You don’t feel it first. Overlapping stretches of green wheat fields fold into one another for uninterrupted distances, interposed with bright yellow splashes of mustard tillage, penciled through by brindle paths leading to villages big and small, poor and prosperous. Punjab. A land of war and conquest with long memories. Memories of Islamic invasions that cost a lot of blood and tears.
Memories of a Sikh empire that stretched all the way to Kabul. And memories of a military operation against Jarnail Singh Bhindranwale and his heavily armed group of separatist fighters who made their last stand at the Golden Temple in Amritsar, the holiest of holy shrines. Memories of gunfire and death, which turned the green fields of Punjab into the killing fields of an elusive Khalistan. “Khalistan is real. It will become a reality,” asserts Amritpal Singh, the new messiah of Khalistan, who shot to national television by storming the small police station in Ajnala; he has been styled Bhindranwale 2.0 by hyperbolic policemen, press and people.
“Khalistan will happen, not in my lifetime, but it will,” imagines a silver-bearded former policeman, who had fought terrorists during the militancy and has a bullet in his skull, which he carries as
a token of a tumultuous past.
“Khalistan will come into being, we won’t give up our fight,” affirms former militant Kanwarpal Singh, who took up the gun in 1984 after army action and did time in Central Jail Amritsar in 1996 for a year.
Yet, in Punjab’s pastoral expanse, there is no harvest of fear. There is no sign of Khalistan on the horizon, or of a new generation picking up AK-47s to take on the might of the Indian state. Attacks on police establishments were amateurish and ineffective.
The grenade attack on the Sarhali police station in Tarn Taran, once the womb of terror in the 1980s and 90s, was a flop although cops picked up the attackers soon after. “It was an old Soviet piece of ordnance, which didn’t even explode,” says Gurmeet Chauhan, SSP, Tarn Taran, whose office chair is routinely swept for explosives before he enters his room; sticky bombs were favourites of Khalistani fighters once. “The youth don’t want Khalistan, they want to study and go abroad,” he observes. Says a retired police officer, who has a sinecure in the state government: “There is restlessness for sure, because of unemployment, drugs and crime. But Punjab’s youth don’t want terrorism. It is a new generation altogether,” he says.
The officer could well be right. “We aren’t demanding Khalistan,” affirms Balwinder Singh, spokesman of the Quami Insaf Morcha (Protest for National Justice), which has been blocking the Mohali-Chandigarh Road for the past two months. The morcha is for the release of Bandi Singhs—nine convicted militants who remain in prison even after their sentences have expired.
The Idea of Khalistan is ridden with contradictions, depending on whom you ask. “Our ultimate aim is a place where Sikhs are not slaves, where our culture is free, and we do not have to worry about our future generations not being secure”, is Amritpal’s definition. “It is the Sikh homeland. ‘Khalsa,’ which means ‘pure’,” explains Balwinder.
Every scene in today’s Punjab drama is subtitled Khalistan. At the morcha venue, the poster boys of Khalistan are Bhindranwale, assassins of former Chief Minister Beant Singh, Amritpal et al. On display are volumes on Bhindranwale, the history of Namdharis, Sikh politics and the Justice Ranjit Singh Commission report on the desecration of Guru Granth Sahib. Balwinder denies the movement has
a leader: “This is a reformatory, not a cemetery.” He wears a shabby shirt, un-ironed pants and dusty rubber slippers. “We don’t have much money. People donate what they can; we get maybe around `30,000 a day,” he admits. On the site, a tableau of Sikh history erected on a tractor-trolley portrays a beheaded warrior, the walled-in children of Guru Gobind Singh, and other martyrs; significantly Bhindranwale isn’t included in the protest tableau.
In spite of the Khalistani flags fluttering in the desultory breeze, the morcha is derivative of the farmers’ dharna, which laid siege to Delhi and forced the Central government to buckle. Here, there seems to be no danger of that, either to the Central or state government.
A young Nihang in a blue tunic is grooming a brown horse, which is contentedly munching away on hay. The afternoon sun is warm; teams hand out bowls of buttermilk to thirsty souls. Large cutouts of Deep Sidhu—model, singer, actor, activist who raised the Tricolour at the Red Fort during the farmers’ protest and died in a road accident last February—are ubiquitous. Sidhu founded Waris Punjab De (the heirs of Punjab). That heir is now Amritpal.
