As the evening wanes and the night arrives, there is a time when the sky and the earth converse closely with each other. A moment in time when the dyi
THE STAINS
As the evening wanes and the night arrives, there is a time when the sky and the earth converse closely with each other. A moment in time when the dying light reaches out to meet the incoming darkness. This was such a time. The lights had started to shine in the shops of Connaught Place. It had been a very hot day. With a thirst for chilled beer, I reached the ‘Volga’ restaurant. There was an elderly Sikh sitting in the corner table. Somehow, I found myself turning towards him.
“May I sit here, Sardarji?” I heard myself saying.
“Please sit, dear sir! Have a beer”, he replied generously. “Thank you, sir”, I said as I sat down.
During the ensuing conversation, I found out a lot about him. He had a hosiery business in Karolbagh and a bungalow in Janakpuri. He was married and had kids. God had given him a lot. But in spite of these riches, I detected a certain feeling of loss in him, as if there was something missing in his life. Maybe he had a secret worry that was eating away at him.
As we talked, he asked me a few times, “Are there stains on my clothes?”
I found this a bit strange. His clothes were clean and well ironed. I assured him that there were no stains on his clothes. But there was a long scar on his right wrist. It looked like a cut from a sharp knife.
Then I started telling Sardarji about myself.
He asked me again. “Are there stains on my clothes? “ He sounded anxious, as if shards of broken glass were piercing him.
I tried to reassure him again. “Sardarji, your clothes are very clean. There is not a single blemish on them. But I would sure like to know about the scar on your right wrist.”
His face paled as soon as I uttered these words. Inadvertently, I had touched a sore subject.
We sat quietly for some time, drinking our beer. I felt guilty about opening an old wound by mentioning that scar. His continued silence reinforced that guilt. Sometimes, we make the mistake of peeping too closely into someone’s life. Although it is only natural curiosity on our part but we have knocked on doors that are best kept locked. These doors have many secrets, many hidden histories, buried behind them.
“I have never told the story of this wound to anyone, not even my wife or kids.” Sardarji was in control of himself again. “But I don’t know why I feel like sharing it with you.” He proceeded with the story...
“My name is Jasbeer. This story is about the time when the Khalistan movement was in full swing in Punjab. Even though the Central Government had killed many militants through Operation Bluestar, the Khalistan agitation continued. The Sikhs felt as if they were being differentiated against by everyone. People outside Punjab often commented to us sarcastically, “ Sardarji, when are you claiming your Khalistan?”
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| Sushant Supriye |
“I was a student at Khalsa College, Amritsar at that time. We, the Sikh youth, felt the dream of Khalistan was a protest against the high handedness of the Central government in Delhi. We
were working once again to fulfill Maharaja Ranjeet Singh’s dream of a Sikh Republic. I was an active member of the Sikh Student’s Federation. The police atrocities made my blood boil. I joined the militant movement in 1985. The weapons were supplied by the neighbouring country, which had its own agenda. Our mission was to get revenge for the brutalities and to remove the obstacles from the path of Khalistan. I turned out to be good at my work and was soon made the commander of my force. The police declared me ‘Category A’ terrorist. There was a price of twenty lakhs on my head.
“During those days, we were joined by a new boy, Surinder. His entire family had died during the 1984 anti- Sikh riots in Delhi that took place after the assassination of Indira Gandhi. He told us how
the rioteers had cut off the long hair of his old parents and siblings and then burned them to death by placing burning tyres around their necks. Surinder stayed alive just to extract revenge. He wanted to destroy all the enemies of the Sikh people. His words convinced me that he was the right man for this mission. Our force was in need of such young men with a burning hatred inside them. Thus, he joined our group.”
“A few days later, we planned a mission for that night. Around midnight, Surinder and I, along with a few other boys, were travelling on motorbikes through the Sultanwind area of Amritsar. We were armed with AK 47 rifles and our faces were covered with shawls. Surinder was driving the bike, while I sat behind him. The night was filled with mystery and adventure.”
“About twenty or twenty five metres ahead of us, we saw a police check post. There were two or three police gypsies and nearly ten to fifteen constables. We stopped our bikes but they had spotted and challenged us. I didn’t want an encounter with the police because we had set out on a special mission. Responding to my signal, the other boys turned their bikes and scattered away in the surrounding lanes. But Surinder lost his nerve at the sight of the uniformed men and began to tremble like a leaf. He and his bike seemed rooted to the spot and he didn’t react to my shouted pleas to move away. Meanwhile, the policemen were drawing near. I had to act! I flung away my shawl and fired in the air with my AK47. This stopped them momentarily. Taking advantage of the lull, I dragged Surinder towards a narrow lane. Seeing us escape, the cops opened fire on us. A stray bullet lodged in Surinder’s thigh. By that time, some of our friends had returned to help us. Amidst the hail of bullets, my friends and I supported Surinder between us and escaped on our bikes.”
“When we reached our hide out, I asked him, “Why didn’t you try to escape?” His face had turned ashen and he could hardly get a word out. We decided to treat him ourselves. We took the bullet out and bandaged his wounds. He didn’t appear fit for any missions in the coming few days. But my attitude towards him had soured. As I pictured him trembling at the sight of the cops, I regretted having admitted such a coward in our militant group.”
