Absent in the Spring

"Don’t cry out loud, just keep it inside..." blared the car stereo.

The owner obviously had a liking for oldies. As Jasbir fiddled - pressing with his left hand, while holding the specialized tool in his right, trying to open the dashboard for repairs - he felt a lump building in his throat.

He took a break from work.

He had indeed gotten better at keeping it all inside - especially since the result of not keeping it inside would often be little more than the now familiar glance which, without uttering a single word, told in no uncertain terms: "when are you guys going to stop crying over it?"

There seldom was any sympathy - but of humiliation there was no shortage. Not that Jasbir sought any sympathy.

Jasbir, like others of his kind, was among the children who have to constantly grope their way out of darkness - who bump heads against the walls of one blind alley after another, only to emerge into an open even darker. The children who get educated in the school of hard knocks and who toil hard in dark garages under smelly greasy cars - while carefully covering the past that few would understand!

Indeed, he had gotten much better at keeping it all inside - just as long as nothing would come his way and jog those memories and out of nowhere the darkness would emerge and make a grab for him.

* * *

They had covered the length of Yaarpur, finally reaching the doorsteps of Harmandir Sahib just after 3:30 a.m., right about the beginning of the Amrit Vela - and before the special prayer meeting. After the ardas, they took the Kar-prasad - followed by the langar. And now, in bright daylight, the procession moved on - with individuals of various shapes, sizes, and shades of color - with almost as many different banas as there were individuals. The ever-flowing stream of rickshaws, thela-gaadis, autos, and bicycles had parted; and the crowds had paused to gaze at this wonder. They had exchanged sherbets and sweets. The Panj Pyares led the march. There were Nihangs on horsebacks, there were colorful decorations, there was even an elephant, and there was that mass of humanity - the marchers.

It had felt warm inside. For a short time, Jasbir had closed his eyes and imagined. It was almost like the Tenth Guru was watching him - pointing the sword and exhorting the troops. He felt like a bit of soldier himself - being asked to distinguish right from wrong, appropriate from what was not and learning his real call - to help others and not just meet the mundane needs of life.

Even under the threat of death! Even under the threat from the Emperor!

The emperor had annihilated his own. The emperor was now coming after him and his - he was coming after those whose only weapons of self defense were words. He could feel the victims beseeching, as if it was not the Guru but he being approached for protection and it was he who had no recourse but to offer his own life to protect others.

To save those who had not the ability to save themselves!

A sense of thrill had filled him all through. He opened his eyes and smiled. There was spring in the air. It was a very special day - a festive day. He had turned toward Manjit and said the words that he would forever remember:

"This one was so much fun - I can not wait for the next spring!!"

Manjit could not wait for the next Baisakhi, either.

But at the next spring - something would be missing. For there was a fall and a winter in-between - a cold, cold winter yet to arrive!

* * *

"I need to use the bathroom." Jasbir said. Manjit got up to let him pass.

Jasbir made his way through the overcrowded compartment. People moved back for him. There was something different about their gazes. There was anxiety, there was apprehension, but most of all, there was curiosity - Jasbir had never felt so conscious of himself before.

The train stopped at the next station. It was not a scheduled stop. From inside the bathroom, he heard crowds shouting, people getting in, people searching. These were not regular folks. These were hunters - in search of prey. There was fear in the voice of his fellow passengers and those on the platform. Faces peered through the glazed glass of the bathroom window. Jasbir shrunk to a corner.

In a big city not too far away, a 64-year old woman lay dead in a hospital room. Crowds had collected all around the area and had been fanning out in many directions - looking to exact revenge from those it held accountable - virtually all innocent. There was a new leader in town - and he did not look very certain of himself. In fact, he looked shaky as a leaf from a big tree.

A big tree which had been felled unexpectedly!

Not too long ago, there had been a self-styled soldier backed by youth with fair skins and youth with light eyes - who held swords and spears and who donned saffron turbans and rough tunics but who most of all donned the innocence and idealism of youth. The soldier was a proud man who perhaps wanted little more than what he perceived as protecting the identity, the honor, and the traditions of his qaum - but nevertheless he was a soldier without the ability to recognize his own role in undermining the same.

And there also was a little politician whose unshapely men wore blue turbans and polyester - who was a political animal who always saw a few political opportunities for a few political gains and who always sought to take advantage of opportunities the way politicians do.

The two instinctively disliked each other - the soldier and the politician.

And in that mix, there had been the 64-year old woman who had made too many right little political moves too often to realize the one wrong non-political move that would cost her what no amount of politics can bring back.

The child had outgrown his breeches and the mother had admonished him and the child had risen against the mother and slayed its agent, for the mother is forever indestructible.

They were dead now - the soldier, and the 64-year old lady, and the little politician would not be far behind!

