by Sonu Bhasin
Rajkumar, a non-Sikh, told his boss to stay indoors. Kuldip would not listen. He wanted to be at the gate with his gun ready. ‘Aan de unaanoo. Samajhte kya hain? Main dardaa hoon kya? Aan do b**** ko, main bhi maar sakna [Let them come. Who do they think they are? Am I afraid? Let those b**** come. I can also kill],’ said Kuldip, shaking with emotion.
Rajkumar, a soft-spoken man, managed to cut through the emotional mist and reach the rational core of his boss. He calmed Kuldip down, and his boss agreed to stay indoors. He had the safety in the knowledge that he had his revolver and bullets. One of the Dhingras’ cooks and Rajkumar went outside.
By now they could hear the noise of the mob. The black smoke, which so far had been on the horizon, was now a few metres away.
The mobs were burning houses of Sikhs in New Friends Colony. One of the houses burnt was that of Kuldip’s cousin’s. Rajkumar and the cook went outside the bungalow, closed the gate and stood nonchalantly, leaning against the wall. ‘We acted as if we were just watching the mob and the goings on but we were really standing in front of the name plate,’ said Rajkumar. Kuldip Singh Dhingra’s name on the gate was like a red flag. Rajkumar and the cook pretended to be deep in conversation. The mob came up to the Dhingra home and saw the two men leaning against the wall. One of the two men broke his conversation and turned to look at the mob. He gesticulated as if telling the mob that he had seen some other members of the mob go ahead. The mob hovered for a while and then moved on.
‘We had been very tense till then. As the mob moved ahead, we heaved a sigh but waited for the entire street to be clear of the mob,’ said Rajkumar. Only when they were certain that no one would come back did the two go inside.
‘I don’t know if they knew that I was armed and was prepared to shoot anyone who would even step inside the gate,’ wondered Kuldip, ‘but Rajkumar at the gate certainly helped.’ The two Dhingra houses and the house of Jaspal Sawhney were among the handful in Friends Colony that escaped the wrath of the mob.
Kuldip continued to look at me piercingly. He was back in the present and was seeing me. The reel had played out.
‘Were you not scared at all,’ I asked gently, afraid to break the solemnity of the moment. The eyes were still intense but there was fatigue in his voice as if he had physically relived those hours.
‘It was my duty to protect my family and my home. How could I be scared?’ he said. ‘How could I show my back to the mob and run away like a scared animal? I would never, ever do that. Come what may, I will fight back. Always.’
1957–61
‘My father loved his family and would take us all on holidays. Here you can see (from left to right) me, my elder brother, Sohan Singh, my father, mother and, in front, my younger brother, Gurbachan, who is hiding his face, and my sister, Ashi’—Kuldip Dhingra.
Two
‘Your Father Is Dead’
The sense of duty came early to Kuldip.
‘It was October 1957, and I was called back home from school. When I got home I saw a crowd of people outside the gate. Most of them were my relatives. My cousin was also there. She looked at me and said point-blank, “Your father is dead. Go inside and you will know,”’ said Kuldip. ‘I was shocked,’ he added.
Kuldip was dressed in a crisp white shirt and beige chinos. His phone was on the table; next to it was a remote bell. He pressed the bell and a bearer responded. Kuldip nodded to the bearer to wait and turned to me.
‘What will you have?’ Kuldip asked, reeling off the options—fresh tea, coffee, mosambi juice, keenu juice, tender coconut water, orange juice, nimbu paani or lassi.
I was spoiled for choice. I settled for fresh keenu juice and he for hot coffee. ‘Yeh keenu apne farm se aaye hain. [The keenus are from our own farm.] You will like the juice,’ he said proudly.
The bearer retreated silently to bring the refreshments. While we waited for our beverages, we went back into time once more.
Kuldip had studied at King George’s Royal Indian Military College in Ajmer. ‘My father was very clear that one of his sons had to join the army,’ said Kuldip. That October morning Kuldip was called by the headmaster and told that he had to go back home. He was excited at this unexpected break, oblivious of why he had been called. He ran back to his room and hurriedly packed his bags. A school attendant accompanied him to Delhi. The journey from Ajmer to Delhi was filled with Kuldip’s excited chatter; he was surprised at the attendant’s stoic silence.
