that she had more free time than ever before, but she was still not able to spend it on herself. She had to accompany her husband to Amethi, his electoral constituency. Now that she was the legal age, Maneka had decided to take his seat away from him in the following elections in the constituency that had been her husband’s. The fact that she had disappeared from the house did not mean that his sister-in- law had vanished from the horizon. In her tours of the area, she presented herself as the poor widow thrown out of the house with her baby in her arms, and forced to find a way to live by her evil brother-in-law and his foreign wife. It was not true, but it sounded like those simple, domestic tales of family injustice and envy that the people liked so much. She was presented by her people in Amethi as “a triumph of courage”. Now that she did not fear a personal confrontation with Indira, her behaviour became even more aggressive. She put into circulation letters from the family that were critical of Rajiv, and in one speech, Maneka compared Indira to the goddess Kali, “the drinker of blood”—she said literally—elevating the usual bad relations between a mother-in-law and her daughter-in-law into a frenzy. In this way she took revenge for being excluded from all official commemorations. On the second anniversary of Sanjay’s death, she was not invited either, and she reacted by calling a rally for widows and organizing the free distribution of clothing. Maneka’s defiance was as depressing or more for the Prime Minister than the much more dangerous defiance of crazy Brindanwale. And it hurt more because it affected the intimate fibre of the family.

  “Your mother is also coming to Amethi with me,” Rajiv wrote to his son. “It’s going to be difficult for her, because at first everyone will be looking at her and she will feel uncomfortable until she gets used to it. She’s very brave.” For the first time, Sonia realized what the life of an Indian politician on campaign was like. Travelling endless kilometres on roads filled with potholes in cars with very poor suspension, putting up with the heat, the dust, the flies in the numerous villages, being forced to accept a cup of tea, and then another, and then another in order not to hurt people’s feelings… The good thing is that now she spoke Hindi fluently and could chat to the peasants, who asked after her children, her mother-in-law and anything that had to do with the turbulent history of 371 the family. “Will Indira be able to see her grandson again?” the women asked, or “Is it true that Maneka doesn’t even have enough money for food?” What the peasants were not very convinced about was that Maneka was the real heir to the Nehru-Gandhi dynasty, as was shown in the results in the polls. Once again, Rajiv won.

  At the beginning of 1984, Rajiv appeared to be a politician on the up and up. His management of the Games, together with the efficiency he showed in his position as General Secretary of the Congress Party, gained him some real respect, independently of his political lineage. His office was a model of good organization, a little corner created in his image. Compared to the old dinosaurs in the party, mostly corrupt sycophants, Rajiv was a model of virtue, especially regarding efficiency and integrity. He had broken with the shady figures who had swarmed around his brother, and he had surrounded himself with technocrats, young men with briefcases and executive suits, examples of a modern generation that believed in technology, statistics and computers. Many of them had been classmates of his at Doon School, others at Cambridge, and they were all more at ease speaking English than Hindi. They lived in the present; they were not intellectuals but pragmatists and they were totally indifferent to anything that had to do with religion, ideology or superstition. Both they and Rajiv were opposed to Indira’s passive attitude to the Punjab affair. The Prime Minister, following the advice of her guru, Dhirendra Brahmachari, had begun making offerings in the hope that a miracle might solve the crisis in the Golden Temple.

  “He has to be got away from the house once and for all,” Rajiv told Sonia, talking about the guru.

  Indira did not need any more doses of esotericism or more fears added to the dark thoughts that filled her mind. On the contrary, she needed to have a very cool head and clear vision. She was still deeply depressed. Too many challenges, too much tiredness. Sanjay had cultivated a friendship with the guru, not because he believed in his occult powers but because he was useful to him. The “flying saint” had managed to buy light planes, deal in arms, hire killers and launder money, and those were skills that Sanjay admired and used if he thought necessary. Rajiv, direct and honest, was the antithesis of his brother and of the holy man, a shrewd, vague, astute, dishonest and completely non- Westernized individual. Sonia and Rajiv could not stand him any longer.

  “What can we do?”

  “I’m going to try to get his weekly TV programme cancelled and cut off the grants to his ashrams.”

  As his stature as a politician and his influence had grown, he managed it. In order not to hurt Indira, Sonia and the advisors closest to her husband extolled Rajiv’s achievements, and Indira was finally convinced that her son’s strategic plans were the only way to solve the evils of India. Little by little, she began to forget the guru’s mysticism and stopped making offerings to the gods to ward off the Punjab crisis. To Sonia’s great relief, the guru completely disappeared from the family table. Almost imperceptibly, Dhirendra Brahmachari saw his access to the Prime Minister denied. “I’m sorry, Madam does not have the time to see you,” the servants said when he tried to come back to see her.