“But our missions could not be stopped. We toiled day and night to realize the dream of Khalistan. Sometimes, we had the task of hunting down a person charged with atrocities against the Sikh youth, at other times, we had to free some associate of ours from police custody. The other boys in my force and I would go on missions every second or third night, leaving Surinder alone at the hide out. We would return by day break. At times, we would also leave during the day. We had been plagued by bad luck ever since Surinder joined us. Many of our friends had been killed in police encounters. Anyway, that was our life. Sometimes, we celebrated the success of our missions, sometimes we mourned our dead friends.”
“Our efforts had resulted in the healing of Surinder’s wound. I wanted to give him one more chance to prove himself. Maybe this time, he would show his courage and live up to our expectations. So, I waited for him to get better.”
“One night, we were on our way back to our hide out, after completing a mission. The sky was grey, the air was wet and the dead leaves crunched under our feet. The time was four in the morning. The stars still twinkled on the backs of the fireflies. I was ahead of the others and entered the house silently. Surinder was awake and talking on the phone in the other room. I was a little surprised and went closer to listen to him. What I heard shook me completely. He was talking to the cops and passing on our group’s secret information. He had, perhaps, already called the cops to apprehend us. I was stunned.”
“We had been tricked. The enemy was in our midst, posing as a friend. The knowledge that he was a police spy made my blood boil.”
“‘Bloody traitor!’, I yelled as I took out my kirpan(small knife) and lunged at him. I stabbed him with my kirpan and injured him. We were both wrestling on the floor. But the cops hidden around us broke down the door and surrounded me. Their sten guns and turbines were aimed at me.”
Having spoken thus far, Sardarji now went quiet. He picked up his beer mug and drained it. “What happened to Surinder?”, my curiosity led me to ask.
“The police gave him half the amount of twenty lakhs that was the prize on my head. He absconded to Delhi with that money.”
“How did you learn so much about him?” I asked, surprised.
Sardarji’s face darkened. His hands were trembling and even in the air conditioned room, his forehead was covered in sweat!
At last, he managed to utter the words. “Because I am not Jasbeer. I am the unfortunate Surinder. I am that traitor. I told you the story from Jasbeer’s point of view on purpose.” His hands continued to shake.
His words left me stunned. The mysterious chapters of this story were unraveling one by one.
“The scar you mentioned was the wound I got when my reality was exposed and Jasbeer attacked me with the kirpan”, he further explained.
“So, what happened to Jasbeer?” I was still trying to comprehend this puzzling story.
“His world stopped that day at around 4.30 in the morning. The cops shot him before my eyes. He was unarmed. Many of the other boys of the group were also shot dead by the police that day. I am responsible for their deaths.” Sardarji’s voice was heavy with grief. There was a well of darkness behind his eyes.
I tried to console him. “Why are you getting so upset? After all, they were all terrorists.”
“Every man has multiple facades . The door you knock on and the man who emerges from behind it, is on you. I don’t know if they were terrorists or just young men who had been led astray. The only thing I know is that greed led me to betray the man who had saved me at the risk of his own life. The man who looked after me when I was hurt and healed my wounds. Betraying that man got me a lot of money but I lost my peace of mind. My conscience keeps calling me a traitor. I can’t sleep at night without the help of pills. I dream of dead people. A blood drenched and agonized Jasbeer often appears in my dreams. He asks me, “I saved your life. Why, then, did you betray me?”I cannot meet his gaze. I can still see his wide, staring eyes, his unkempt hair, his bloodied turban, and the bullets embedded in his chest, as if it all happened yesterday and not twenty five years ago. My past is a mirror which reflects a traitor’s face. There is a scream buried deep inside me, which I can’t let out. I have created the handcuffs which hold me hostage”. Saradarji let out a deep breath.
“Nobody can change destiny, Surinder bhai. But now that you have enough money, why don’t you get the scar removed through cosmetic surgery? If you don’t have to look at it every waking moment, maybe you will forget about it!”, I tried to advise him.
Sardarji looked at me with those haunted eyes. “The sea is filled with saline water and thus, it often dies of thirst. When the cops shot Jasbeer, I was standing next to him. My clothes were stained with his blood. My hands were red with it. Even now, I sometimes feel those stains on my clothes and my hands. I wash my hands again and again. But I can’t rid myself of these stains. I have tried many medications. I have received psychiatric treatment. But to no avail. You are right. I have money now and can have my scar removed. But how will I ever be able to remove the scars on my psyche?”
I listened silently. I had no answers or suggestions for him. There was a turbulent sea raging inside him. His grief was big as life itself!
We called the waiter to settle our bills and exited the ‘Volga’ restaurant. It was 9 at night. The air was filled with night time smells. A yellowish half- moon had emerged behind the glittering shops.
His lost voice came to me once again. “Are there stains on my clothes?” His forehead was crinkled with deep lines and his eyes had the silence of graves. He was a man trapped inside his own self.
I placed a hand on his shoulder. He seemed to recall himself from a great distance. A few silent moments were still falling like dew drops into the endless ocean of time.
It was time to say good bye. I stretched out my hands to shake his, but all awareness had set in his eyes.
“Some wounds never heal, some stains are permanent,” he muttered to the sky and ignoring my outstretched hand, moved towards his Honda City. For a long time, I watched as his car drove away.
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Sushant Supriye
A-5001 ,
Gaur Green City, Vaibhav Khand, Indirapuram, Ghaziabad-201014 UP
INDIA.
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