Back at the shamiana, everyone was piling into cars and leaving for Raja Sansi airport, where my father would finally touch home soil as a free man. In the blinding lights of the swell of cars moving to the airport I was transported back to the day Papa was arrested – 29 November 1984 – at Jogbani in Purnia district in northern Bihar, actually even further back to when he vanished from our sight.
As recounted by Papa:
‘When Operation Blue Star happened on 3 June 1984, I was at Qila, my parents’ home, with Bibiji and Dadji (which is what Papa called his father). I had been summoned to Chandigarh by the government for a departmental enquiry about the issuing of arms licences. My posting in Faridkot was a laugh because I had the power to recommend an arms’ licence but not issue one as only the deputy commissioner of the district could do that. I was only the senior superintendent of police (SSP).
I was sitting in the office of Harjit Singh, inspector general (IG), CID Punjab, answering questions, when the phone rang on his desk. ‘Mann is in Punjab and right now with Bhindranwale,’ said the advisor to the governor, Surendra Nath.
‘Not possible, sir,’ replied the IG.
‘How do you know?’ asked the voice on the other end of the line.
‘Well, because Mr Simranjit Singh Mann is sitting in my office right across the table. So I can assure you that he is not with Bhindranwale.’
The IG hung up, exclaiming, ‘This is preposterous,’ and looking at me said, ‘This is the height of persecution. They are after you.’
After my questioning was over, I hurried from Chandigarh to Sirhind to be home with my parents before curfew was imposed in the evening. The army was out in full force, everything was shut and once curfew was imposed, we were all prisoners wherever we were.
As soon as I reached the sanctity of my parents’ home, I switched on the radio to catch the news, but had no luck. All telephonic communications had been cut off and soon the radios – except for sporadic broadcasts from the BBC – and electricity would follow. Punjab was sealed off from the rest of the world. We ate our supper in gloomy darkness and went to bed.
The next morning, while I was getting ready, BBC Radio proclaimed that Sant Jarnail Singh Bhindranwale had been killed in the Golden Temple. I stood in stunned silence and then broke down and cried. Not since the death of Virji, my elder brother, had I cried like this.
The SSP of Ropar, Mr Alam, who had trained under me in Faridkot and was my SP in the headquarters in Faridkot, came early in the morning to Qila and said, ‘Sir, please get into my car. I’m taking you to the airport because the army’s looking for you.’
I got into his car, saying a quick goodbye to my parents, and went straight to the Chandigarh airport, an hour away from Sirhind, from where I boarded a flight to Delhi.
At the Delhi airport, I bought some foreign newspapers, which were full of the attack on the Golden Temple. Very disturbed, I came back to Bombay (now Mumbai) and to all of you. My mind was in turmoil and I felt I could not possibly serve a government that had done this to my people.
Then I did what most devout Sikhs do – I turned to the Guru Granth Sahib to look for direction. I took a wakh (lesson for the day). It was a shabad of Guru Teg Bahadur:
‘Jo nar dukh me dukh na mane. Sukh saneh aru bhaya nahi jaake’, which loosely translates to:
One who does not give importance to sorrow,
Who does not crave happiness, and is unafraid,
Who knows that gold and mud are the same in essence, who is not influenced by criticism or praise,
Is free of greed, attachment and ego . . .
I drafted my resignation letter and the next morning, on 18 July 1984, sent it off to the President of India, ironically also a Sikh, Giani Zail Singh.
I got no reply, so I wrote another letter explaining the expediency of accepting my resignation. This time around, an officer from the Central Industrial Security Force (CISF) came to inform me that I had been dismissed from service and formally served me the dismissal notice at my office in Bombay. I handed in my service revolver amidst my shocked staff, some of whom were crying openly and some, like my personal secretary Mr Kutty, barely able to contain themselves. I thanked all of them and walked out for good.
Some days later I got word from a reliable source in the prime minister’s office that the government wanted to have me eliminated. I believed the source because this person was close to the prime minister, and also an old friend of mine. Then Dadji rang and begged me to go underground for he had also heard the same. Geeta, my wife, was aghast when I told her, but finally, after much procrastination, it was decided that I should go away for a while.
I spent the first few days at a friend’s house close to our own on Malabar Hill. After a few days, a Colonel Baljit Singh and his wife came and picked me up and took me to their house in Bandra since it was dangerous to stay in one place. I had to keep moving. From the Colonel’s house, a transporter, Sardar Gian Singh, drove me out of Bombay in a Fiat car.
At one point along the drive, somewhere in the south of Maharashtra, we stopped for lunch at a dhaba, owned by a Sikh, who on seeing two fellow Sikhs at his dhaba was quite excited and even asked, ‘Do you know that a Sikh IPS officer has resigned from service in Bombay after Operation Blue Star? What a great sacrifice he’s made!’