  The month of February that year was the only one in her entire life that Indira did not enjoy the spring, her favourite season. During that month, the city fills with colour, the green of the leaves on the trees becomes intense, and the beds full of flowers brighten up the gardens. The temperature is wonderful and a gentle breeze blows at night. In the past, in spite of all the difficulties and problems, Indira had always felt euphoric at this time of year. Not now. She was isolated and sad, and the Sikh holy man firmly entrenched in the Golden Temple stole her sleep from her. She listened to everyone and still did not know what to do. In
situations with no solution, all that was to be done was to gain time, wait and stay confident, Indira repeated to her close collaborators.

  Following Rajiv’s advice, Indira made a last attempt to find a negotiated way out of the crisis in the Punjab, agreeing to many of the pro-independence campaigners’ demands, but she came up against the intransigence of the members of the moderate party and Brindanwale himself. Most of the seven million Sikhs were as disconcerted by the situation caused by the extremists as the government. Instead of negotiating, the leader of the moderate party took the final step that sealed the split, a step that could only lead to catastrophe. He announced that from June 3rd, the anniversary of the martyrdom of guru Arjun, the man who had built the Golden Temple, all exports of electric energy and grain from the Punjab would be halted. The irony of the threat could not escape Indira. If the Punjab was the granary of India, it was because the region had benefitted more than any other from the “green revolution”, the ambitious plan for agricultural development that first Nehru, and then she, had launched to put an end to the famines. And now it turned out that a handful of fanatics were not only threatening to break up the State, but also to starve the poor in the rest of India, if the central government did not bow to their demands. The situation had come to the point of no return. Much to her regret, Indira was facing the inevitable: getting Brindanwale and his followers out of the temple by force.

  First of all, before even consulting the Chief of Staff, she wanted to talk to Sonia: “Sonia, I think it’s best to take the children out of school… I’m afraid for them. The Intelligence Agency has warned me that they are a terrorist target. Nothing new there. We’re all the targets of those fanatics. But as the situation in the Punjab is still deteriorating, it’s getting harder and harder to guarantee their safety in school. They’ve advised me to take them out of the boarding schools and bring them to Delhi.”

  “But you only have one armed guard here to protect you when you go out in the mornings to talk to people in the garden!”

  “That’s coming to an end. They’re going to reinforce security here too, of course.”

  “OK, I’ll bring them home tomorrow. We’ll see how we get organized to educate them here…”

  One of Indira’s secretaries interrupted them. The Commander-in-Chief of the army was waiting for her in the sitting room. The man had come with his intelligence reports under his arm.

  “Madam, they are armed to the teeth. The terrorists entrenched there are still getting hold of very sophisticated weapons. They arrive there hidden in containers of milk and sacks of grain, and they are sent using money from Sikh sympathizers abroad.”

  Indira sat thinking. Was there any sense in going on waiting for a miracle? Then she turned to her Chief of Staff and asked him, “How should we proceed with the attack?”

  The man puffed. He was uncomfortable. He found it hard to believe in the success of the mission.

  “There are many risks, Madam. It is my duty to warn you. My opinion is that it’s best to launch a fast, massive attack, with all the necessary force…”

  “Better than besieging them?” Indira interrupted.

  “They are already surrounded, Madam, and the weapons still keep coming in. I trust more in a fast, crushing attack.”

  “How much time are we talking about?”

  “About forty-eight hours. The shorter it is, the fewer casualties there will be.”

  “It is essential to have Sikh officers and soldiers present in the attack force. This must not be interpreted as an ethnic aggression, of Hindus against Sikhs.”

  “No doubt about it. The officer in charge is Commander Kuldip Singh, from the Ninth Division of the Army, a Sikh.”

  “Very precise instructions have to be given to avoid damage to the Golden Temple. The Sikh community would never forgive us.”

  “We’ll instruct the troops. But those terrorists are hard to deal with, Madam. I can’t guarantee anything.”

  “May God help us.”

  On May 30th, a suffocatingly hot day, troops surrounded the city of Amritsar. The hustle and bustle in the streets vanished like magic. Shrouded in terrifying silence, the holy city became a ghost city.

