Sukhjit Guldasta, Part 1: Khajooraan
A translation of Sukhjit’s short story as a tribute to his multifaceted career.
The many lives of Sukhjit
Sukhjit Singh was born in 1961, in the village of Manewal near Machhiwara in Ludhiana District, to a family of devout Namdhari Jatt agriculturists. His parents were deeply dedicated devotees of the Namdhari Guru Jagjit Singh, who had arranged their marriage personally.
Growing up farming with his father, Sukhjit was a regular member of gurdwara Bhaini Sahib's congregation, where Guru Jagjit Singh hand-picked him to oversee land encroachments for the construction of Deras, as well as the protection of Namdhari smallholders. He performed his duty diligently and effectively, eventually elected the Sarpanch of Bhaini Sahib. During the violent years of militancy, he managed a careful balance negotiating with militant and police forces in the midst of protracted conflict, ensuring Bhaini Sahib remained a neutral ground for both sides.
Then the day arrived that was to mark a devastating and total change in his life. He had gone to oversee the land-grabbing of a slum in Ludhiana for the construction of a hospital (now named after the Namdhari Satguru Partap Singh). The very moment a bulldozer began razing down a hut, a little girl screamed and ran back inside. Assuming she wished to retrieve a toy, Sukhjeet rushed to chastise her and pull her away, for he wished to complete his Guru’s mission on time. But upon entering the crumbling building, he beheld the child holding a small kitten in her hands and rushing outside. He was so greatly moved by the guileless purity and selflessness of this loving gesture that he began to introspect and question the meaning of his actions. This, combined with the Machiavellian machinations of his political rivals within the ranks of the Namdhari society, provoked such disillusionment in his heart that he decided to abandon his position and the power it had brought him, and embark instead on an itinerant quest of self-discovery.
He would eventually reach the banks of Ganges and take up the name of Swami Suraj Partap Singh, studying the Vedas. This gnostic tryst with the Sanatan was brief, giving way to a storied literary career. He began publishing poetry and short stories about the realities he had witnessed in his life, meeting with widespread critical acclaim. In 2022, he received the Sahitya Akademi award for his work 'Main Ayanghosh Nahin.'
This singular life, defined by a fearless iconoclasm, an attentiveness towards the world that was empathetic even in cynicism, a piety that was increasingly interiorized and quiet, a clear gaze and a clear heart, came to an end on February 12, 2024. After enduring a brief illness, Sukhjit passed away at the age of 62 at PGI hospital in Chandigarh.
For the Khalsa Chronicle, it is a pleasure and a privilege to present a translation of his short story ‘Khajooraan,’ which tackles many issues that have continued to trouble contemporary Punjab, including youth suicide, entrenched corruption, ideological schisms, the perversity and endurance of faith, etc. This translation forms the first half of a guldastaa, a twin-petalled bouquet of Sukhjit’s short stories.
Khajooraan
A great disquiet loomed in the village. Five deaths in four days. Young men, all five, ages twenty to twenty-two. Vigilance seemed to prevail over mourning: half the village was busy patrolling the bridges, searching for bodies, while the other half watched over its young sons.
The Comrade1 stood over the bridge, griping about the godmen, saints, miracle workers, astrologers who had promptly set up shop in the village. First, those boys who had forsaken their homes. And now, these miracle workers, busy spreading a panic among the villagers. Were the local Bhai2 and Pandit3 not enough to scare them?
The Khalsa4 expressed his support, and the Comrade turned to him. “Tell me, how is this happening under your rule, Khalsa?” the Comrade asked.
“I have told you many times, it is not our government,” the Khalsa retorted.
Whenever the two got together, they were sure to end up in an argument. “Let it be, this isn’t the right occasion,” requested the Sarpanch5. The Sarpanch was being facetious, of course, for he was fond of their bickering. The Comrade and the Khalsa cast a sour look towards the Sarpanch, who was the Minister’s favorite.
