by Susan Mann
“My mother, my brother, who the army thankfully left alone because he was only twelve years old, and I joined a large group of women and children who sat in the hot sun and sweltering heat on the parikrama. We had no food or water. Some of the youngest and oldest did not survive.
“We were given permission to leave the complex the evening of the sixth. We walked to a local gurdwara. We lived like refugees. The only clothes we had were those we wore that day.
“About a week later, we were finally able to return to our home. We were shocked and saddened to learn the library had been burned.”
Mrs. Kaur scowled. Her voice was sharp as she continued.
“The army said it had caught fire when it was first invaded,” Harbir said on behalf of her mother. “We knew that was not true. We would have seen the smoke and fire. It had been purposefully set some days later. For many years we believed the precious saroops of the Guru Granth Sahib, some handwritten by the gurus themselves, had been lost. There was a special and rare one with an inscription and the signature written in the hand of Guru Gobind Singh Ji himself. It was beautiful. Its pages were decorated with gold.”
“An illuminated manuscript,” Quinn said.
Harbir smiled. “Yes. My father allowed me to see it once. I was sure it was filled with magic because of the way it glowed.”
“I’ve seen manuscripts like that, too,” Quinn said, returning her smile. “Losing all of those irreplaceable manuscripts and books must have been devastating.”
“Yes. These many years later, we know the army took the books out before they set fire to the library.”
“Really? What makes you so sure?”
“The words of the librarian who inspected it soon after it burned. He said the bookcases had been burnt and there was ash from old newspapers. But there were no remnants of charred book covers or spines on the shelves. There was nothing on the shelves when the library was set on fire. Years later, a number of files that had been inside the library were returned. How is that possible if everything burned?”
That was exactly the same conclusion the agency had arrived at.
“The Sikh community has asked the central government to return our treasures for many years. Still we wait,” Harbir said. The resigned sag of her shoulders made it clear Harbir didn’t really think it would ever happen.
Quinn’s charge to find the stolen books now seemed even more daunting than before. “And now you’re a librarian here. That’s remarkable.”
“Yes. I have a deep love for this library. It helps me stay connected to my beloved father. It saddens me that my own daughters will never know their grandfather.”
“How old are they?”
“They are eleven and thirteen.” Her smile was one of a proud mother. “They are wonderful girls.”
“I’m sure they are. They’re lucky to have two very remarkable and resilient women in their lives.”
Harbir tipped her head down, as if embarrassed by Quinn’s comment. Mrs. Kaur had a similar reaction after Harbir told her Quinn’s words.
Quinn wondered if there was more intel to gain from Harbir, but the conversation seemed to have come to a natural end. To try to pump for more information at that moment felt wrong. Not wanting to completely close the door, Quinn said, “Thank you for speaking with me today. Your stories are incredibly moving. I am so privileged you told them to me. Would it be okay if I came back with my husband in the next few days? I’d like for him to meet you and show him the library.”
“Certainly,” Harbir said. “Is he a librarian, too?”
“No, but he has a fondness for them,” Quinn said with a smile. “We met in a library.”
The dark pall of past sorrows lifted when Harbir smiled and conveyed Quinn’s words to her mother. The older woman’s face lit up and she spoke directly to Quinn.
“She has asked you to come eat with us at the langar. She wants to hear the story of how you met your husband.”
“The langar?”
“It is a communal kitchen within every gurdwara where food is served to all, Sikhs and non-Sikhs, for free. Sikhism teaches that all people regardless of color, religion, gender, age, or caste are equal, and that we must share what we have with others. Our langar here serves thousands every day.”
“It would be my honor to have lunch with you. Do you mind if I text my husband and let him know what I’m doing? I don’t want him to worry.”
“Of course.”
Quinn scrambled to her feet and walked a few paces away, leaving Mrs. Kaur and Harbir to chat under the tree. She sent James a text, informing him she was fine and about to have lunch. She assumed he was in a meeting, so it surprised her when her phone rang.
“Hey. Glad everything is okay,” James said.
