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