The Dhingras lived in Golf Links in Delhi at the time. ‘I reached home and was surprised to see a lot of people outside the house,’ said Kuldip. ‘They were all standing with serious faces and talking to each other in hushed tones,’ he added. When they saw Kuldip get out of the car, they quickly looked away and started talking to each other again while sneaking furtive looks at him. Unconcerned, and still excited about coming back home, he broke away from the attendant who was holding him by the hand and rushed inside.
Kuldip’s cousin was standing at the gate. As he ran inside, she put out her hand, caught him and said, ‘Your father is dead.’
‘Just like that she said,’ Kuldip recalled. Young Kuldip stopped in his tracks and asked, ‘What do you mean?’
The cousin repeated that his father was dead.
‘I was shocked,’ Kuldip said.
‘And how old were you then?’ I asked softly as his eyes welled up with tears.
He took a moment to control his choked voice and said, ‘Ten years and one month.’
Ten-year-old Kuldip’s world came crashing down. He looked for his mother and siblings. ‘My mother was in a complete daze and my younger brother and sister were huddled around her,’ he remembered. Kuldip’s elder brother, Sohan Singh, was studying in IIT Kharagpur and a telegram had been sent to him. His younger siblings, brother Gurbachan and sister Ashi, had been at their mami’s (mother’s brother’s wife) house in Delhi and they were called back home.
‘We had been sent to our mami’s house as our father was in the hospital for a minor surgery,’ remembered Gurbachan. ‘My mami was combing my hair and she started crying,’ he said. Just seven years old, Gurbachan became a bit worried and asked her what was wrong. She stopped combing his hair, hugged him and cried some more. The young Gurbachan squirmed in the tight embrace, trying to break free. ‘But my mami held on and kept sobbing,’ he said.
Finally she told him that Ashi and he had to go home as their father was not well. ‘I thought my mami was crying because she did not want us to go!’ Gurbachan said, laughing wryly.
Relatives had brought the two young children back home and it was then that they realized that their father was dead. ‘I was only five years old,’ said Ashi, ‘and don’t remember much. All I knew then was that my father had gone in for an appendicitis surgery.’
‘It was a simple surgery gone wrong,’ said Kuldip agitatedly. ‘The doctor killed my father on the operating table. What Dr Santosh Mehta did was completely shocking’.
Three
‘Kismat Bhi Kya Cheez Hai!’
‘DESTINY IS INEXPLICABLE’
Niranjan Singh Dhingra was Kuldip’s father. His sudden death in 1957 was a shock not only to Kuldip but to the entire Dhingra clan and those who knew any member of the family. He was only thirty-seven years old when he died. He left behind a young widow, Surjit Kaur, and four children, the youngest of whom was only five years old.
The family had, till then, been on a roll. Niranjan Singh had a thriving paints’ distribution business. He had first travelled to Japan in 1939 and was now planning to go to Russia to expand the business. ‘In fact, the ticket to go to Russia had already been bought before he went for his surgery,’ said Kuldip agitatedly.
Niranjan Singh and all his five brothers had been in the paints business for decades. Niranjan Singh himself was the exclusive distributor for Jenson and Nicholson in Amritsar and Delhi. He also had his own brand of paints. His brothers too were large paint distributors in Bombay, Amritsar and Delhi. It was Niranjan Singh,
however, who was known for his ambition and business skills in the Dhingra family.
Niranjan Singh had inherited his father’s vision and foresight. He along with his father, Kesar Singh, got into manufacturing in a move to diversify from pure trading and distribution. Their big factory, Dhingra Paints & Colour Varnish Private Limited, had come up at Najafgarh, Delhi, and was manufacturing paints. Niranjan Singh also had a shop in Amritsar, which was one of the biggest dealerships for the multinational paint companies. With these businesses doing well, Niranjan Singh had started looking at markets outside India.
In the mid-1950s, India was still reeling from the Partition of 1947. While there were opportunities within the newly independent country, there were indications that the country would favour socialism over capitalism.
Niranjan Singh, in his early thirties, wanted to explore opportunities outside India. His brothers were already in competition as all of them were in the same business—trading and distribution of paints. Niranjan Singh had identified an opportunity in the export markets. Japan and Russia were countries of his focus.
