EXCLUSIVE TO WAHEGUROO.COM ONLY!

[DhadiMania]

its swept waheguroo.com by storm, the long awaited story written by me has taken longer than i expected (a week). alot of it has changed compared to the previous drafts. and one more thing before you read it, what was the hukamnama that was issued out on the day after indira gandhi got shot? as well as where can i find the hukamnama, stating she would die on the day beant singh shot gandhi? after that, i finished the story.

one more thing...

to my knowlegde, no old women approached beant singh.

some of what i have written is bull...

indira gandhi did not plead from what i know, she was shot instantly.

beant singh and satwant singh were hanged privatly.

my source was my mind, its not 100% accurate, due to the fact i had to change some things to create some tension in this story. and i still need the hukamnama.

anyway, enjoy the story, please tell me if i can improve the story, or perhaps give me any other facts regarding 1984.

bhol chukke muaff

Justice is Sweet

By Sandeep Kandola 10AN.

Crowds have gathered, they have come from far and wide, all eyes are upon me. I can hear them talking in hush hushed tones. I look around and see thousands of faces. I can see some faces staring at me with venomous hatred. Others look at me with intense pity, some are silently crying whilst others look with respect.

I do not care about anything; I am going to my Lord the Creator. The guards push me up the stairs, I stumble but I am strong. I pick myself up and hold my head up high. I see the noose dangling in front of me, the executioner is inviting me to put my head through and release me. I am not afraid. The drum beats sound

louder and louder, faster and faster. As I step towards the tempting noose the drum beats halt and the guardsman asks...

"Any last request?"

"This dog doesn’t deserve one!" I hear someone shout, which grabs my ears attention in the midst of a thousand voices.

"You can not deprive him of his last rites!” cries another with a strong arrow piercing voice pulling my ears attention to the other side of the crowd, trying to pin point who said this. There is silence all around as I begin to stroke my long, brown beard for a few moments…

"I wish for a few moments to meditate" I humbly request, meditate upon the name of the lord. I feel no remorse, sorrow or regret for what I have done. I look to my right and see the man who helped me -- Indira Gandhi, will he be next? His Face is expressionless as I look at him knowingly. What we have done we did together for the Sikh community. We couldn’t let this injustice carry on any longer. All the sounds are whirring and spinning in my head, I feel slightly dazed. Wonderful Lord, Wonderful Lord I chant to myself. I must be strong, because I am strong. Looking back, it has all been done for a good cause, it had to be done.

It was the sixth of June nineteen-eighty-four. Sikhs worldwide were celebrating the martyrdom of their fifth Sikh prophet- Guru Arjun Dev. Crowds had come from far and wide. They were flocking to Amritsar (meaning the city of nectar) to join in with the celebrations. The Golden Temple was decorated with festive lights that sparkled like precious gems. The night sky was ablaze with bright fireworks that screamed and hissed as they hit the night sky. The sacred pool was flat and mirrored the splendor of The Golden temple that beckoned from above and rested on it for support like a beautiful lotus flower resting on the calm waters. The soothing sounds of religious hymns were being chanted inside The Golden Temple, but spread around the whole complex like a gentle fragrance. Some were pilgrims. Some wer

