The passing of Admiral Laxminarayan Ramdas evokes memories from 1984 of a different India. Paradoxically, the only part he played in the events which evoked my recollections was possibly a conscious decision to look past what his other half and her associates were engaged in. That was the era when those in the regime were more sure-footed and did not shout ‘treason’ at every step to consolidate their position.
That year, exactly four decades ago, had dawned in India in the backdrop of Jarnail Singh Bhindranwale being openly revered as a sant or saint by large sections in Punjab. Using this image, he had entered the Akal Takht, the highest temporal seat of the Sikhs, and fortified it.
The head priest of the Takht protested but was ignored and both the Shiromani Gurudwara Prabandhak Committee and Shiromani Akali Dal chose silence as the safest path. He had claimed earlier that the Sikhs never demanded a separate state of Khalistan but if the government granted them the wish, they would be willing to secede.
His posture became less nuanced after moving into the Akal Takht: “It is for the government to make up its mind whether it wishes to remain with us or not,” Bhindranwale said.
There was no doubt that Indira Gandhi had lost her hold over the fundamentalists and the moderates had retreated far into the background. Eventually, Indira Gandhi made up her mind and began firming up plans for launching Operation Blue Star.
Finally, it was the gruesome assassination of Romesh Chandra, the editor of the Hind Samachar group — his father Lala Jagat Narain was also murdered by Sikh terrorists — in May 1984, which forced Indira Gandhi to seize control of the Golden Temple.
Ramchandra Guha wrote in India After Gandhi, that Operation Blue Star “left a collective wound in the psyche of the Sikhs, a deep sense of suspicion of the government of India.”
That shared grief erupted on October 31 in the action of Delhi Police constables, Beant Singh and Satwant Singh and the rest is well-known, including the gory carnage that followed which left thousands dead in Delhi, Kanpur, Bokaro and even distant cities like Indore and Coimbatore, which witnessed uncalled for violence against Sikhs.
The retributive assassination of Indira Gandhi was followed by another round of vengeful killings on a mass scale, first in the Indian capital, and later in other cities.
The State was solely engrossed in managing the biggest funeral in several decades, this one made more poignant due to the circumstances that led to it. Delhi was burning much before her pyre was lit. Whichever direction one turned to, there was smoke billowing. All stories that arrived by word of mouth and courtesy brave young reporters of that time, spoke of dead bodies either in heaps or in scatters.
The television screen of the only state channel available then, was fixated on the face of the deceased leader and on dignitaries who arrived to pay homage. Rioters, lynch brigades, and arsonists roamed those streets where the police should have been patrolling.
Interventions from the civil society usually take the courage of only a handful. Initially, just a small group assembled outside what was then, and still so, the little known Lajpat Bhawan, a property of the Servants of the People Society, established by Lala Lajpat Rai in his Lahore home in 1921 and later shifted to Delhi after partition. This was in addition to ‘peace’ (and patrolling) committees in middle-class colonies across the city.
They walked in the direction of smoke that initially appeared to be across the Ring Road and beyond the Moolchand Hospital. Later, the smoke took them towards Bhogal and on the way they came across a mob breathing fire and ranting against Sikhs.
Mobs are notoriously also weak-kneed and run short at the slightest bit of challenge. What made this group conspicuous, doing little but walking, reasoning and imploring with folded hands, was that it also included a man in saffron. In the India of that time, robes of this colour did not herald a zealot donning it. Instead it was the colour of faith.
Swami Agnivesh, was not a guru, but an interventionist disillusioned with politics and much before such phrases caught on, was mainly a champion of marginal causes: rescuing child labour being one of those. After a couple of hours, in the course of which the group successfully sent back several marauding gangs with little but their persuasion, they assembled at the starting point, but this time inside the premises of this very Gandhian complex.
Also read: Admiral Ramdas, Former Navy Chief Who Fought for Peoples’ Rights, Passes Away at 90
Without any formal call being taken, this became the daily grind and as the group swelled, they travelled to far-flung areas from where ‘bad’ or even ‘worse’ news emanated. They drove their own cars, packing into the Fiats, Ambassadors, Standards and the odd Marutis. They went to distant localities and when a day or two later, they returned in the evening after seeing the grotesque scenes in Trilokpuri, all of them knew that it was time to shift gears.
Spontaneity was the cornerstone of the effort and soon hundreds were assembling every morning at Lajpat Nagar. The Gandhian managers of the premises, threw open every large vacant hall or room to store items that could be distributed as relief – cereals, pulses, cooking oil, utensils. Others came with clothes, warm, just enough to shield modesty and most importantly, turbans that had been pulled and set to fire or trampled upon, by the murderous hordes.
There was no boss giving directions. Everyone took their own decisions with minor consultations to avoid duplication. For many in the city, especially in Lajpat Nagar — originally allotted to refugee families from Pakistan — this was partition once more.
