Pavit Kaur - Stolen Years: A Memoir of Simranjit Singh Manns Imprisonment

A huge shamiana had been erected and caterers were serving dinner, but on that cold November night in 1989, very few out of the hundreds of people collected at my Wade Bhuas house in Amritsar were eating after the parliamentary election results had been declared. Victory, euphoria, and anticipation suffused the air. My father, Simranjit Singh Mann, had been released from the infamous Bhagalpur jail after five long years, and was being flown into Amritsar that night.

Amidst all this exhilaration, I stood quietly apart, too stunned to eat. I could feel nothing but intense relief the hard month of campaigning had paid off. Papa had won the parliamentary seat in Punjab from Tarn Taran with the highest margin of votes ever in the country. He had virtually been carried by a whole wave of people determined to get him out of prison.

Fighting and winning this election seemed to have been the last hope for his release. The people were determined to exercise their vote for this man who had sacrificed his career, home, and family for the indignities the Sikhs had suffered during and after Blue Star.

I had campaigned for my father over weekends, and had even taken a few days off from school. I accompanied my aunts, Inderjit and Daljit (I will refer to them as Wade and Chhote Bhuaji) on the campaign trail and nervously faced thousands of people. The first time I spoke into the microphone all I could manage was a stammered, Please bring my papa home. Later, when I realized I should have been asking for votes I would say Please vote for my papa so he can come home to us; a sea of hands would go up and people would nod their heads and reassure me of their support.

At one such gathering, an old man from the crowd rose after I had made my plea, came up onto the makeshift stage, put his hand on my head and with tears in his eyes said, Not only will we get your father home for you, we will walk barefoot to vote for Simranjit Singh Mann. I tried, but I couldnt stop myself and there, standing in front of a gathering of thousands, I broke down and cried. Sure enough, thousands went to the polling booths barefoot.

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 arrested29 November 1984at 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 radiosexcept for sporadic broadcasts from the BBCand 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.