On the oc­ca­sion of the first-ever In­ter­na­tional Sikh Con­fer­ence in Jakarta, WSN ed­i­tor writes an Open let­ter to Sikh In­done­sians and the Sikh Di­as­pora -a cry in an­guish. This Open Let­ter was read on the open­ing day of the Con­fer­ence. From the Lit­tle Pun­jab that ex­ists in In­done­sia and else­where, Pun­jab seeks a new nar­ra­tive for re­li­gious and po­lit­i­cal lead­er­ship, so­cial co­he­sive­ness and eco­nomic pros­per­ity. Lis­ten care­fully, maybe you can do some­thing. Please do some­thing.

Dear Brethren from be­yond the five Rivers,
Wa­he­guru Ji Ka Khalsa, Wa­he­guru Ji Ki Fateh
Yes­ter­day I sud­denly woke up in the mid­dle of the night, awash with per­spi­ra­tion, in tears. This was un­like me.  I have en­coun­tered and re­sisted the might of Ahmed Shah Ab­dali, Robert Clive and In­dira Gandhi, but never have been like this.  I was in tears, shat­tered and heart-bro­ken. Af­ter the jolted awak­en­ing, I could not sleep.  I kept pon­der­ing, star­ing into the sky, which too was with­out stars, cloudy, dark and hazy.  Every­body is de­sert­ing me.  No­body loves me.  No one is sav­ing me from the clutches of time and weari­ness.  The scale is tilted in favour of the rich, fa­mous, pow­er­ful and the feu­dal.

Once upon a time peo­ple loved me.  For gen­er­a­tions they wor­shipped me.  They fought for me. The mud on my body adorned their fore­head.  They pro­tected my ho­n­our even when the horse sad­dle was their home and hearth. They were proud of their vagabond life and mea­gre needs.  They prayed while rid­ing. They as­pired and worked for na­tion­hood and got it, al­beit for a small span of 40 years.  The Mughals fought with my an­ces­tors and held them in re­spect and awe. The British picked up bat­tle, al­most lost and then cheated them. The In­di­ans are clever.  They un­der­stood them and tamed them.

“I am re­ally happy to know that Sikh In­done­sians, like oth­ers around the world, ad­mire me. I know you have made it good in your lives through sheer de­ter­mi­na­tion and sin­cer­ity. This makes me glad. It is al­ways good to know that some­one in dis­tant lands still loves you.”

My sons of soil grew into a way­ward lifestyle. Their pos­ses­sions grew and as­pi­ra­tions took a back­seat. Pe­cu­niary progress and cus­tom­ary po­lit­i­cal power be­came the only goals. Like toads they are con­stantly wor­ried about an imag­i­nary brain col­lapse and re­fused to cross self-im­posed lim­its. 

I am not the mas­ter of my own des­tiny.  I am at the mercy of some aliens pre­tend­ing to be heirs.  The Big Broth­ers in Chandi­garh and New Delhi de­cide my fate. The chief­tain changes, the stick re­mains the same.  Get in touch with the right peo­ple. Promise them that you will look af­ter me. Make a tall promise. Just a promise. Do not worry about ful­fill­ing them.  I am wit­ness to a long his­tory of bro­ken promises.

  

Pre­pare a rosy pic­ture of how you will pam­per me with the lat­est tech­nol­ogy in the world, say some­thing as spir­i­tual as heav­ens will come down or some­thing as dra­matic as con­vert­ing me into an­other Cal­i­for­nia.  It would do a lot of good if you have a nepo­tis­tic con­nec­tion.  In that case you can bite into a ma­jor chunk of my body to­tally free.  Your can­ni­bal­is­tic ten­den­cies must be strong with no room for care and grief.  It re­ally does not mat­ter, for you would be do­ing all this for my good! 

A few decades back, yes that long, I was happy when Chandi­garh was shaped up.  I was happy to have a de­signer city on my face. To­day, Le Cor­busier must be an un­happy man. This city, built af­ter op­er­at­ing a part of my body is still with­out a fa­ther, it’s land­scape chang­ing to over­come poverty, al­low­ing usurpa­tion, talk­ing po­lit­i­cal cor­rect­ness and hold­ing my peo­ple un­der leash.  Even, Chandgarhi­ans do not like be­long­ing to me. 