As a young aspiring journalist/researcher/do-not-know-what, I too got involved, drawn by a doyen of the civil society. A morning meeting where ‘work’ was sought and ‘allotted’ was followed by different groups following different tasks. Some fanned out to gurudwaras across the city where hundreds of displaced and targeted families took refuge from the killers.
A handful focused on providing food and distributing clothes to provide relief from the onset of winter, while others gathered information. There was much of that needed: how many had not survived the onslaught, which localities were worst hit and above all, who were the marauders.
Someone came up with a name that stuck: Nagrik Ekta Manch. The word was passed around. Obviously well-heeled ones too trooped in, and said that they were leaving behind a car with the driver waiting for directions and the tank topped up. Known faces abounded, a writer, an artist, a Doordarshan anchor, a big industrialist, university professors, environmentalists, a retired army general and serving government officers.
Along with a noted historian of today, then an aspiring one, I led a team every day to a resettlement colony on the western fringe of the metropolis – some pockets were abandoned, but in some, the Sikhs had stayed behind but were unable to go back to making their daily bread.
I can extol on the group’s professional diversity almost endlessly, digging into recesses of memory, but that is not the principal ‘story’.
Lifelong friendships grew. The ‘kaali kitab’, as the slim People’s Union for Civil Liberties-People’s Union for Democratic Rights (PUCL-PUDR) booklet, Who Are The Guilty?, with its black cover, emerged from this collective. Petitions were submitted to the government. Affidavits were filed and submitted to the Misra Commission and other official enquiries. Conversations moved to houses of the unspoken ‘leaders’. On return journeys from distant colonies, refugee camps and shelters, volunteers often halted for a quick snack at the houses of the ‘elders’.
Among the elders, there was one who was particularly friendly with the younger ones. Initially we addressed her by the nickname: Lolly. Only after a few days it got known, she was Lalita Ramdas, married to a senior naval officer, who as we know became the naval chief six years later.
NEM, as the never-registered body was called, became the fountainhead of relief and rehabilitation plans of the displaced, investigation, collating and submission of evidence. It adopted a pronounced anti-government stance and in time, political divergences became pronounced.
It was barely forty years, but no accusations were hurled. No slurs were heard, no accusations were made that Khalistanis were being promoted and that the activities were anti-national. Moral and indignation may not have been endorsed by the State, but there was space for it.
The reason why the passing of Admiral Ramdas serves a reminder to the gory months of 1984, besides it being the 40th anniversary year, was because such responses are unthinkable in today’s India. The regime then, disagreed with accusations made, stonewalled demands for proper investigations and rejected calls for punishing the accused, but at no point did they disparage critics and delegitimise criticism.
Also read: 1984, the State, a Carnage and What the Trauma of a People Means to India Today
Almost two decades later and thereafter, the pogrom in Gujarat in 2002 began being justified in the name of 1984 – “if they could have gone away with 1984, we are entitled to 2002,” goes the creepy contention even now. Rajiv Gandhi retained those ‘tainted’ by reports on the gore of November 1984, but did not scream that a foreign-backed, media-led cartel of liberandus were out to destabilise the nation.
The year 1984 has a long list of events for which there are no pleasant memories. But that era had a certain characteristic whose disappearance in today’s India can be bemoaned.
It was indeed a ‘different’ country then. A serving, celebrated naval officer’s wife, and connected with an NGO too, was involved in what was essentially a humanistic intervention against the grain of the government’s thinking at that time, to assist victims of the anti-Sikh carnage after Indira Gandhi’s assassination.
There were times when impromptu meetings were held at the stopgap residential arrangement provided by the Indian Navy for the Ramdas family and the Admiral on return from office, excused himself to the adjacent room.
No fingers were pointed at him by the government for providing space to discuss matters that were against ruling party policies – he was even made the chief within a few years!
This is unthinkable now. The State is more paranoid and driven by an exclusivist ideology than it has ever been.
No nation can avoid misfortune. Mostly, the trauma of 1984 was self-created. But there was still space for people who disagreed and flagged dissenting views on every occasion.
Like 1984, this year too is an election year. The verdict of 1984 remains India’s most one-sided ever, but it took less than 24 months for the regime to start unraveling.
Despite brute majority in Parliament, the Opposition, civil society and media had space and liberty to remain faithful to their credo. Will this be possible in today’s India?
As a role model for people who wish to stay imprisoned by their conscience, like him, Admiral Ramdas, after retirement spoke for disarmament, civil liberties, equality, and more, but above all, for humanity.
His presence will be felt eternally by even those who only heard or read about his bravery, on the battlefield and outside it. This makes his family’s sense of loss not just personal.
Nilanjan Mukhopadhyay is an author and journalist based in Delhi-NCR. His latest book is ‘The Demolition, The Verdict and The Temple: The Definitive Book on the Ram Mandir Project’, and he’s also the author of ‘Sikhs: The Untold Agony of 1984’ and ‘Narendra Modi: The Man, The Times’. His X handle is @NilanjanUdwin.
