CHANDIGARH: The venue: an obscure government Middle School at Amrali village in Ropar district. A small black and-white picture of a smart young Sikh army officer hangs in the sparely furnished office of the principal. Neither the principal nor the teachers can recall his name or remember his antecedents. A lady teacher makes an effort to stand up on a stool to read his name written in faded ink. Suddenly she exclaims he belongs to their village.
Second- Lieutenant Gurcharan Singh who died fighting for his motherland in the 1965 war is a forgotten hero today. His picture which should have symbolized village principles is not even remembered by the teachers Many of the school students whom the picture should have inspired have never bothered to have even glance at the picture “But ask them anything about the militants and they will tell you about Indian freedom fighters” says an elderly Sikh teacher. “We hear them talk among themselves about the exploits of the militants” he says adding sadly how the heroes of yesteryears are now confined to the memories of the older generation.
As for the younger generation their heroes have since long changed. “The effects are already visible but what is being overlooked is the effects of the environment on this entirely new generation in the years to come” warns a schoolteacher while asking not to be identified.
Outside in the small playground boys and girls clad in militants’ prescribed uniforms are sitting under a tree chatting in groups. The government uniform of ‘khaki’ has been discarded. Instead the fundamentalist uniform of black trousers white shirts and saffron turbans/ *Patkas’ for boys; and black ‘salwar’ white “kammez’ and saffron “dapattas” for girls is being more rigorously adopted than uniforms prescribed in the best convent schools anywhere in the country. As for the national anthem no one remembers when it was last sung.
“We never asked the students to change the uniform to stop singing the national anthem and stop studying Hindi their parents read the militants’ dictate in the newspapers and the next day the decrees come into effect before we can do anything about it” says a senior schoolteacher defensively. “The state is visible only at a superficial level. But in the minds of the people the state has already ceased to exist” he adds.
“But did you not stop them?” you ask realizing the naivety of “the question “Don’t you know that their word is law? Do you think we are in any position doing stop them. You talk of us stopping them. What can we do when even the state government is not bothered? To date no official of the education department has dared to visit this village let alone inquire about the effects of the militants’ dictates” he says with anguish. He takes us into the corridor and shows us the national anthem written on a pillar. “Look we still have it even if we don’t sing it” he says triumphantly only to end up glaring at his colleague who summons courage to tell us how come students splattered mud on it a few months ago.
Satwant Kaur (not her real name a matronly lady reminisces about the charm of weddings.
“There was a time when marriages were celebrated like festivals. Today we learn about a wedding only after it is over” she says. “Marriage parties are confined to 11 and then there is the underlying fear that we can be made targets for ‘their’ whims” she says while otherwise expressing relief and happiness that dowry has been banned. “What the government could not achieve by legislation the militants have achieved at gun point overnight” she says. In a small two-bed dispensary housed in a dilapidated building adjacent to the school a compounder is dispensing medicines.
The doctor is away on a “round.” “How effectively are the family planning programs being implemented?” “Perfectly well” says a diminutive lady patient. She reels off a list of people the dispensary had turned away when they came for family planning guidance. The compounder nods in agreement “kya karen sahib dar bahnt lagia hai” (What to do. We feel so scared)
“The reality is that we can no longer cry when anyone dies. Neither can we laugh on happy occasions. We can no longer express ourselves. Our speech and our emotions are no longer determined by us. If a militant comes to us we criticize the government.
If the police come to us we criticize the ‘boys.’ But the reality is that we are fed up with both Tell me what we do?” a middle aged Sikh farmers asks “The truth is that the youth is beyond our control. Even a father feels scared to admonish his teenaged son. Society has become so materialistic and individualistic. All l can do is pray. I live with the haunting thought that I can be killed anytime” he adds.
In the adjoining Luther village which once catered for liquor meat and cigarettes to residents of Amrali and other surrounding village’s cigarette shops are shuttered.
“The liquor vendor which closed down after five persons were killed last year has not been auctioned for two seasons. Owners of both meat and cigarette shops closed up a few days later. “No one threatened me. But why take a risk?” says the cigarette stall owner who now prefers to sell tea. “If anyone wants cigarettes tea or meat it is their problem. No one tells anyone anything about oneself these days” he adds in a voice suggesting that wanted to be left alone.
As an elderly Sikh gentleman observed “History is being) written.”
Where once the villains were the oppressive Mughals today ballads sung in Villages speak of Hindu repression. In the same way the teachings of our gurus are being distorted we are being pushed into a black hole which offers us no light no future only death and distinction”
(Times of India)
Article extracted from this publication >> June 12, 1992