This holocaust did not happen only to the Sikh people, it happened to individual Sikhs. Like me.
Who is he? Who is this Singh? I have spent countless hours staring at this photograph asking myself questions. Whose son is he? Whose husband, whose dad, whose brother, whose uncle, cousin, friend? Is someone waiting anxiously at home for him, waiting for a footfall that will never come?
Where is he from? Does he live in Delhi or is he just visiting? Where was he born? What is his pind? When was he born? How old is he?
What is his occupation? Is he an engineer, a doctor, a professor? Or is he a taxi driver or a trucker?
What are his politics? Is he an Akali or a member of Congress? Is he a Khalistani or a Bharata Mata lover? Or is he political at all? Is he just trying to live his life and not really concerned about the niceties of the larger world.
Why is he keshdhari? Is it just habit, following family custom? Or is it deeply meaningful to him? Does he pray each day, do naam jap, love Vaheguru? Or are those just incidentals that have fallen by the wayside of his life? Where is his turban? How does he feel as it is ripped from his head and his kesh is exposed?
How does he feel as he realises the mob is coming for him, chasing him down the street or dragging him from his home or his car or from the bus? What goes on in his brain as the petrol is poured on him and set alight? What is he thinking as his body burns? Or is he beyond thought? Is he aware of the laughing jeering mob around him, enjoying watching his final agonising moments of life on this earth?
What is his last awareness as he dies alone, surrounded by merciless thugs?
Questions without answers. Whoever he is, he deserves to be remembered. I doubt he had even a death certificate, so I have made him one.
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There is something so very final about the certificate. And, of course, I realise that all I have written is wrong and must be rewritten to reflect the truth of25 26 27 years later.
Who was he? Who was this Singh? I have spent countless hours staring at this photograph asking myself questions. Whose son was he? Whose husband, whose dad, whose brother, whose uncle, cousin, friend? Was someone waiting anxiously at home for him, waiting for a footfall that never came?
Where was he from? Did he live in Delhi or was he just visiting? Where was he born? What was his pind? When was he born? How old was he?
What was his occupation? Was he an engineer, a doctor, a professor? Or was he a taxi driver or a trucker?
What were his politics? Was he an Akali or a member of Congress? Was he a Khalistani or a Bharata Mata lover? Or was he political at all? Was he just trying to live his life and not really concerned about the niceties of the larger world.
Why was he keshdhari? Was it just habit, following family custom? Or was it deeply meaningful to him? Did he pray each day, do naam jap, love Vaheguru? Or were those just incidentals that had fallen by the wayside of his life? Where was his turban? How did he feel as it was ripped from his head and his kesh was exposed?
How did he feel as he realised the mob was coming for him, chasing him down the street or dragging him from his home or his car or from the bus? What went on in his brain as the petrol was poured on him and set alight? What was he thinking as his body burned? Or was he beyond thought? Was he aware of the laughing jeering mob around him, enjoying watching his final agonising moments of life on this earth?
What was his last awareness as he died alone, surrounded by merciless thugs?
He was our brother and he was one single human being, one Sikh among the thousands murdered during the madness of those days in 1984.
He is our brother and he deserves justice.
One final, unanswered question: When?
ONE DEAD SINGH
Who is he? Who is this Singh? I have spent countless hours staring at this photograph asking myself questions. Whose son is he? Whose husband, whose dad, whose brother, whose uncle, cousin, friend? Is someone waiting anxiously at home for him, waiting for a footfall that will never come?
Where is he from? Does he live in Delhi or is he just visiting? Where was he born? What is his pind? When was he born? How old is he?
What is his occupation? Is he an engineer, a doctor, a professor? Or is he a taxi driver or a trucker?
What are his politics? Is he an Akali or a member of Congress? Is he a Khalistani or a Bharata Mata lover? Or is he political at all? Is he just trying to live his life and not really concerned about the niceties of the larger world.
Why is he keshdhari? Is it just habit, following family custom? Or is it deeply meaningful to him? Does he pray each day, do naam jap, love Vaheguru? Or are those just incidentals that have fallen by the wayside of his life? Where is his turban? How does he feel as it is ripped from his head and his kesh is exposed?
How does he feel as he realises the mob is coming for him, chasing him down the street or dragging him from his home or his car or from the bus? What goes on in his brain as the petrol is poured on him and set alight? What is he thinking as his body burns? Or is he beyond thought? Is he aware of the laughing jeering mob around him, enjoying watching his final agonising moments of life on this earth?
What is his last awareness as he dies alone, surrounded by merciless thugs?
Questions without answers. Whoever he is, he deserves to be remembered. I doubt he had even a death certificate, so I have made him one.
(Click to enlarge)
******************************
There is something so very final about the certificate. And, of course, I realise that all I have written is wrong and must be rewritten to reflect the truth of
Who was he? Who was this Singh? I have spent countless hours staring at this photograph asking myself questions. Whose son was he? Whose husband, whose dad, whose brother, whose uncle, cousin, friend? Was someone waiting anxiously at home for him, waiting for a footfall that never came?
Where was he from? Did he live in Delhi or was he just visiting? Where was he born? What was his pind? When was he born? How old was he?
What was his occupation? Was he an engineer, a doctor, a professor? Or was he a taxi driver or a trucker?
What were his politics? Was he an Akali or a member of Congress? Was he a Khalistani or a Bharata Mata lover? Or was he political at all? Was he just trying to live his life and not really concerned about the niceties of the larger world.
Why was he keshdhari? Was it just habit, following family custom? Or was it deeply meaningful to him? Did he pray each day, do naam jap, love Vaheguru? Or were those just incidentals that had fallen by the wayside of his life? Where was his turban? How did he feel as it was ripped from his head and his kesh was exposed?
How did he feel as he realised the mob was coming for him, chasing him down the street or dragging him from his home or his car or from the bus? What went on in his brain as the petrol was poured on him and set alight? What was he thinking as his body burned? Or was he beyond thought? Was he aware of the laughing jeering mob around him, enjoying watching his final agonising moments of life on this earth?
What was his last awareness as he died alone, surrounded by merciless thugs?
He was our brother and he was one single human being, one Sikh among the thousands murdered during the madness of those days in 1984.
He is our brother and he deserves justice.
One final, unanswered question: When?
Wahe Guru Ji please protect him and his loved ones
ReplyDeleteBikram Singh ji,
ReplyDeleteI am certain that he is just fine. I'm not so sure about his family. You might check out Khalsa Aid. They're a great organisation that, among other things, aids the families of shaheeds.