‘I don’t know why but my father really wanted to build a business with these two countries,’ said Kuldip. Niranjan Singh had already travelled to Japan. His first visit there was at the age of nineteen. He was excited about going back again soon. ‘But Russia was very close to my father’s heart. He was convinced that we could do business with it,’ said Kuldip.
There was no apparent reason for Niranjan Singh’s fascination with the Soviet Union. It could have been that India as a country was moving closer to the Soviet Union as Nehru progressed along the path of socialism. Or it could be simply that the Soviet Union was a big country and Niranjan Singh assumed that any business with them would also be large. Niranjan Singh would have left for Moscow after his trip to Tokyo.
In 1957, Niranjan Singh’s family included his wife, three sons and a daughter. The eldest, Sohan Singh, was a brilliant all-rounder and had got a place in IIT Kharagpur. The next son, Kuldip Singh, was at King George’s Royal Indian Military College. Niranjan Singh wanted him to join the army and he wanted Gurbachan to become a businessman. Gurbachan, the youngest son, was indulged both by his parents as well as the elder brothers. The most indulgence, however, was reserved for Niranjan Singh and Surjit’s only daughter, Meena.
‘I was called Ashi by all,’ Meena said. Niranjan Singh, after his three sons, had been very keen to have a daughter. ‘When I was born he was so happy! He said, “Meri asha poori ho gayi [My wishes have come true],”’ she laughed. ‘You know that we Punjabis add an “ee” to all our names. So I became Ashi and that’s what everyone calls me.’
Life was good for Niranjan Singh Dhingra and his family. In the 1950s they had luxuries like a big house in Golf Links and were among the first ones in their family and friends to buy a fridge. They were a well-off business family. Niranjan Singh had also bought a big car and they even had an air conditioner at home. ‘It is another matter that we had only one AC in our Golf Links house,’ laughed Gurbachan. ‘Many times all the children slept in the room with the AC!’
The children were indulged by the father and every wish of theirs was fulfilled. ‘I wanted toys from Japan and I remember he bought me a rubber duck from there,’ said Ashi. Gurbachan had other demands. He wanted an airgun from Calcutta and, of course, that wish was also fulfilled.
‘I used to go around the Golf Course forest shooting at birds,’ remembered Gurbachan. Having honed his shooting skills on the hapless birds, he wanted to show off to his sister. One afternoon he called Ashi and took her to the park outside their house. ‘I told her to hold a balloon, stand still and I would shoot the balloon,’ said Gurbachan. Ashi, all of four years of age, stood wide-eyed with her arm stretched out, holding out the balloon.
Gurbachan, six years old, took aim, told her to stop fidgeting and pulled the trigger. ‘Obviously, I missed completely!’ he laughed as he told the story. Thankfully, his shot was off by only a few inches and Ashi’s face did not show any injury.
But her finger was injured and bleeding. Ashi went running to her father as soon as Niranjan Singh came home that evening, her hand outstretched, showing her hurt finger. ‘I knew aaj tan paini hai [I knew that I will get whacked today],’ said Gurbachan, ‘so I ran to the servants quarters and locked myself in there.’ He refused to come out of the staff washroom till late night. It was only when the servant started banging on the door, as if to break the latch, that he finally came out. Sure enough his father was waiting. ‘I got one tight dhaap [whack]!’ he said.
Niranjan Singh was happy that his eldest son got admission into IIT Kharagpur and was on his way to becoming a civil engineer. ‘My brother was a brilliant scholar and had got a merit position in IIT,’ said Kuldip with pride. This meant that Sohan Singh had got a scholarship and wouldn’t have to pay the fees. ‘But my father said that we can afford to pay the fees so let the scholarship go to someone who needs it more,’ said Kuldip. ‘These are the values that I learnt from my childhood. I learnt by seeing my father,’ he added.
All was well in Niranjan Singh’s world. He could not have been happier. His wife, Surjit, managed the home well. Even though she was not the oldest daughter-in-law of the Dhingra family, she was well respected by all. ‘My mother was a very strong lady. She was the eldest in her own family, which was well known in Amritsar, and therefore had that natural aura of toughness,’ said Gurbachan.
Only one thing bothered Niranjan Singh sporadically. He sometimes had a mild pain in his abdomen. His neighbour, Santosh Mehta,* was a surgeon who had moved from Bombay to Delhi. Dr Mehta and Niranjan Singh had become good friends and would go for a morning walk in the neighbourhood park together. During one such walk Niranjan Singh told Dr Mehta about the pain he experienced. The doctor said that the pain could be due to appendicitis. ‘He told my dad that the appendix is basically a useless organ. He said that if he went to Russia and developed pain there, he would be in trouble as the doctors there were not good,’ said Kuldip incredulously.