The Comrade and the Khalsa’s friendship confounded the village: whenever the two met, they would jostle like bulls, and yet they remained fast friends. Were someone to complain about the Comrade’s irreverent manner, The Khalsa would be quick to spring to his defense. “Not at all,” he would reply. “The Comrade is a wise man. He knows plenty about gurbani6 and Sikh history, much more than me.” And if someone told the Comrade that the Khalsa found fault in every word he said, the Comrade would speak in his favor: “No, the Khalsa is an upstanding fellow. Everyone ought to be a Sikh. Deep in my heart, I have a great respect for him.”
Although the two professed very different ideologies, given the deaths that had struck the village, and the nervous bustle it had provoked among the villagers, the two had decided to forego their differences. Otherwise, whenever they met, the Comrade would be sure to taunt the Khalsa, “Have you even been to Chamkaur Sahib?” And the Khalsa would reply irritably, “Yes, seventeen times. I have told you this twenty times, have I not? And yet you continue to badger me.”
The Comrade would reply, “I am quite aware, you know, there are many like you who go there simply to goggle at the marble heaped onto the shrines by kar-sewa7 volunteers.”
This would rile the Khalsa up. “Is there anything wrong in beautifying the gurdwaras?”
“Sure, they have turned each one into Rajasthan by piling Rajasthan’s marble onto it,” the Comrade would sneer, then joke, “The kar-sewa elders must have dug up Parshurama’s axe8. Now, since they couldn’t kill anyone with it, they had to put it to some use. They spared neither the ancient trees, nor the murals or architecture, from which the Sikhs could have drawn inspiration. I have no idea if they did it deliberately, or if they were lured into such wanton destruction.” And the Khalsa would be thrown into dismayed thought.
For his part, the Khalsa never missed a chance to rib the Comrade. “Over the last five years, I have noticed that you comrades are the only ones to stand up for the people. You pick up your red flags and raise slogans and march to Chandigarh, where you do your demonstrations and promptly receive a thrashing. What confuses me is that people still don’t vote for you.”
The Comrade’s rueful reply: “Khalsa ji, why do you pour salt on our wounds? We suffer because of factionalism. The other parties focus less on winning than on forming coalitions in their efforts to defeat us. But at least you admit us red-turbaned ones do fight for the downtrodden,” he would conclude, and the Khalsa’s face would fall.
Today, both of them wore troubled faces. The recent deaths had shaken the village, indeed, the whole area. A strange fear gripped all.
— — -
On Thursday morning, Teji had called out to his mother, twirling his keychain round his finger: “Jadu vir9 has called for me. I’m going out with him.” And his mother, still sleepy, had replied from the kitchen, “Fine, but don’t be out too long.” But, as Teji sped away on his motorcycle, his mother had stopped dead in her tracks. Panic struck her heart. Jadu? The pan slipped from her hands, and she ran out screaming, “O Teji!” The street stood deserted. She held onto the gate and looked around fearfully.
It had been a month since Teji’s cousin Jadu had leapt into the canal off the bridge to Powat and taken his own life. Why, then, would Teji say Jadu was calling for him?
The following hour that his mother spent making frantic enquiries on the phone proved futile. Finally, a relative found out Teji had jumped into the canal off the bridge to Katana.
On Friday, another boy, claiming Jadu was calling out to him, left home. An hour later, the same news: he too had jumped off the same bridge. Eyewitnesses confirmed they had seen the boy visit the big gurdwara and offer his prayers before calmly walking to the bridge. His motorcycle and shoes were discovered at the gurdwara.
And on Saturday, Jinder of the Gill household was caught standing on the bridge by his uncle, who was on his way to Doraha. He was barefoot, trousers rolled up to his knees, a kerchief tied over his head, humming a song and clapping merrily. The uncle brought his scooter to halt, turned, and asked Jinder, “What on earth are you doing?”
“Nothing, uncle,” came the reply. “I visited the gurdwara to perform some sewa10, had a meal, then came here for a stroll. Are you off to Doraha, uncle?”
“Yes, but you ought to return to the village now,” the uncle said gently. He had feared the worst, but Jinder’s affable manner seemed to have allayed his misgivings.
“Do me a favor, Uncle. Bring me a decent phone charger, not a cheap one.”
“Alright. Now get going,” the uncle instructed.