e just curious and had come to marvel at the splendor of The Golden Temple. Some were homeless but took advantage of the charity organisations held at The Golden Temple. All were innocent. People moved around delicately, bobbing to and fro. The whole scene was one of content beauty. Like that of a splendid magical kingdom. But the celebrations turned to tragedy. Instead the sounds of thousands of pilgrims singing were drowned out by the threatening sounds of thousands of soldiers marching, from the Indian army. Their heavy army tanks screeched and grinded to a halt on the precious white marble floors. Innocent people looked on in fear and wondering what was about to happen next. The army then committed mass carnage as they opened fire to attack the pilgrims and this splendid temple. Gunshot sounds filled the night sky with a roar. Like a thousand clasps of thunder. The red blood of innocent lives seeped into the once inky blue waters. Crowds ran around frantically, like wild horses to try and escape death. With their hearts pounding they tried to open the gate and escape. But the Indian army had mercilessly locked it. Instead they rained continuous bullets until innocent pounding hearts and screams were silenced. Others wanted to die with more dignity. They jumped into the holy pool and drowned. Abandoned children cried out for their mothers whilst others tried to cling on to one another in desperation. All around gunshots hammered the air and pounded The Golden Temple. It was a night of mass slaughter and carnage. Terror pierced the night sky. The sixth of June would indeed be remembered as a day of terror, a day of fear, a day of tragedy, a day of carnage. A day when Indira Gandhi, Prime Minister of India ordered the attack on the Golden Temple. A day when thousands of innocent people who came to the Golden Temple were shown no mercy and butchered. A day when the army attempted to destroy the Golden Temple, but failed.

The next day no prayers stirred the silence under the Golden Temple. There were n

o priests to sing any. All were shot dead or missing. The musical instruments, which at all times drummed the tones of rhythm and worship, were silenced for the first time in centuries. There were no pilgrims walking, they were lying dead on the cold marble floors as Soldiers patrolled and beat them with their rifle butts. Some had been wise to escape death and sought shelter under a dead body for the whole night. But they were subjected to beatings as the soldiers jeered at their weakness. When thirsty survivors begged for water they were shown no mercy. They were mercilessly told to drink from the urine and blood around them.

My name, Beant Singh, my occupation, a farmer. Word spread like wildfire. The news shocked me. I was told this news while I was attending to my crops and buffaloes. My friend Satwant Singh came running to me and told me all about the slaughter. Rumors had it that Indira Gandhi, our very own prime minister was responsible for the heinous act. I felt great sorrow and pity for the dead but also rage. Satwant and myself decided to go to The Golden Temple and pay our respects to the dead and our holy shrine.

While travelling on my scooter I saw across the river bank countless bodies being cremated. The revolting smells of burning and ash of dead bodies filled the air. The sound of mourners filled the skies with their tears of anguish. Their lives had just been ripped apart.

The Golden Temple was usually a truly Majestic sight. I was so used to seeing the clean white marble floors and a Golden Temple that shone so bright like a golden beam as its golden reflection used to be mirrored into the inky blue waters. All these visions I expected to see, were all dreams that were shattered. Upon arriving at the entrance to the Golden Temple I saw the grand marble structure had been completely destroyed. Bodies of innocent people lay motionless amongst the rubble. As I began to inspect some of the faces of the dead ones, their faces were deranged, they were riddled with bullets

as flies gorged themselves at the rotting flesh and dried blood. Flesh had turned to atoms. I couldn’t bear to look. I went on further, I saw bullets scattered around everywhere. The dome of Golden Temple was as black as soot. As I looked up into the dull sky I saw crows circling around the complex. The beautiful marble floors I expected to walk upon had been muddied by the army tanks that created tracks like serpents had just slithered. The White marble was swathed in dried blood. The once crystal clear waters of the sacred pool were covered in the raging red of blood. Bodies were still bobbing up and down on the surface of the water. All this made me weep like I never weeped before. I tried to swallow but there was something in my throat that prevented me from swallowing. My friend Satwant Singh and me stood at the remains of the Akal Takhat, the highest authority of Sikhs. We stood there and with newfound determination made a vow, that we would bring the evil killer to justice. In doing so we would show honor for the dead and the world. As I was leaving the complex of the Golden Temple, in the midst of the rubble and ruins of the Akal Takhat, I saw a white turban stained with blood that caught my eye. I ripped a piece of this Turban and tied it around my wrist as my reminder of this carnage that had taken place. We came out like new people, feeling more determined to take justice into our own hands, an eye for an eye a tooth for a tooth.