Bandi Singhs—literally Sikhs in bondage—has become a political platform to be seized by ousted parties. The Shiromani Akali Dal (SAD) has started a signature campaign. Harsimrat Kaur Badal, the SAD MP from Bathinda, has been castigating BJP’s promise to release the Singhs made on the 550th birth anniversary of Guru Nanak Dev in 2019—it “has hurt the sentiments of the Sikh community worldwide”. Politicians love to fish in troubled waters. Amritpal’s support base has grown partly due to the disenchantment for political parties and religious organisations such as the Shiromani Gurdwara Parbandhak Committee (SGPC), the body that manages the affairs of gurdwaras.
The Congress, BJP and SAD blame Punjab’s AAP government for the “deteriorating law and order in the state”. The leader of the Opposition in the Punjab Assembly, Partap Singh Bajwa of the Congress, points out that no police station was stormed even during terrorism. “No case has been registered after people with guns and swords attacked a police station injuring many cops. If the Bhagwant Mann government wishes to boost the morale of the Punjab Police, it must at least register a case against the attackers,” he says, referring to the Ajnala seige by Amritpal and his followers.
Senior BJP leader Rajinder Mohan Singh Chhina stresses that peace in Punjab must be protected at any cost. Malvinder Singh Kang, chief spokesman of AAP in Punjab, defends the administration by saying, “In the last 15 years, the political classes of the state have patronised the criminals. Since our government came to power, we are putting them behind bars, be it gangsters or any person taking law into their hand. The government will not allow any communal tension. As far as Amritpal Singh is concerned, the law is same for everyone and it will take its own course.”
Chhina too blames Amritpal for using the Guru Granth Sahib as a shield to rake up confrontation with New Delhi and issuing open threats to Home Minister Amit Shah. “Amritpal has violated the maryada (code of conduct). Punjab’s weak AAP government is failing to contain his radical utterances against the unity and integrity of the country,” he says. Disenchantment with AAP, which rode to a record victory in the state just a year ago, is on the rise. Two young villagers from Rataul, Pritam Singh and Randeep Singh, explain that in the old days, if one young man picked up weapons, others would follow him. They think that whatever development has happened is the reason why it doesn’t happen now.
“After this government came, many youth have died, including Sidhu Moosewala and kabaddi player Sandeep Nangal Ambianwala,” says Pritam. They are convinced that Amritpal is on the right track by asking youth to follow their religion. They want Punjab’s youth to become ‘Amritdhari Sikhs’—a purer and conservative form of faith.
Amritpal is an ‘Amritdhari’ himself. He receives visitors at home in his village Jallupur Khera near Amritsar, tucked away amid wheat fields deep in the countryside. The mud-walled house, reinforced with new brick walls and a large dome mounted with Khalistan flags, is bustling with women and children.
A furry puppy named Jaggu is busy running around, sniffing the paved yard. Armed guards in white tunics and blue turbans, with bandoliers slung across their shoulders, mill around with guns: the weapons are outdated single-bolt action rifles or double-barrelled shotguns. They are mostly from small towns and villages—a farmer, a small-town financier. A portly bearded gentleman wearing
a kirpan, who claims to be Amritpal’s uncle from Canada, says he won’t be going back. Isn’t there a lot of money coming from Canada? “Just contributions from Sikhs who oppose persecution,” is the glib reply.
He echoes Amritpal’s cause. “Mine is a fight for the survival of Punjab and Sikhs, who are always at its core. It is a fight for the whole Punjabi community,” says the Waris Punjab De boss. Amritpal is six-ft-three-inches tall; a thin, restless, bare-legged man in a long white robe and dastar, carrying a large ornate kirpan. He has a reflective face rimmed by a sparse beard and a zealot’s eyes. He is a mystery, but not an enigma. There is talk of him as a political prop. “Where did he suddenly appear from? Nobody had heard of him before. He was working in a Dubai transport company, was clean-shaven and wore normal clothes. He appeared on the scene suddenly after Deep Sidhu died,” says a retired DGP. Bhindranwale is a recurring leitmotif in the Punjab narrative. For former militant Narien Singh, who lived in the Golden Temple with Bhindranwale, the separatist leader is still an icon.