Jinder turned, and the uncle began kickstarting his scooter, breathing a sigh of relief. But before the scooter could start, a splash resounded from the canal. The uncle threw his scooter to the ground, distraught, hanging onto the bridge’s pole and calling out to him, “O Jindra!” He saw Jinder emerge from the rolling surface, waving him goodbye like he used to as a child off to school. The uncle raised an alarm and ran to the gurdwara, but Jinder had already drowned.
On Sunday morning, around eleven, another boy from village Bhaun arrived at the gurdwara, seeking a kar-sewa Baba’s11 counsel. “Baba ji, my mind is very agitated these days. Terrible dreams keep me awake.”
The Baba advised him to take a breviary from the bookcase and recite Chaupai Sahib12.
“How many times?”
“As many times as suits you.”
The boy washed his hand, covered his head, and began reciting from the breviary with great reverence. After quite a while, he returned to the Baba and said, “Baba ji, I have recited the paath13 eleven times.”
“Does your mind feel at peace, son?”
“Yes, Baba ji,” the boy replied. Then he asked, “Will the slabs be poured tomorrow? I will bring a band of volunteers to help with the renovations.”
The Baba blessed him. “Very well, may the Guru bless you. Make sure you’re on time.”
The boy put on his shoes, and took his motorcycle to the bridge. He placed his shoes, wallet and mobile phone on the motorcycle, turned toward the gurdwara and prostrated. Then he too jumped off the bridge.
— — -
That very evening, another boy from the same village enacted a more or less similar routine. The Baba revealed that Teji, too, had followed the same course of action before jumping off the bridge in the morning.
Now, if any boy expressed a desire to visit any major gurdwara, his household would spring into action, locking the motorcycles and hiding the keys. There were ten or fifteen boys who claimed they could hear Teji, Jadu, Jinder and others call out to them. They were all locked up by their parents inside their homes.
The stifling ambience of lamps, incense, the chants of tantriks14 worked up a profound dread among the villagers. The village gurdwara’s Bhai would perform a bhog15 at a house, then walk into another to recite an array of paaths. He would instruct grandmothers to sing hymns for protection, and advise them to recite Chaupai Sahib. He had his hands full. The same was the case with the local Pandit, stretched thin chanting the chalisa16 and performing havans.17
The kar-sewa Baba declared akhand paaths18 would be held at every spot which had witnessed a suicide. The Comrade said to the Khalsa, “The Baba will surely invite the youth to come offer prayers at the spot. If any one of them jumps into the canal, it would make no difference to the Baba. It will be the parents who will suffer. If I protest, I will be dismissed as a comrade. You are amritdhari19, you must take the lead.”
The Khalsa played his card, “So you do agree amritdharis are useful. Now admit the Ghadari20 babas were amritdharis too. The Ghadari babas took great inspiration from Sikh history, did they not?”
Piqued, the Comrade retorted, “Look here, Khalsa. The Ghadaris included amritdharis, and also Hindus and Muslims. They took inspiration from the Irish revolutionaries, as they did from Sikh history, as well as Indian mythology and civilization. I have showed their poems to you. When they spoke of marrying Heer,21 they spoke of marrying liberation. Now tell me, what do you make of that?”
The mention of Heer drew a chuckle from the Khalsa. “Fair enough. Who can beat you comrades in debates? I will go deal with the kar-sewa babas.”
“I’m not done,” the Comrade continued. “All the Ghadarites eventually became communists.”
“Alright, alright,” the Khalsa laughed, and rung up the kar-sewa babas. Wherever the village’s boys had died, the babas had erected tents and commenced with akhand paaths to ease the departed souls’ passage.
— — -
The Comrade summoned some rationalists. Upon discovering that Arsh, too, had been locked up in his room, they promptly decided to pay him a visit. Arsh used to frequent the rationalists’ meetings once. Arsh’s screams of agony now held his household in a harrowing grip. His family briefly unlocked his room, allowing Master Tarlochan Singh and Dalvir ‘tarksheel’22 to enter, and then locked the door again, afraid he might run out and jump into the canal.
It took a few moments before Arsh recognized the men. His room was in an abominable state. The afternoon’s meal was splattered all over the walls. Arsh embraced them, and said, “Please explain to my family that I cannot be saved.”
