Collateral Damage
NCJPS Diaries, Chapter-11
31 October 1984
Satwant Singh pulled the trigger of his carbine at 1 Safdarjung Road, New Delhi. With that loud bang, fate of thousands of lives got sealed. Somewhere nearby in the same city, a 6 year old child was playing nonchalantly - oblivious to the unfolding events, repercussions of which he won’t be able to forget for rest of his life.
Ensuing bloodbath on streets of National Capital failed to soothe the tempers and dubious perception about Sikhs. So much so that our school magazine ‘Jindalarchika’ in its 1985 edition published controversial articles- something unimaginable in schools of today’s India. Apart from write-ups, many fiery poems containing subtle hate were allowed to be sang with impunity on stage during functions. With that prevalent mindset, my school life as lone Sikh boy in class was set to be tough.
During 1980’s there were many terrorists roaming with guns in Punjab; for me, there were few roaming in school uniform.
First wave of assault came from fellow classmates. Prateek Bhargava, Ajay Khurana and Deepak Yadav are some unforgettable names who along with many more were notorious in throwing racist slurs. Prateek used to have sadistic pleasure by pulling my hair tied in a patka over the head. After holding the hair bun in fist, his shout of “Judi Po” drew the attention and laughter of those present around. Ajay Khurana- my then best friend, changed my name from ‘Gagan’ to ‘Aanda’. It became so popular among class fellows that one of the teachers had to ask me if my surname was Handa, as she mistook ‘Aanda’ as ‘Handa’. Deepak Yadav- in his ingenuity, addressed me as ‘Aatankwadi’ followed by a regular question- “Sardar, tere 12 baj gaye?” I gently accepted profanities and all given insinuations in my stride, which many a time were pronounced in the presence of teachers. Strangely, most of them chose to look away. Instead, cracking ‘Sardar Jokes’ was a common practice during free or arrangement periods, with presiding teacher sometimes sharing a chuckle along with all but one listeners - one little boy always tried hard to put up a brave facade. After many years of silent suffering, my first violent reaction came in 5th standard when I beat up Deepak with the sling shots of my water bottle. That was the start point of my transformation into a bully in secondary school.
Couple of decades down the line, on one fine evening under an open sky having a drink in solitude, I forgave my classmates- as what they did to me was only a procrastination of what they saw, heard and learnt at their homes. However, I could never overcome the gut-wrenching memories of a convoluted woman.
The second, most severe wave came from unexpected quarters and took a huge toll on my psyche. During next academic year, Mrs PL Sharma came in as our English teacher. I was particularly excited as I remembered her from my admission day of 1981, which has been described in Chapter-1 of NCJPS Series. Within short span, her indifferent attitude towards me became evident, when - others were chosen over me for readings; my enthusiastically raised hand to answer got routinely ignored; I never received any appreciation for efforts. Despite all this, she remained my favourite and I constantly aspired to win her applause, until that fateful day.
After instructing us to copy a stanza from black board, Mrs PL Sharma settled down in a chair beside the window. I was on 1st bench of 3rd line. Towards the end of class, she got up and proceeded to check the classwork. After summarily pointing out the mistakes of students occupying farthest column she picked up my copy, took out a red pen and encircled the mistakes. Then a slap landed on my face, followed by many more. I was taken by surprise. To escape the intensity of blows I covered my cheeks with both palms. At that point, she caught hold of my patka and started shaking me violently by hair. I kept screaming for mercy. After the thrashing, she left me crying with an open patka in my hand. On that day I was the only one in entire class who was beaten up. I went home bareheaded, with onlookers giggling at my messy state in class, bus, corridors. I vividly remember my father explaining her next day as how pulling by head knot is most disrespectful for our community. “Chota bachha hai madam. Aap ke haatho se he admission hua hai”- he pleaded. Neither my parents request nor my extra study of English subject worked and selective bashing in same insulting manner continued, though thereafter she became cautious of not opening the patka completely. But the dishevelled headgear always revealed the story at home and invoked grins at school. It almost became an everyday affair. They took turns to rape my soul - Prateek, Ajay, Deepak, Mrs Sharma, Mrs Jain, Mrs Renu Bhargava besides many forgotten ones. The last two were my Maths and Science teachers in succeeding classes who also took liberty to violate my self-respect. But predominantly it was Mrs PL Sharma whose onslaught continued for quite some time before she was caught and perhaps warned to mend ways by higher authorities.
By luck, her one such inhumane beating session was witnessed by a passing teacher and she reported it to the Vice Principal Mrs U Swami. I got summoned to Vice Principals office in presence of that kind hearted ma’am, whose name I’m unable to recall as she never taught our class. When specifically asked about the episode, I was too terrified to speak against Mrs Sharma and kept mum. Tears rolled down when that whistle-blower teacher prompted- “Beta, maine dekha hai English wali madam aapko baalo se pakad kar maar rahi thi!” Though Mrs Swami understood everything without me uttering a word, but cowardice had not only let my own conscience down but also that brave compassionate ma’am who had come to my rescue.
The humiliation and cruelty I tolerated cannot be described in words. Imagine a scared alone kid unable to counter a whole bunch of classmates howling- “Sardarji ki judi mein 12 ande…” or a shivering little child begging for mercy from the very teacher he was eager to please.
Mrs PL Sharma’s deeds are unpardonable. She breached the sanctity of student-mentor relationship. The boy she battered hasn’t healed yet. I missed the chance to confront her before passing out. It might have brought a closure I desperately seek today, to saddest part of my schooling.
Collateral damage of One Nine Eight Four was particularly devastating for me but Karma works in a unique way. The boy once labelled as “Aatankwadi”, in later life rose to fight real dreaded Aatankwadis. On family front, the agony of childhood turned me into an over-protective father. A teacher of similar breed faced my full wrath due to her uncouth behaviour. A written apology to Principal and self, salvaged the day for her. On psychological front, even today a slight hint of racism, below the belt ‘Sardar Jokes’ or religious bigotry makes me uneasy.
A light drizzle on sun scorched desert does not have any substantial effect but it does leave the marks of its arrival on the landscape. Similarly, few dark incidents seem irrelevant in broader scheme of things but they do have a lasting impact within. And when once in a while these deep buried memories of abuse come to fore and stare you in the face, you relive the horrors of yesteryears, repeatedly. This haunting needs to end now. It’s been 36 years.