“Sant Jarnail Singh was very polite while talking to people. Only while giving lectures was he aggressive. People who listened to him would get convinced.’’ He recalls Bhindranwale’s follower Joginder Singh expressing concerns over the future of his daughters; Bhindranwale gave him `5 as shagan—that’s all he had then— and engaged his son with Joginder’s daughter, and told him ‘now you are free; come serve the community with me’.
An unnamed police officer points out, “Amritpal looks like Bhindranwale, and uses the same methods and tactics. Bhindranwale attacked a police station in Amritsar.” The deadly charisma of the slain terrorist is alive and well in the minds of his old followers. The bullet-headed ex-cop calls him sant (saint), saying he was a holy man who fought for a Sikh homeland.
“But didn’t you fight terrorists?”
“Only in direct encounters and not fake ones.”
The legacy of terrorism in Punjab is complex: the spot where patriotism ends and nationalism begins is blurry. The police are demoralised by politicians who fail to protect them when needed the most. Says a former senior officer: “Policemen who fought terrorists are in jail, thanks to rights activists.” Former DG SK Sharma recalls, “The police force, which was trained from the 1980s to fight terrorism, became ‘detrained’ in the late 1990s. If the government doesn’t back the police, they get disheartened, which is what happened, be it the incidents of Behbal Kalan, Bargari and now Ajanla.” On October 14, 2015, the police opened fire at the people protesting against the desecration of the Guru Granth Sahib at Behbal Kalan. Two protesters, Gurjeet Singh and Krishan Bhagwan Singh, were killed.
“If governments start weighing law and order in terms of politics and votes, they won’t take such incidents seriously,’’ says Sharma. Many officers, who contributed to wiping out radicals, feel that the state has been unstable and will remain so, but chances of terrorism’s revival in its previous form are remote. A serving officer warns of the growing nexus between terrorists and gangsters. “Terrorists get sophisticated weapons from the ISI, and give gangsters AN-94s, Assault rifles, C-30 pistols, Berettas, GLOCK 17s, and RPGs,’’ he says. But all isn’t lost. Special DGP (Law and Order), Punjab, Arpit Shukla is certain that the police are competent to handle unrest. “It will be brought under control and there will be no laxity. We have dealt with similar situations in the past,’’ he concurs. Shukla says terrorists won’t get the public support they enjoyed during the militancy. A policeman posted in Tarn Taran agrees.
“They used to come and go as they wished,” he recalls in a rough rural dialect. In the 80s, he was
a child living in a small hamlet in the area; the villagers would offer terrorists food and shelter. He continues, “They came on motorcycles with guns, and did not fear anyone.” Terrorism may have been defanged now, and its return to Punjab seems unlikely, but the shadows haven’t faded. Kanwarpal, now spokesman of radical outfit Dal Khalsa, jokes that militants never become ‘former’. He remembers, “I joined the armed Khalistan movement in 1984 when I was just 19. There was no option left for me after the Indian state attacked the Golden Temple. It was a straight fight between Sikhs and Delhi.” He admits getting arms training in Pakistan.
“I joined the Babbar Khalsa International and lived in Pakistan for many months. I made several trips back to India on missions assigned by my leaders.” But he doesn’t divulge more, sticking to, “We’re still struggling for Khalistan.”
“What do you mean by Khalistan?”
“A sovereign Punjab, independent from India, which is for all Punjabis,” is the pat reply.
“What about the Punjab in Pakistan? Will it be part of Khalistan?”
Kanwarpal answers sotto voce: “There are hardly any Sikhs left on the Pakistan side of Punjab. So it isn’t Punjab. In 1947, we joined India, but nobody mentions the pain of the Sikhs. Our struggle is based on broken promises. The movement is still alive. Amritpal Singh is its byproduct. This movement laid the ground for him. He is today’s face,’’ says Kanwarpal, though Amritpal says, “Pakistani Punjabis are facing the same crises. We are saying Lahore is integral part of Punjab. When we talk about Khalistan, we don’t exclude areas that were part of Punjab at a point,” he says.