The rationalists replied in unison, “We are here to save you.”
“It seems you too are naïve, Master ji,” Arsh smiled. “Not one boy in this village will survive.” He flailed his hands like a drummer.
“What is the issue, Arsh? We can discuss it,” implored the rationalists.
“Discuss?” Arsh burst into laughter, and cupping his ear with his left hand, the right raised in the air, he sang, “You do not understand my malaise, O Vaidya / let go of my arm.”
The two rationalists were agitated by his state. They ventured another try. “Look here, Arsh, you are a bright young man. We haven’t the slightest idea what the matter with you is. But if you offer us an explanation, we may hope to understand you.”
Arsh sank into thought. Dalvir coaxed him, “My little brother, please sit. Let us talk.”
“The two of you can take a seat. I am in a hurry. Jinder’s about to arrive.”
“I never expected to see you turn out this way,” said Tarlochan, sitting down, dejected.
Arsh sighed, and sank to his knees. He requested, “Make me a promise. I will tell you everything. But then you will take me to the big gurdwara.”
Tarlochan considered the proposition, and replied, “Yes, Arsh. This is our promise to you. Arsh, keep nothing from us, and we will take you to the big gurdwara.”
Arsh grabbed a chair, and sat down. In a hushed tone, he disclosed, “You see, the stuff comes from Pakistan. They send the stuff after their maulvis23 have read their kalmas24. He who tries it once cannot hope to kick it. This is set in stone. It will take your life. The second thing set in stone is that we will be reborn as Muslims in Pakistan.” He kept quiet for a while, then added, “Jadu used to say one must go to the big gurdwara and perform an ardaas25 asking not to be born in Pakistan, but here.” He jumped up, and cried, “Oh! He calls out to me all day! It has driven me mad.”
Tarlochan nodded. “Hmm. Now I understand. I promise you, son. We will take to not only to the big gurdwara, but all the gurughars.”
— — -
Standing in the satth26, the Comrade and the Khalsa continued to tussle pointlessly over their ideological differences. The Comrade boasted, “What did I tell you? Look, it is the comrades who finally got to the root of the problem.”
The Khalsa replied, “The real root of the problem is known only to Waheguru.”
“Waheguru surely tells you. You are his favorite after all.”
“I was only speaking rhetorically,” the Khalsa protested. “Nothing has been resolved yet.”
“True. At least we know why the boys keep running off to the gurdwara,” concluded the Comrade.
A team of rationalists had reached the village. The Comrade’s son Gorky, and the Khalsa’s son Dalmegh Singh, accompanied the team house to house. They counselled every boy who claimed to hear voices, or wished to run off to the canal, convincing each one of them to be admitted to the hospital. With the help of the wise men of the village, the Comrade and the Khalsa arranged for the boys to be taken to the hospitals.
Seeing off the rationalists and returning to the satth, the two discovered the Sarpanch, the Pandit and the Bhai had all taken particular issue with the rationalists’ timely intervention.
“This is to be expected. After all, this disrupts their bread and butter,” remarked the Khalsa.
The Comrade added, “The revolution is yet to begin. The real battle is yet to be fought.” All turned their attention to him. He continued, “For a very long time, men on motorcycles used to slip into the village in the middle of the night, early in the morning. I noted their motorcycles’ numbers, and one day I handed them over to the local police station.”
“And then?” someone asked tensely.
“They began entering the village openly,” the Comrade said, his voice quaking.
“The authorities are all involved in this!” the Khalsa thundered.
The Comrade’s son Gorky, and the Khalsa’s son Dalmegh hurried to the satth. “A red-beaconed car’s27 passing by, with gunmen sitting inside,” Dalmegh informed them. “There is a jeep along with it, carrying the same men who come to the village on motorcycles to sell their stuff.”
“This is the battle I was talking about,” said the Comrade. The satth fell silent.
“They are the Minister’s men,” the Khalsa said. “They are the cause of this whole mess.”
“Should we not clear this filth away?” asked the Comrade.
Right then, the village’s Sarpanch, the Bhai, the Pandit, and a few other men walked past them. “Look at the Minister’s toadies go,” someone whispered within the satth.