I have a sis­ter across the barbed wire, -a real sis­ter.  She is per­haps worse-off.  We de­serted each other some sev­enty years ago. She lives like a her­itage item. Her rulers main­tain her poverty with all its trap­pings. She has not been fully di­vorced of her legacy and for that, I envy her. 

I can­not for­get my daugh­ters.  Long ago, proud men of my soil used to hitch miles upon miles to save ho­n­our of women ab­ducted by thugs and hu­man traf­fick­ers.  It was part of their Dharma. To­day, they and their women are busy en­gaged in killing their own daugh­ters, mostly un­born and it does not shame them.  I don’t know how and where to hide my face.

“My peo­ple in South­east Asia in­clud­ing In­done­sia rarely come to see me. Par­ents al­ways know which child re­mem­bers them more and the one who re­mem­bers less. I was pleased to learn that they are now re­mem­ber­ing me. Go­ing back to roots in­vig­o­rates. I am known for car­ing and hos­pi­tal­ity and would love to do my ut­most for my dear ones in these lands and be­yond.”

Have you heard a dog mew or a cat bark? I am forced to eat­ing crow as my chil­dren are hap­pily do­ing this.  They take pride in speak­ing an alien lan­guage. I have no prob­lems with any ver­nac­u­lar tongue but to dis­re­gard one’s mother!

I have quite a few petty lead­ers too en­grossed in palty-baazi. An­thro­pol­o­gist Joyce Pet­ti­grew called them clan­nish heads. She says that since she has known them, they just don’t seem to grow. I think that they are so pi­geon­holed that they have for­got­ten that their fu­ture is in­ter­twined with mine.  If I don’t sur­vive, will they? 

In­vari­ably I see democ­racy by the few for the few.  In the name of moder­nity, I wit­ness de­gen­er­a­tion and a blud­geon­ing sub-cul­ture. I am very thirsty. My life sources have been drained. My in­testines are poi­soned. My throat and lungs choked. My farm­ers, who were once the blue-eyed boys of In­dia for mak­ing Pun­jab the bread-bas­ket of In­dia are now rou­tinely com­mit­ting sui­cides. No­body is lis­ten­ing. 

My young chil­dren are leav­ing my shores in hordes.  At home, the fol­low­ers of Ki­rat are zom­bies ad­dicted to easy life, wait­ing end­lessly in search of greener pas­tures, seek­ing jobs or con­sumed by al­co­hol and drug abuse. Away from home, my chil­dren rein­vent “Ki­rat” , des­per­ately strug­gling for sur­vival, growth and sav­ing core val­ues.  Many are con­tent lis­ten­ing to mera maa diya hathan diyan pakki­aan rot­t­ian khaan nu barra hi dal karda. while drink­ing the finest liqueurs.  

My peo­ple in South­east Asia in­clud­ing In­done­sia rarely come to see me. Par­ents al­ways know which child re­mem­bers them more and the one who re­mem­bers less. I was pleased to learn that they are now re­mem­ber­ing me. Go­ing back to roots in­vig­o­rates. I am known for car­ing and hos­pi­tal­ity and would love to do my ut­most for my dear ones in these lands and be­yond.

I am re­ally happy to know that Sikh In­done­sians, like oth­ers around the world, ad­mire me.  I know you have made it good in your lives through sheer de­ter­mi­na­tion and sin­cer­ity. This makes me glad.  It is al­ways good to know that some­one in dis­tant lands still loves you, even though it sad­dens me that some have de­serted me to­tally. Some worry about me over the In­ter­net but are yet to take ef­fec­tive steps to counter those who are eat­ing into my vi­tals.

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From the in­ten­sive care unit, I write with hope from Sikh In­done­sians and Di­as­pora Non-Res­i­dent Pun­jabis. I want you to lis­ten more care­fully and in­tently.  As I com­mit to do my best for you, I too want you, more than ever be­fore. To­gether we can make a dif­fer­ence, a huge dif­fer­ence! I am on oxy­gen and my time seems near. Save me, be­fore it is too late! Rab Rakha.

Yours truly

Pun­jab

Post Script: “The power of speech em­bold­ens me to speak out my heart”, said Al­lama Iqbal, when he com­plained to God. His Shikwa got a re­ply –Jawab-e-Shikwa. You are all chil­dren of God and are as com­pas­sion­ate as a Pun­jabi should be. I hope I have not writ­ten in vain. I hope you will do some­thing. Please do some­thing.

Pun­jab writes through the pen of Jag­mo­han Singh