Kanwarpal doesn’t like to be called a terrorist. Only a freedom fighter.
“But does a freedom fighter kill innocent people? You killed not just cops, but also innocent Hindus.”
“Revenge is powerful and Punjabi Hindus were Delhi’s ambassadors,” he justifies mass murder.
He, however, believes the Khalistan movement will never return in the same form because a large section of Punjabis is not on board. He adds that they are also unhappy with Delhi, which Amritpal identifies with the “Hindi-speaking belt”. The Waris Punjab De leader cannot be dismissed as a wannabe Bhindranwale. The new radical celebrity is a canny strategist, having latched on to the mass drug crisis among Punjab youth. He is working in villages with families of addicts and warning peddlers to stay away. He prefers not to raid them, but let the cops know about their activities first. “If they still continue to sell drugs, we don’t spare them,” he says. Jobanpreet Singh, who works at a rural private hospital, says, “Amritpal is doing good work by dissuading youth from using drugs, which is the government’s task. This is why we support him”.
In a single week of January, 258 drug smugglers were arrested and 194 cases registered. The Magnitude of Substance Use survey in 2019 counted 40 lakh drug users in the state. A 2022 survey concluded that more than three million people, or around 15.4 percent of Punjab’s population, are drug users. There are reportedly 70 gangs engaged in contract killings, extortion and kidnapping. Despite promises by two successive governments, there is 16 percent unemployment after higher secondary education in the state.
The promise of Canada, however, beckons: English coaching institutes have mushroomed across Punjab to prepare young men and women for a life in the ‘promised land’. DS Rataul, an educationist at Khalsa College, Amritsar, says the situation is different from the 80s and 90s. “The radical forces won’t get the support they did during Bhindranwale’s time. The youth today is more concerned about employment and education. They are flying to Canada, the US and Australia, rather than picking up weapons.” When once the ISI could reportedly recruit a young uneducated Sikh teenager by offering a pair of adidas sneakers, today the gun and grenade is not an attraction for youth or their families.
The small village of Rataul in Tarn Taran is a testimony to the change. It was the site of a fierce encounter between the police and terrorists in May 1991, which ended in the death of DIG Ajit Singh and all the militants. A witness to the gun battle is Gurnam Singh, a wizened old man wearing a turban, a threadbare kurta and pyjamas—he was young when the police surrounded the village where the terrorists had been hiding for three days. Sitting beneath a pipal tree, which had witnessed the deadly fight, and a push cart vendor nearby frying samosas in his degchi, Gurnam recalls the DIG herding the villagers into the gurdwara for safety before engaging the terrorists. This time it is not the smell of cordite, but of savouries that wafts in the air.
There will be blood: A timeline of Sikh militancy in Punjab
1977 Shiromani Akali Dal passes Anandpur Sahib resolution, seeking autonomy for Punjab
April 13, 1978 Nirankari-Sikh clash in Amritsar leaves 13 Sikhs dead, pushing Punjab into the dark phase of terrorism and bringing Bhindranwale into spotlight
1980 On April 24, chief of Sant Nirankari sect, Gurbachan Singh, shot dead in Delhi. Ranjit Singh, member of the Baba Deep Singh Ranjit Akhara, is convicted.
August 1978 Radical Sikh outfit Dal Khalsa comes into being
1981 Lala Jagat Narian, editor of Hind Samachar Group and former Punjab minister, shot dead
Bhindrawale is arrested in the Narian murder case. In protest, members of Dal Khalsa hijack Delhi-Srinagar flight and take it to Lahore. The organisation is banned in 1982, but stages a comeback in 1998.
1984 Operation Blue Star neutralises Bhindranwale and his armed supporters
October 31, 1984 PM Indira Gandhi is assassinated by her Sikh security guards, Beant Singh and Sabwant Singh
1982 Bhindranwale and his group make Golden Temple complex their residence
1985 Congress MP Lalit Makhan is shot in Delhi
1986 Operation Black Thunder I is conducted in April and Black Thunder II in May 1998 to flush out extremists from Golden Temple
General Arunkumar Shridhar Vaidya, army Chief at the time of Op Blue Star, is killed in Pune
1995 Former Punjab CM Beant Singh is assassinated in Chandigarh