The Murder of My Beard
In July 1984, as the forty-five degrees Celsius heat beat down on the town of Hisar, its residents slowly stepped out of their houses to enjoy the slight summer wind. I sat in my verandah as my five year old daughter ran out of the metal gate to join her group of friends ranging from five-year-olds to fifteen-year-olds. From my verandah, I could see the whole neighbourhood. Small houses scattered across the two sides of Jawaharlal Road, coming together to form Hisar, a forgotten town that made up the most unforgettable part of my life. Right across the road was an abandoned lot that was going to help widen the road but as the people of Hisar said, once it is dug this gaddha will never be filled. I sat with my wife on the swing in our verandah, watching over the lot, full of kids from the neighbourhood playing gulli danda, surrounded by the scent of mangoes and the light summer breeze enveloping us in its comfort.
My house was right next to the lot. ‘Gurjeet Singh and family’, it says on the black plaque in golden letters next to the main door. When my wife and I got married, this town was all we could afford. So we came to Hisar, bought a small house with absent windows and broken walls, near the main market and built our life together from scratch. I remember the feel of every course, red brick and the cool cement joining our life piece by piece. The pride of my house, however, was the giant mango tree in the front yard. Every summer our mango tree became the center of Hisar’s attention and we never hesitated from sharing our gorgeous orange-yellow mangoes with whoever came by. Hisar was home and its residents, family.
I sat with a hand fan and the radio playing the latest Bollywood music in my striped pyjamas while my wife finished the embroidery on her salwar. I had my long kesh out of the turban. I knew they missed the touch of the summer sun. My daughter playing out in the lot. The mango panna sitting in a pitcher next to the metal gate for the kids. My wife singing along to the Bollywood music while her hands moved masterfully like her muscles had memorized the design already. I never thought this town that I built my home in will have no cover for me.
It was October. I was at work in the post office when I heard the news. The news of Indira Gandhi’s assassination was all over India. Cricket matches were interrupted, mothers had left the daal on the stove, shopkeepers had left their counters and everyone in India had their ears glued to the radio. And while the entire country was busy discussing the details, I knew I had to get my scooter running and see my family. The Prime Minister had been killed by her two Sikh bodyguards who had shot her a total of thirty three times. The assassins had been shot dead — minutes later — by the other guards. The assassins’ mission was to avenge the deaths of Sikh pilgrims and damage to Sikh temples in Operation Blue Star carried out under her command. The Sikh militant leader Jarnail Singh Bhindranwale was removed and hundreds of his followers were killed along with the damage to our sacred golden temple. My eyes were numb with tears the day we heard the house of guruji had blood spilt in it, the langar that was for the poor was contaminated with violence. The assassins retaliated for the damage to the holy temple but the ‘eye for an eye’ strategy destroyed thousands of lives. To kill in the name of Wahe Guru, what could be more painful to him.
The entire country went into a frenzy. Within hours of the news, swords had been drawn and blood had been spilled. Hindus took to the streets, beheading anyone with a turban and a long beard. The street outside was red. I pocketed all the cash my pockets could carry, held my wife’s hand, picked up my daughter and ran out of the house. Sweat was soaking through my kurta and my tuban had never felt tighter. Every Sikh house was marked with black ink. My eyes lit up every time I came home to my beautiful yellow house with my daughter running to hug me. That beautiful house was splashed with black with a word written in the middle. Looking at the “gaddar” on my wall, behind the broken swing, had taken my heart out of my chest and as much as I wanted to mourn, I had to run. I ran toward my car to find my beautiful white Hindustan Ambassador engulfed in flames. I held my crying daughter closer to my chest as I ran into an alleyway next to my house that led to a barbershop. People were losing their head to keep their hair. ‘At least my decapitated head will have no sin on it’ was the ideology followed by many strict Sikhs and Wahe Guru knows, my kesh are my pride too but I could not trade my family’s life for it.
On the way to the barber’s, I passed by my brother’s house but my feet didn’t let me stop. I had to put my child first and get rid of this mark on my back that came in the form of my long black beard and yellow turban that my wife had gifted me for our anniversary last year. I remember opening the badly wrapped box, that no doubt was my daughter’s love and effort, to see the bright yellow satin cloth. My daughter was chanting for me to tie up the turban as soon as I got it out of the box and show her how it looked. I remember smiling so hard that I was afraid tears would come out. Never knew the remnant of that memory would endanger my most precious possession.
There was a big dumpster in the alley and I opened the lid to put my daughter and wife in there to hide while I ran to the barber's. As soon as I opened the lid, my daughter screamed at the stench and horror of the scene. My wife covered her’s and my daughter’s mouth with her dupatta as her silent tears drenched her face. There were two decapitated bodies in the dumpster and I slowly lowered my wife and daughter to hide next to the bodies. Wincing and hesitating would not keep my family alive.
The barbershop was empty with broken wooden chairs and long hair covering almost every inch of the floor. The Hindu barber lived on the second floor of the store. I climbed the stairs and banged on the door with urgency that I had never felt before. Nothing. I banged again with ferocity and after a few minutes, the door opened ever so slightly. The barber’s wife looked through the crack and asked me to leave.
“I have never begged for anything in my life but today I beg you to commit a sin for me,” the tears that I had held on for so long could not be stopped any longer.
I offered all the money in my pockets which amounted to 5000 rupees, to cut my hair and shave my beard. After enough persuasion and a promise to give a thousand more after, the barber agreed. The barber did as he promised and shaved my beard and cut my hair short, right in his living room. Even he was scared to step into the massacre outside. You see, no one is safe when people forget their humanity. It took me every ounce of my strength to collect my hair and turban from that floor and put them in a plastic bag that the barber’s wife gave to me with shaking hands and kind eyes that reflected my pain. With my murdered beard and the bright yellow satin turban in a plastic bag, I ran toward the dumpster with my heart beating out of my chest. I got my daughter and wife out of the dumpster and ran toward my brother’s house. I pushed open the door with more force than needed and silence ensued.
Lying right at the doorstep was the decapitated head of Gurmeet Singh, my elder brother. His face that had never been shown anything but kindness in his forty years of life was staring at me with nothing but death in his eyes. His black beard with sprinkles of grey, his long luscious hair, just like mine, still intact to his scalp. At least he died with no sin on his head. His body was inside the house along with the slashed bodies of his two sons and his wife. I covered my daughter's eyes with my hand and stood silently for a minute while my wife tried to control her piercing wailing, before running away.
The massacre officially lasted four days but left scars on India’s psyche forever. Me and what was left of my family hid in a Hindu friend’s basement for a week before returning to our black ink marred house to find it looted. Within the next few days, I arranged my brother’s family’s funeral. I wrapped my murdered beard, hair and turban in a white cloth and cremated them along with Gurmeet’s body. After Nov 4th 1984, I did not cut my hair for 2 years straight. This hair is what I owe my life to. That day my beard died so Gurjeet Singh could live.
It's been almost 2 and a half years since I gave chita to Gurmeet’s body and I have never been able to go into that alleyway that led to Gurmeet’s house. I am sitting on the swing — that my wife and I fixed ourselves — looking over the lot that my daughter is playing in. A lot of her friends are not here anymore. Not many people wanted to stay in Hisar after the massacre. Bad memories. But we stayed because this is where we built our home. This is where I brought up my daughter and this is where I gave chita to my brother and my hair. My wife is combing my hair and my red satin turban is sitting next to the radio playing old Bollywood music. My daughter is smiling back at us from the lot and the faint smell of blooming mango is lingering in the air.