  On June 2nd the media announced that Indira would speak to the nation that night, at eight thirty. Sonia had breakfast with her, and noticed that she was upset, pessimistic and still undecided. She did not like at all the idea of attacking “a house of God”. She told her that her speech was not working out well. In fact she was making so many last- minute changes that her appearance on television had to be delayed until nine fifteen. Finally she spoke, in a serious tone, with an anguished expression on her face. “This is not a time for anger,” she said. “The unity and integrity of our land are being questioned by a handful of men who have taken refuge in holy places. Once again I call for the moderate parties not to hand over their authority to Brindanwale.” She ended by appealing to the common sense of all the inhabitants of the Punjab. “Do not shed blood, shake off your hatred. Let us join together to heal the wounds.” On hearing that speech, her friend Pupul realized that the coming days were going to be tragic for Indira and the country. In effect, while the Prime Minister was speaking, army troops were taking up positions around the grounds of the Golden Temple. Operation Blue Star was about to begin.

  The next day, foreign correspondents were invited to leave the Punjab. The traffic of buses, trains and planes was cut off, as well as the phone and telex lines. The region was isolated from the rest of the world in preparation for the final assault. From his sanctuary in the Akal Takht, the building next to the Golden Temple, Brindanwale held out, now with a cartridge belt across his chest over his blue gown, a pistol in his left hand and his sable in his right hand. He declared to a handful of local reporters, “If the authorities come into this temple, we are going to give them such a lesson that Indira’s throne will fall down. We’ll cut them to pieces… let them come!”

  At four in the afternoon on June 5th, army officers with megaphones gave orders for all civilians to vacate the area, and for the terrorists to give themselves up. 126 Sikhs came out, mostly men who had gone there to pray and pilgrims, but none of Brindanwale’s followers did so. At night, an advance party of special commandos went into the complex, while helicopters flew in circles over the temple. They met with fierce resistance. Over half of the ninety members of the commandos were killed by extremist fire.

  The Chief of Staff immediately informed the Prime Minister of the losses. The assault could not have had a more discouraging start. But it was not possible to go back now. The die was cast. Indira did not sleep all night, aware that a sacrilege was being committed against the most venerated symbols of a religion. Why had destiny placed her in this pass? What price would have to be paid for what the troops were doing? She felt a shiver run down her spine. One thing she was certain of, and that was that neither she nor her government would come out of that situation unharmed. Karma always gets you in the end. But at eight o’clock in the morning of June 6th, perfectly dressed and made up, she was in the garden talking to a reporter from the Sunday Times. The temperature was already touching 40 degrees. The reporter found her tense and tired. His last question was: “What do you think will happen in India when you are no longer Prime Minister, Ma’am?”

  “India has lived for a long time, a very long time—thousands of years—and my 66 don’t count for much. India has gone through many vicissitudes in its long history and it has always managed to move forwards.”

  While the interview was taking place, one thousand five hundred kilometres north of New Delhi, the battle for the Golden Temple was raging. In infernally high temperatures and in the blazing sun that made the gilded dome of the main temple gleam, Indian soldiers were being shot down like ducks in a fairground by the bullets of Brindanwale’s men. Once again, over a hundred men fell in the attempt to take the building where the terrorists were dug in.

  The instructions received for the soldiers to limit the use of
force as much as possible, and to inflict the least possible damage on the main temple, now lacked any meaning. The Commander, who could see no other solution than to carry on with the assault, sent in the artillery in the afternoon, supported by tanks and armour-plated vehicles. In order to neutralize Brindanwale and his men, they had no option but to bombard the Akal Takht. They inflicted enormous damage on the temple, built paradoxically by the fifth guru, a real apostle of peace, who had insisted on building it on a lower level than the other buildings as a sign of humility.

  After a day of heavy fighting, the Akal Takht was almost completely razed to the ground. Late on the night of June 6th, when the generals went to inspect the place, there was not a single column left standing and the marble walls were blackened and pitted with machine gun fire. In the basement they found the body of Brindanwale. His robe was no longer blue, but black with blood. He was lying there with thirty-one of his men. There were no survivors who would be witnesses to the martyrdom of the terrorist preacher. In another room, the soldiers found some surprising documents: the list of all the victims that Brindanwale had ordered killed, and a huge bag with letters of admiration, not just from Indian citizens but from fans all over the world.

  The cost of victory was much higher than the Commander-in-Chief of the army had forecast. Much higher than Indira and Rajiv, who were horrified, had imagined. Operation Blue Star was really a disaster. More than half the one thousand soldiers sent for the assault perished. As for civilians, a thousand pilgrims who could not be evacuated died. Apart from the human losses, the library of the main temple, the one that was not to be damaged under any circumstances and which held the original manuscripts of the Sikh gurus, burned to the ground. For the Sikh community in general, that attack was comparable to what the invasion and destruction of the Vatican would be for Catholics. Unforgiveable sacrilege. Exactly what Indira had wanted to avoid.