From Amritsar, we took the small train to Delhi. The train stank of sweat and urine. Newspapers were covered with the story. But the Indian Media sided with Indira Gandhi, claiming that her actions were to root out terrorism. Again I felt a great sadness but then at the same time more determined to seek justice. Leaving the Punjab was a great risk taken by us both. We both feared being killed before we had reached our goal. I saw a burning train of dead Sikhs going to the Punjab, their corpses were mounted so high that they were dangling out from the sides. Smells of

burning rotten flesh swarmed the air as mourners looked on. Their lives had just been ripped apart. We arrived safely at the train station. We quickly made our way to the home of Mrs. Indira Gandhi. There we saw her house of residence, it stood out like Gold stuck in Manure. She lived in a poverty-stricken area, but surprisingly she lived in such a beautiful home. The gates were golden and shone bright. Inside there were golden domes covered with diamonds as classical Indian music was being played in the background. There were marble walls, statues of elephants with their magnificent trunks held high in the air. We decided to sign up as Mrs. Gandhi’s new bodyguards. Nothing was said. We went up to office and asked for Mrs. Gandhi, she was not there. The officer stared at me, twiddling his moustache and said in a husky voice "Just sign and you will guard her the next day."

Inside there were golden domes covered with diamonds as classical Indian music was being played in the background.

And so the day arrived, it was the ninth of November. Mrs. Gandhi had just finished doing her make-up. She looked a lot different to how she looked on the television. Her big eyes clouded with tears as she looked around. Her white hair on one side seemed to be invading the side with black hair rapidly. It seemed as though she was growing old in front of my eyes. Was this the frail looking women that demanded the attack on so many innocent lives? Was this “innocent looking old lady” really the women whose name and face struck fear in the hearts of many? Was this really Indira Gandhi, whose name generated anti Gandhi slogans such as “Indira Kuthi Maro Jhuthi” (meaning Indira the dog beat her up with a shoe)? Was this woman who seemed to breakdown in front of me the women which nearly every Sikh worldwide demanded for her to be brought to justice?

"Shall we go now gentlemen?" She said in an Old Grandmothers voice.

We began to escort her, we had prepared for this day for along time. Satwant Sin

gh and me were communicating through expressions. "Mrs. Gandhi?" She looked at Satwant as he pointed his gun at her. Her eyes full of shock and dismay. "Help!" she just about managed to gasp. We pounced on her like two lions taking its prey at a vulnerable time. There was no-one around, I had waited for this moment for a long. I grabbed her by the throat and put my hands around her neck and squeezed her throat so hard I could see her face turning blue, her eyes and mouth were opening wider and wider. Then I threw the evil witch against the wall and pulled out my gun and at the same time so did Satwant as Indira Gandhi was grasping against the wall, pleading me not to -- her.

“Please!” she squealed, as her two hands were clasped together “Don’t -- me!” She began to search herself frantically; sweat glands were pouring down from the side of her face. I began to load my gun in front of her. She quickly grabbed hold of my left hand and placed a Gold chain.

“Here!” she pleaded “Does this make you satisfied?”

Our faces were motionless while Indira looked on tearfully. All Satwant and me did was look into her tearful eyes, black clouds began to hurry over the sky.

“No?” she asked. She began to strip herself with all the gold she had. Sapphires, rubies, gems, chains, watches, earrings, bracelets, diamonds, her purse were all placed in both our hands.

“Here!” she said frantically “Now does this make you happy enough to leave me alone?”

I stared into my left hand, which was bursting with gold chains and looked back up again.

“No.” I calmly said, as it began to drizzle a bit. I stared into the large and frightful eyes of Indira Gandhi. I began to walk towards her while she was taking a step back, clinging to the marble walls of her palace while I was taking a step forward. She held onto the walls with all her life. It began to rain more heavily now. I was pointing at her while she was in denial to what I accused her off.

“Every Sikh heart bleeds to think of y

our heinous deeds. Its time you die of shame and give up all you claim. To be a champion of top priority, Hindu nation is your top priority. Do you search you conscience when you preach non-violence? You are the terrorist of the worst kind, blind to the values of mankind. Nastiest tyrant of the present time, minister prime of war and crime. You clamor the Nobel Peace prize when your own country is cut to size. Just another bred of your kind can spell disaster for mankind. This is the cry of every Sikh soul for you can fool the world no more.”