Excerpted with permission from Stolen Years by Pavit Kaur published by Random House India, Memoir, Rs 399
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As recounted by Papa:
‘When Operation Blue Star happened on 3 June 1984, I was at Qila, my parents’ home, with Bibiji and Dadji (which is what Papa called his father). I had been summoned to Chandigarh by the government for a departmental enquiry about the issuing of arms licences. My posting in Faridkot was a laugh because I had the power to recommend an arms’ licence but not issue one as only the deputy commissioner of the district could do that. I was only the senior superintendent of police (SSP).
I was sitting in the office of Harjit Singh, inspector general (IG), CID Punjab, answering questions, when the phone rang on his desk. ‘Mann is in Punjab and right now with Bhindranwale,’ said the advisor to the governor, Surendra Nath.
‘Not possible, sir,’ replied the IG.
‘How do you know?’ asked the voice on the other end of the line.
‘Well, because Mr Simranjit Singh Mann is sitting in my office right across the table. So I can assure you that he is not with Bhindranwale.’
The IG hung up, exclaiming, ‘This is preposterous,’ and looking at me said, ‘This is the height of persecution. They are after you.’
After my questioning was over, I hurried from Chandigarh to Sirhind to be home with my parents before curfew was imposed in the evening. The army was out in full force, everything was shut and once curfew was imposed, we were all prisoners wherever we were.
As soon as I reached the sanctity of my parents’ home, I switched on the radio to catch the news, but had no luck. All telephonic communications had been cut off and soon the radios – except for sporadic broadcasts from the BBC – and electricity would follow. Punjab was sealed off from the rest of the world. We ate our supper in gloomy darkness and went to bed.
The next morning, while I was getting ready, BBC Radio proclaimed that Sant Jarnail Singh Bhindranwale had been killed in the Golden Temple. I stood in stunned silence and then broke down and cried. Not since the death of Virji, my elder brother, had I cried like this.
The SSP of Ropar, Mr Alam, who had trained under me in Faridkot and was my SP in the headquarters in Faridkot, came early in the morning to Qila and said, ‘Sir, please get into my car. I’m taking you to the airport because the army’s looking for you.’
I got into his car, saying a quick goodbye to my parents, and went straight to the Chandigarh airport, an hour away from Sirhind, from where I boarded a flight to Delhi.
At the Delhi airport, I bought some foreign newspapers, which were full of the attack on the Golden Temple. Very disturbed, I came back to Bombay (now Mumbai) and to all of you. My mind was in turmoil and I felt I could not possibly serve a government that had done this to my people.
Then I did what most devout Sikhs do – I turned to the Guru Granth Sahib to look for direction. I took a wakh (lesson for the day). It was a shabad of Guru Teg Bahadur:
‘Jo nar dukh me dukh na mane. Sukh saneh aru bhaya nahi jaake’, which loosely translates to:
One who does not give importance to sorrow,
Who does not crave happiness, and is unafraid,
Who knows that gold and mud are the same in essence, who is not influenced by criticism or praise,
Is free of greed, attachment and ego . . .
I drafted my resignation letter and the next morning, on 18 July 1984, sent it off to the President of India, ironically also a Sikh, Giani Zail Singh.
I got no reply, so I wrote another letter explaining the expediency of accepting my resignation. This time around, an officer from the Central Industrial Security Force (CISF) came to inform me that I had been dismissed from service and formally served me the dismissal notice at my office in Bombay. I handed in my service revolver amidst my shocked staff, some of whom were crying openly and some, like my personal secretary Mr Kutty, barely able to contain themselves. I thanked all of them and walked out for good.
Some days later I got word from a reliable source in the prime minister’s office that the government wanted to have me eliminated. I believed the source because this person was close to the prime minister, and also an old friend of mine. Then Dadji rang and begged me to go underground for he had also heard the same. Geeta, my wife, was aghast when I told her, but finally, after much procrastination, it was decided that I should go away for a while.
I spent the first few days at a friend’s house close to our own on Malabar Hill. After a few days, a Colonel Baljit Singh and his wife came and picked me up and took me to their house in Bandra since it was dangerous to stay in one place. I had to keep moving. From the Colonel’s house, a transporter, Sardar Gian Singh, drove me out of Bombay in a Fiat car.
At one point along the drive, somewhere in the south of Maharashtra, we stopped for lunch at a dhaba, owned by a Sikh, who on seeing two fellow Sikhs at his dhaba was quite excited and even asked, ‘Do you know that a Sikh IPS officer has resigned from service in Bombay after Operation Blue Star? What a great sacrifice he’s made!’
Excerpted with permission from Stolen Years by Pavit Kaur published by Random House India, Memoir, Rs 399