“It is. This place is amazing. I met these two incredible women who lived through Operation Blue Star. I can’t wait to tell you about them.”
“I can’t wait to hear. I also called to give you a heads-up. The big boss wants to meet you. We’re having dinner with him tonight.”
“Let me guess. Judge the man by the company he keeps, specifically his wife?”
“Something like that, yeah.”
“Got it. I’ll try to keep the dancing on the tabletop to a minimum.”
“That’d be appreciated,” he said without missing a beat. “And walking two steps behind me wouldn’t be a bad idea, either.”
She snorted. “Yeah, like that’s gonna happen.”
“Fine,” he said with a sigh. “You can’t blame a guy for trying. Let me know when you get back to the hotel, okay?”
“Okay.”
“I love you.”
Her insides turned to goo every time he said those three words to her. “I love you, too. Bye.”
Quinn touched the screen and turned toward her lunch companions. The dopey smile brought on by his words was still plastered on her face.
Mrs. Kaur chuckled and spoke directly to Quinn as she walked toward them.
“My mother says, ‘You have the face of a happily married woman.’”
She might not have been married for real, but she was happy for real. Gazing into those wise, old eyes, Quinn said, “Tell her she’s absolutely right.”
Chapter Fifteen
“Are you sure I’m dressed okay?” Quinn asked James as they rode the hotel elevator to the first floor. She glanced down at her cream-colored linen slacks and fingered the hem of her turquoise silk top. “Not too casual?”
“No, you look great.”
“I feel like a 1950s wife hoping she doesn’t screw up her husband’s chance at landing that big account.”
A wicked gleam flickered in James’s eyes. “Just smile, look pretty, and leave the rest to me.”
Her mouth flew open in surprise and she playfully slapped his arm. “I can’t believe you just said that. If I didn’t know you were kidding, I’d whack you harder.”
“Who says I’m kidding?”
“The goofy smirk on your face kind of gives it away.”
“I can’t get anything past you.” He looked over at her with an admiring smile. “And don’t worry. Just be yourself and you’ll impress. Besides, this isn’t about business. This is about intel.”
“Right,” she said. “Intel.”
The elevator bounced to a stop and the doors slid open. They headed for the entrance to the Chinese restaurant where they would be dining with Ravi and his boss, Mr. Karnail Singh Sandhu. One of the perks of James and Quinn staying at one of the nicer hotels in Amritsar was that it was home to several high-end restaurants. Mr. Sandhu was more than happy to meet them there for dinner when he learned where they were staying.
Ravi was already waiting when James and Quinn arrived. As they chatted, Quinn noticed Ravi’s accent had changed. Gone were the inflections of the California dude she and James had dined with the night before. His speech now reminded Quinn of the way Kavita Sharma spoke.
Ten minutes later, the big boss arrived. He greeted each in tu
rn, shaking first James’s hand and then Ravi’s. He turned to Quinn, who launched a full charm offensive. She pressed her hands together, dipped her head, and said, “Sat Sri Akal.”
A wide grin of approval erupted on Mr. Sandhu’s face. He likewise returned her greeting and added, “I am extremely pleased to meet you, Mrs. Riordan.”
“It’s nice to meet you, too.”
She peeked over at James. He beamed at her.
A little younger than Quinn’s father, Mr. Sandhu was the same height as Ravi and solid, like he was well acquainted with physical labor. Quinn noted his beard was trimmed, unlike the long, flowing ones worn by many men at the Golden Temple. The way the tips of his mustache curled upward in a subtle handlebar was quite dashing. Dressed in black trousers, a crisp white dress shirt, and black turban, he exuded an air of affluence. Like all Sikhs, he wore a steel bracelet around his wrist.
They entered the restaurant and made their way to their table. It was slow going, though, since Mr. Sandhu stopped four different times to enthusiastically greet fellow diners and introduce James and Quinn as “important business associates from America.” All were duly impressed.
As Quinn stood by and watched the man with the big smile and even bigger personality glad-hand, she saw for herself why Ravi had been inserted into Mr. Sandhu’s orbit. The man knew everyone in Amritsar and everything that went on in that part of Punjab.