Niranjan Singh took his friend’s advice and decided to undergo the surgery without any tests or a second opinion. ‘There was really no need for him to have that operation,’ said Kuldip, visibly upset.
The surgery went wrong. A blood vessel ruptured during the procedure and Niranjan Singh died on the operating table.
‘My mother did not know what had happened. There was blood all over,’ Kuldip said, his voice choked with emotion. His eyes welled up as he said, ‘The doctor killed my father on the table.’ His pain, hurt and bewilderment were evident as Kuldip wondered how someone the family considered a friend could do this to their father. Taking control of his emotions, he cleared his throat, took a sip of his coffee and said, ‘But it was fate.’
Fate had indeed played a cruel trick on the Dhingra family. Niranjan Singh was not the first Dhingra brother that Dr Mehta had operated on.
* * *
I was sitting with Pritpal Chhabra, an elder cousin of Kuldip. Pritpal was close to Niranjan Singh and enjoyed a good relationship with his mamaji (maternal uncle).
‘You know one of my other mamajis, Niranjan Singh’s brother, was in Bombay,’ said Pritpal as we sat in his living room in Delhi. The room had a feel of old Kashmir, with walnut-coloured carved furniture and gorgeous carpets. Not surprising, as Pritpal belonged to a business family that had large saffron fields in Kashmir. He, however, had chosen to diversify and had become one of India’s biggest exporter of handmade carpets before he retired.
The extended Dhingra family was close-knit, and Pritpal was fond of his uncles. He talked of his other mamaji, Kartar Singh, Niranjan Singh’s elder brother. Kartar Singh lived in Bombay and had set up his business there. In the early 1950s, he had needed a surgery. Medical science then was not as well developed as it is today and surgery was a serious matter. Since there was no other older male member of the family in Bombay, Kartar Singh had requested Niranjan Singh to come to Bombay as a support to the family. Nira
njan Singh agreed without a second thought and went to Bombay to be with his bhabhi (brother’s wife) and nephews.
‘Dr Santosh Mehta had just started work in this hospital,’ said Pritpal. Kartar Singh was wheeled into the OT while his wife and Niranjan Singh waited outside. ‘Suddenly they saw Dr Mehta walking out nervously and not looking happy at all,’ Pritpal said in a hushed voice as if we were in the hospital watching the scene. Niranjan Singh and his bhabhi sprang up to their feet and asked the doctor if all was okay. Dr Mehta shook his head and was incoherent. Niranjan Singh and his bhabhi looked at each other, their hearts full of dread, fearing the worst. They asked Dr Mehta again what the matter was.
‘It was among the first big operations for Dr Santosh Mehta and he had become terribly nervous,’ said Pritpal. The doctor, unable to concentrate on the task on hand, had walked out with the aim of informing the family to get another surgeon. ‘You can imagine what a situation it must have been,’ Pritpal continued.
It was a peculiar situation indeed. Kartar Singh’s wife was looking helpless and was close to tears. Niranjan Singh thought quickly and took his bhabhi aside and said, ‘Aap iss doctor ke paaon pakad lo aur bolo ki woh operation poora kar le. Main usko oopar se aur tassalli doonga [You should touch the doctor’s feet and tell him to complete the operation. I too will give him confidence].’ His bhabhi went towards Dr Santosh Mehta, quickly bent down and held on to his feet. She started crying and kept telling the doctor that he was her only hope and that he had to finish the operation. As Dr Mehta tried to disengage the woman at his feet, Niranjan Singh folded his hands and told him that his brother’s life was in the hands of the doctor.
‘It worked!’ Pritpal said to me with a big smile on his face. The doctor returned to the OT. Niranjan Singh and his bhabhi waited outside with their hearts in their mouths. Every moment seemed like an hour. Soon they saw Dr Santosh Mehta walking towards them again. This time he was walking confidently and had a smile on his face. ‘Operation is successful,’ he announced, and Niranjan Singh and his bhabhi hugged each other in sheer relief. Niranjan Singh then turned to the doctor, shook his hand and thanked him.