Lightning began to flash. She shrieked as she fell into a puddle of water. Her white sari was soaked with mud. I began to laugh as Thunder roared over me.

“Do you know what the passage from the Golden Temple said today, while I was listening to it over the radio?” I bellowed as it began to rain even more. She shook her head slightly, unsure of what was happening around her.

“It described what you’re doing now (then bring quote in).”

She sat upright and pleaded for her life. Her time was up. Me and Satwant threw the jewelry we were given into the skies. We did not care for wealth we wanted justice and honour for the dead. I held the gun in my right hand, And then… BANG! I shot Indira Gandhi. In doing so, lightning flashed and thunder roared over the skies of Delhi. As we fired the shots at Indira Gandhi, she shrieked in agony and fell slowly onto the floor, her white sari was now covered in red blood .The deed was now done. Satwant and myself looked at each other with great happiness. We had done it! Justice had been done. We had reached our goal.

We stood feeling this calm and happiness. An elderly maid shrieked “Murderers! Murderers! You evil dogs!” as she frantically pointed at our blood stained shirts. Satwant tried to calm her down by saying that it was all okay, but she was frantically gripping my shirt, refusing to listen to what was being said. Two policemen quickly arrived on the scene. Satwant and me were both arrested. The

maid was crying as well as jumping up and down frantically saying “I got them! I got them!”

We were both led away, wrangled in chains. As I walked away from the scene, I turned my head around and saw the frail old lady crouched over the dead body, crying. She bowed down and in a ritual like way, applied the blood of Indira Gandhi to her dark forehead with her thumb. It was moments later when the Ambulance took the remains of Indira Gandhi’s corpse.

We were handcuffed with cold steel that was so tight, it was cutting away mine and Satwants skin. The pain was unbearable, but I am strong. Pain is an old companion for me. The thought of people bringing honor and justice to the Punjab was most rewarding and eased any physical pain.

"Two Singhs have Killed Mother India" each newspaper headlines bellowed across the front page. From the Times of India to The Mumbai Sun echoed the same message "Beant Singh, a red turbaned Sikh with a long beard with brown eyes, and Satwant Singh, an orange turbaned Sikh with a small beard claimed responsibility for this dastardly act.”

Now I am standing here, looking at the crowd. Fools, I think to myself. "Do not pity me, what I have done, I have done for the sake of justice. If anyone dare try and claim the lives of innocent civilians, we shall avenge them.”

"-- him!” shout the Guards. As the guards push me towards the noose before I put my head in the noose, I kiss the rope that will lead me to God, and I kiss the rope like an old companion, for I have traveled with death all my life. I hear Satwant chanting Hymns. I pray to the Lord as the black bag it put over my head, I don’t ever have to see the evils of this world because now my face has been covered with the black bag, I don’t have to see anymore suffering that Indira Gandhi plagued on the Sikh community. As the guards put the black bag over my head I can feel the darkness momentarily and smell the dust from the bag. How may heads have been put through it? My eyes are

closed, I can see a bright light in the distance as I begin to meditate. I feel a sense of feeling of well-being overcome me. The deed has been done. I am at last going to meet God, nothing can hurt me now Wonderful Lord, Wonderful Lord I chant. I feel something put round my neck but I am in a state of happiness. Drumbeats start banging, the flap beneath me is opened. All of a sudden I can hear a gasp from the crowd in the distance. I hang, as lie there dying I feel lifted in the air and tightness oh such tightness around my neck. Wonderful Lord, Wonderful Lord I begin to chant to myself in my mind. I can hear people booing me. But I can only hear the sweet melody of the Sitar. I can no longer breathe. I finally feel my body go limp and whilst meditating on the lords name my spirit springs out from the top of my head towards the bright light like a fountain.