Once seated, Mr. Sandhu said, “It is a pity my wife could not join us this evening. Our son, Gopal, is marrying this weekend. Baldeep is busy with the final details. I am sure you understand how it is in the last few days before a wedding.” His voice had a warm, rich baritone quality, which only added to his amiability.
Quinn assumed he was referring to her and James’s fictitious wedding. She couldn’t speak as a real bride, but she had been closely involved with enough weddings to answer with a truthful, “Yes, I know exactly what that’s like. As the time until the wedding day decreases, the number of things to be taken care of increases.”
“Indeed,” Mr. Sandhu said. “There are a number of rituals that occur in the days leading up to a Sikh wedding, as well as after. It is a very busy time.”
The conversation was put on hold when their server arrived. “If it is agreeable to everyone, I will order several dishes I know to be excellent here. We can eat as a family.” When his dining companions agreed—and in that situation, dissent wasn’t really an option anyway—he ordered half a dozen dishes. Quinn recognized a couple of the things he ordered and silently prayed that none of the others would contain goat eyeballs or anything that could be classified as entrails.
“Congratulations on the marriage of your son,” James said once the server left.
“Thank you. We are very pleased. She is a lovely girl who comes from an excellent family.” He looked to Ravi and said, “Your wedding is in the near future, is it not?”
Quinn tried to maintain a poker face in her confusion.
“I regret to say it has been called off,” Ravi answered.
“I am sorry to hear this,” Mr. Sandhu said. “The distance between you here in Amritsar and her in Delhi was too difficult to overcome?”
“It was,” Ravi replied without elaboration.
“When you are ready, my boy, remember what I have told you before. I have plenty of Hindu friends with daughters I would be happy to introduce you to.”
And there it was. Quinn’s confusion vanished. Ravi had invented a fiancée in Delhi to deflect his boss. It probably wasn’t a coincidence that the breakup with his real girlfriend in California coincided with his ersatz engagement coming to an end. She fought the image trying to press into her mind of James one day having a similar conversation with a boss. The only difference would be they’d be speaking Russian. The thought made her queasy.
“Thank you, sir,” Ravi said.
Mr. Sandhu must have realized it was time to change the subject. He turned to Quinn. “James tells me you are a librarian.”
She pushed aside the negative thoughts of what might be and focused on the here and now. “I am.”
“Do you read many books?”
Quinn smiled. That was a question she got asked a lot. “As a matter of fact I do, for both business and pleasure.”
“Excellent! You are just the person I want to talk to. I would like to find a new author to read. Do you have any suggestions?”
“I’m afraid my background in Punjabi fiction is lacking, but if you’re interested in English, I’m sure I can come up with a few authors you can try. What kind of stories do you like?”
For the next few minutes, she conducted an impromptu reference interview. She asked who his favorite authors were and tossed out some names who wrote in the same genre. When they had settled on a handful of writers who seemed to pique his interest, Quinn took a pen from her purse and wrote the list on the back of one of her business cards. “Let me know what you think of these once you’ve read them. I can give you more suggestions based on who you did and didn’t like.”
Mr. Sandhu held the business card between his fingers and gazed at it like a treasured possession. “I feel as if I have my own personal librarian.”
“It’s pretty great, isn’t it?” James said.
“You are a lucky man, James Riordan, to have such an intelligent and beautiful wife.”
“I know. I’m very lucky.” James’s voice brimmed with pride.
Score one for the 1950s wife, Quinn thought with a small smile.
Mr. Sandhu’s demeanor changed when he frowned and crossed his arms over his chest. “As a librarian, I am sure you have heard about the nasty business that took place at your national library.”
“We did,” Quinn said. “Isn’t it shocking? I’m glad the library itself wasn’t damaged, but the ambassador and the manuscripts disappearing has to be really distressing to people here.”
“It is. I and many like me are very angry at such a reckless thing. The rash actions of a few Sikh terrorists have once again put all Sikhs under suspicion. It becomes very dangerous for us. Much of the world believes we are terrorists. We are not.”