“Shouldn’t we put together a team of men of our own?” the Comrade asked again.
The Khalsa looked at the Comrade. “Men? What men?”
“Us, to begin with,” the Comrade offered.
The Khalsa objected. “Us? We are all alone.”
The Comrade placed a hand on his shoulder, and said, “Khalsa, you often wonder why I ask you if you’ve been to Chamkaur Sahib. Let me tell you why.”
“Why?” The Khalsa narrowed his eyes.
“Have you walked around Chamkaur Sahib’s purlieus? I have. There are unnumerable date palms all around.”
“So?” The Khalsa was still confused.
“These palms mark the spots where the Mughal forces stood surrounding the mud fortalice.28 In the jungle, the Singhs used to eat a ration of roasted chickpeas, while the Mughals enjoyed dates. Wherever they discarded the date stones, date palms stand today. In fact, they used to cover a much denser span.”
The Khalsa nodded. The Comrade continued, “Despite this fearsome siege, they did not surrender. We are their offspring. And the Guru who, all alone, had come out and clapped. We are his Sikhs.”
The Khalsa let loose a mighty jaikara29 and wrapped the Comrade in a hug, cheering, “May you live long, dear Comrade, may you live long!”
The Comrade said, “Hear me, Khalsa. Today the sons of Punjab’s officials come across dates in Dubai’s hotels, and planting them here say they wish to turn Punjab into a white desert. Seeing these dates fills me with rage, O Khalsa,” he vented.
The Khalsa said, “Now my heart roils too, Comrade. So, tell me, should we start by chasing the Minister and their secretaries away?”
“Do you have any flags, Gorky?” Dalmegh asked.
“We do. But they are all red,” Gorky replied.
“The color doesn’t matter, so long as the stick is sturdy,” Dalmegh laughed.
— — -
Communists are usually appellated ‘Comrade’ in Punjab.
Priest or volunteer at a gurdwara, or any Sikh social space in general (lit. ‘brother’)
Priest at a Hindu temple
A Sikh formally initiated into the Khalsa brotherhood
Village headman
Compositions from Sikh scripture (lit. ‘the Guru’s speech’)
Volunteer labor, usually involved in renovation and upkeep of gurdwaras, humanitarian service, philanthropy
The god Vishnu’s sixth incarnation, who wielded an axe
A term of affection and respect for an older brother, male cousin or friend (lit. ‘brave, hero’)
Selfless service
Honorific for a spiritually learned leader (lit. ‘father, grandfather, wise old man’), capitalized where referring to an individual
A hymn penned by Guru Gobind Singh, part of the daily prayers
Recitation of hymns (lit. ‘lesson, reading’)
Practitioners of Tantra, usually refers to occult healers, exorcists, miracle-workers
Observances performed after the Guru Granth Sahib’s concluding passages are read. In the story’s context, after completing a reading, thus marking the end of the mourning period (lit. ‘pleasure, delight’)
The Hanuman Chalisa, a hymn dedicated to the god Hanuman, attributed to Tulsidas
Fire rituals principally associated with Hinduism
A complete reading of the Guru Granth Sahib, recited without any interruptions over two or more days (lit. ‘unbroken recitation’)
A formally initiated Khalsa Sikh, having undergone the amrit sanchar ceremony (lit. ‘amrit-bearer’)
Members of the Ghadar party, an early 20th century revolutionary group active across the world, dedicated to overthrowing British rule in India. The members were prominently Sikh, Hindu and Muslim.
Protagonist of the folk romance Hir-Ranjha, immortalized in Waris Shah’s Hir
A member of the Tarksheel Society, founded in 1984 in Punjab to disseminate rationalist ideas (lit. ‘rationalist’)
Muslim doctors of the law, religious scholars (commonly used in South Asia)
Formal declaration of faith
A supplicatory prayer
Common village square, where the villagers gather, interact, hold meetings
A government official’s car
Referring to the battle of Chamkaur, where Guru Gobind Singh’s men, including his elder sons, were greatly outnumbered and besieged by the Mughal forces, and fought to the last man
Battle cry
Thanks for sharing. It would be wonderful if you would also append the original in Gurmukhi. It documents the original online and also serves as a pedagogical tool.