I have served my purpose in life. I have sought justice on the woman who dared attack our holy shrine and removed her evil influence from the world. My head feels light and my body feels like it is floating towards the sky. I can hear the melody of the Sitar growing louder and louder and see a beautiful white light in the sky. I look down and see Satwant Singh coming to join me; together our souls float towards the white light. We can see angels, coming to take us to meet God. We shall finally meet him at last. As we are floating towards the bright light, me and Satwant both stop and stare at the life we both left behind ourselves. I see the ghost of Indira Gandhi looking haggard beneath us as she is being pushed into a raging fire by the Devil. We hear her screams for the last time as we both carry on towards the path of bright light and finally merge with God. My oh my how Justice is sweet.

[Gupt daasan daas]

Waheguroo Jee Ka Khalsa!

Waheguroo Jee Kee Fateh!!

veer je, wat was ure source?

one of the veer jes got shaheed on the spot, and then one veer je got shaheedi later

I forget who got the honour first

anyways, wat is ure source?

bhula chuka maf

Waheguroo Jee Ka Khalsa!

Waheguroo Jee Kee Fateh!!

[DhadiMania]

you sure? i thought they were hanged somewhere in delhi.

does anyone know where i can find the hukamnama that hinted indira gandhi was going to die on the day beant singh killed her.

[stopsingh]

you sure? i thought they were hanged somewhere in delhi.

does anyone know where i can find the hukamnama that hinted indira gandhi was going to die on the day beant singh killed her.

Beant Singh was killed on the day. Satwant Singh was later hanged along with Kehar Singh.

[sher-e-panjab]

And so the day arrived, it was the ninth of November.

it was on 31st october.

u wrote that they signed up as her bodyguards after the attack, they were already her bodyguards. and after the attack they were kicked out of their jobs by head of security for indiras safety, but when she heard this she had them reinstated immediately, as both where close to her and she was amother figure to them

[DhadiMania]

ah thanks, keep telling me more on all this jio!

[atl singh]

wuts ure source man

[raj_karega_khalsa]

Waheguroo Jee Ka Khalsa!

Waheguroo Jee Kee Fateh!!

My name, Beant Singh, my occupation, a farmer

Beant Singh was given shaheedi rite away, on the spot. and his occupation was a bodyguard.

[sher-e-panjab]

no offence bro but your story should stick to the facts.

EXCLUSIVE TO WAHEGUROO.COM ONLY!, the story of beant singh (i wrote)

as some of the memebers said, bhai beant singh ji attained shaheedi on the day, then paragraph 1, and the last 2 paragraphs become irrelevant

[nirgun]

your efforts are appreciated but you can't just make things up, right

some of what i have written is bull...

indira gandhi did not plead from what i know, she was shot instantly.

beant singh and satwant singh were hanged privatly.

my source was my mind, its not 100% accurate, due to the fact i had to change some things to create some tension in this story. and i still need the hukamnama.

in my opinion, it's not exactly in line with sikhi to make things up when describing the stories of shaheed singhs and their lives/missions.

Beant Singh was actually killed immediately, on the spot, by another of Indira's bodyguards.

Beant/Satwant Singh did NOT choke Indira, as you mentioned above, and I don't think they were sadistic - they wouldn't wait for her face to turn blue and what not. They were Gursikhs of Guru Nanak Dev Ji and Sri Guru Gobind Singh Sahib Ji... They just wanted justice, and justice would be delivered through sending her back to narag and letting the jamdhoots take care of her. You shouldn't make the Singhs sound sadistic or like something they're not.

It's not right to alter history ji

And also I don't really think it's that right to step into the mind/body of a shaheed or any gursikh and try to imagine what they were thinking. We're not at that level yet where we could even comprehend doing such a thing or beign there in 1984 and witn

essing all of that...

there's no point in writing these stories to create 'tension' or whatever ji, if you want to create awareness about what happened, then please portray the events correctly without altering anything

bhul chuk maaf

vaheguru ji ka khalsa

vaheguru ji ki fateh