“What makes you think terrorists are behind it?” James asked. “Has anyone claimed responsibility or made demands?”
“I am not aware of any. However, it is the only thing that makes sense.”
“How so?”
Mr. Sandhu stopped and shook his head. “We are here to have an enjoyable meal together. I do not wish to discuss such unpleasantries.”
“Of course,” James said. Quinn tried to read James’s face, to see if he was as disappointed as she that Mr. Sandhu had just shut down a promising opening for more conversation. He didn’t seem bothered in the slightest. He must have been confident the topic would come up again. “Quinn made a visit to the Golden Temple today, didn’t you, honey?”
“I did.”
Mr. Sandhu’s arms uncrossed and his dour expression vanished. “Smashing! Tell me, what did you think of it?”
“It was an incredible experience. I just sat there on the parikrama for a while, staring at the Harmandir Sahib. I loved how it seemed to float in the middle of the sarovar. And of course the hymns from the Guru Granth Sahib sung by the granthi only added to the tranquility of it all.”
Mr. Sandhu gawped at her. From across the table, Ravi stared at her, equally stunned. James, on the other hand, picked up his glass and took a sip of his drink. She knew he was covering the smile she glimpsed on his lips.
Finding his voice again, Mr. Sandhu said, “It seems you have learned quite a bit today.”
“I did, especially from three wonderful women I met,” Quinn said with an enthusiastic nod. “A university student I met explained to me why Sikh men have Singh in their name and women have the name Kaur.”
Amusement sparkled in Mr. Sandhu’s dark eyes. “And what did she tell you?”
“She said that from the start, Sikhism taught equality and rejected the caste system. Hindu last names can indicate caste, so to
make everyone equal, the tenth guru said all Sikhs should adopt or at least include the same name: Singh, meaning ‘lion,’ or Kaur, which is ‘princess.’”
“It was explained to you very well,” Mr. Sandhu said.
“Why don’t you tell him about the mother and daughter you met today,” James said with a subtle dip of his chin.
And there it was. He’d just steered them back on topic.
“Oh, yeah.” She shot him a nearly imperceptible wink. “A lovely woman named Rupinder Kaur and her daughter Harbir told me their incredible story of perseverance and heartbreak during Operation Blue Star.” Keeping her voice light and conversational, she said, “I was completely enthralled. The sad thing is, a lot of Americans know next to nothing about Operation Blue Star.” She shrugged. “Or Sikhs, for that matter. I know a number of Sikh men were attacked and beaten in the United States after 9/11 simply because they had beards and wore turbans.”
“Much like what happened here in the aftermath of Operation Blue Star, only much worse,” Mr. Sandhu said. “Terrible retribution fell upon us Sikhs.”
“I don’t understand why, though. You were the ones who had your sacred shrine invaded by an army.” Quinn clamped her hand over her mouth. “I’m sorry. You said you wanted to have a pleasant dinner, and I made us swerve into the subject again.”
“No. Do not apologize. Perhaps you will better understand why there are those of us who are unhappy to see what those soldiers did at your library once you hear more of the story of 1984. After Operation Blue Star, most Sikhs were angry with Mrs. Gandhi for desecrating the Harmandir Sahib.”
“That seems like a perfectly understandable response,” James said.
“In an act of revenge, two of Mrs. Gandhi’s Sikh bodyguards gunned her down outside her house in Delhi in October of 1984.”
“Oh boy,” Quinn breathed.
“Indeed. When the news of Mrs. Gandhi’s assassination was broadcast, retaliation was swift and brutal. Anti-Sikh rioting broke out that night near the hospital where she was taken. The next day, lawless Hindu hooligans forced their way into homes in several Sikh neighborhoods in Delhi. They dragged the men out into the streets, doused them with petrol, and set them on fire. Women were killed or defiled. Homes were burned. They pulled Sikhs from buses and trains and murdered them.” Mr. Sandhu’s shoulders sagged under the weight of his sorrow.