There was a powerful knock on the bathroom door.

"Kholo, kholo! Darwaja kholo!"

Jasbir did his best imitation of a female voice.

"Bheetar mein lady hai!"

There was doubt and hesitation on the outside. The heavy pounding continued, but the metal door and the metal latch stood their ground. Finally, the voices moved away.

Jasbir looked from a corner of the glazed bathroom window. They had dragged Manjit out to a spot about twenty feet from the compartment. He was on his knees. His white turban lay sprawled and he looked dazed - barely conscious. Nobody in the compartment had moved. Nobody had uttered a word except one man and the only words he had said was, "jo kiya hai uskey liye bharo!"

The entourage stepped back as one of the goons brought his lathi down with full might on Manjit’s now exposed and very vulnerable head. The white turban got splattered with blood. The blood somehow looked different - it looked more pink than red.

Jasbir tried to focus his consciousness not on the unfolding atrocity outside the fuzzy window but on the words he had heard elsewhere - words that seldom failed him. He whispered.

"....Says Nanak, God alone is now my refuge. He will help me as He did his Saints."

The smell of kerosene filled the surroundings. Somebody lit a match.

Jasbir continued to whisper doggedly.

"I have regained my Power, my bonds are broken and all options are open unto me. Nanak, everything is in Thine hands. It is only Thou who can assist Thyself."

* * *

The pack of wolves moved on - absolutely determined to demonstrate its power to excise and feast upon the flesh of the Body’s most virile organ without the slightest compunction!

"Look ma, no shame!"

The children of darkness wore a khadi disguise on that day and the days that followed.

Those few days - which were too many days to every one of those who were considered too few to matter in that ocean of humanity!

Or its look-alike!

The children of darkness headed for the Gurudwaras - to preempt resistance from those who were being singled out then! The children of darkness carried iron rods and they carried gasoline and they carried kerosene. They carried swords and they carried machetes. They carried cricket bats and they carried various assorted weapons, real and improvised.

It was teamwork - in a country which is always at odds with itself, except at such times, when it really comes together as a team!

Jasbir smiled ruefully. The teams had worked more efficiently than the best-oiled of his engines. They had certainly worked better than the teams of hundred or so cops at every station - who watched impassively when they were not actively collaborating.

The teams were synchronized. When a shop was looted, the first team would kill and clear, the second team would break locks, the third team would loot and carry and the final team would set it on fire. There was a curfew in place - which was worth a bit less than the paper on which it was proclaimed. And there was a professional army which was made to watch - whose hands were tied on the orders of politicians.

Such was the rule of the law as mobs roamed and ferocity followed and devouring fellow humans became the accepted code of behavior!

In days to come, there would be sham commissions holding sham inquiries in sham settings and there would be inane commissions replacing sham commissions and toothless courts issuing court orders and more toothless courts quashing court orders and there would be political maneuvers and there would be coercion and lastly, there would be the desire to salvage what was left rather than keep on with the perpetual struggle with a system with components more concerned with hiding the truth than exposing the guilty.

In days to come, there would be evasions. There would be wishy-washiness. There would be blame-shifting. There would be spins.

In days to come, there would be everything but accountability.

In 1947, Jasbir’s parents had taken refuge by crossing over the border. What could he cross now?

And how does one cross the borders of hearts and minds which appear to spring out of nowhere overnight?

His cousin, who had been visiting a Hindu neighbor, had survived - with shorn hair and after dressing up in women’s clothes - if one could call it surviving for what those changes meant to him. There had been others who had been less lucky. For some, it was the hair which got chopped off and for some it was the head that was carrying those hairs and for some, it had been a head adorned with the garland of a burning tire. Some had hid in Hindu households. People sought refuge where they could find - even among the burning dead bodies of the Cremation Ghat.

Jasbir felt a surge of anger rushing through every particle of his body. He loved this country, his country. But in that short period of time, he had forgotten to smile - like his dad had done thirty seven years ago. His sanctuary had transformed into a slaughter house - and he had become its prisoner.

Out of somewhere, his late dad’s words came back to his rescue.

"Hume mitti me mila diya tha aur hum phir se sona ban kar dikha diye hain!"

Ashes to ashes!

Dust to dust!

And gold to gold!

With silent lips, Jasbir whispered the words he always did when the lump appeared unbearable - words which brought a sense of peace, like they were doing right now.

"Na Ko Bairee Nahe Bigaana Sagal Sang Hum Ko Ban Aaee.
Jo Prabh Keeno So Bhal Manieo Eh Sumat Sadhu Te Paaee.
Sab Meh Rav Rehaa Prabh Ekae Pekh Pekh Nanak Bigsaaee..."

Jasbir ended his break, and resumed working on the job at hand.