Introduction — 1900 to 2025
Over the past century and a quarter, the Sikh community has endured a continuum of traumatic events marked by mass violence, state repression, and profound injustice—episodes that recur with such grim familiarity that they resemble less a series of isolated tragedies than a single long historical mechanism resetting itself whenever Sikh sovereignty, dignity, or truth becomes inconvenient to those in power. From the late-colonial era of British “managed religion” and coercive order, through the cataclysm of Partition in 1947, and into the post-independence decades that repeatedly demanded Sikh loyalty while withholding Sikh rights, a pattern emerges: Sikh institutions are constrained, Sikh voices are delegitimized, Sikh demands are reframed as threats, and Sikh bodies become expendable in the name of “unity,” “security,” or “national interest.” This pattern does not merely belong to the past. Its aftershocks ripple into the present—from Punjab’s unresolved wounds and the persistence of enforced silences to the killing of a Sikh dissident in 2023, which jolted the diaspora into confronting a frightening truth: the geography of Sikh vulnerability has expanded, while accountability has remained elusive.
This work proceeds from a premise that is simple but often suppressed: history is not neutral when the dead are uncounted, when archives are curated by the powerful, and when the language of statecraft is repeatedly used to launder cruelty into “necessity.” Sikh suffering has too often been narrated through frames designed to diminish it—recast as “communal unrest,” “law-and-order problems,” or “terrorism”—while the structural conditions that produced violence, and the machinery that profited from it, are left unexamined. The result is not only an injury of flesh but an injury of memory: a people repeatedly asked to move on without truth, to forgive without justice, and to accept official narratives that convert victimhood into suspicion. In response, this analysis adopts a Sikh-centered lens that does not romanticize pain, but refuses to let suffering be trivialized. It seeks to restore moral proportion: to name coercion as coercion, impunity as impunity, and the disciplined pursuit of justice as a legitimate political and ethical demand rather than a provocation.
At the hub of this narrative stands Ajit Singh Sandhu, a Punjab police officer who rose to infamy during the militancy and counterinsurgency of the 1980s–1990s. Sandhu is not presented here as a solitary villain who conveniently absorbs a system’s guilt; nor is he reduced to a caricature that allows institutions to escape scrutiny. Rather, Sandhu’s life and actions function as a prism—revealing how a state can manufacture “heroes” out of brutality, how incentives can reward coercion, how “encounter” logic can normalize extrajudicial killing, and how the line between policing and predation can dissolve when the law becomes a weapon instead of a restraint. If the Sikh story across 125 years resembles a wheel, then Sandhu is the axle through which we can observe its mechanics: how violence is rationalized, how dissent is criminalized, how communities are fractured, and how, afterward, silence is enforced as the price of peace. His personal downfall—culminating in suicide—does not cleanse the system that produced him; it underscores the corrosive effects of unchecked power on both the perpetrators and the society forced to live under their shadow.
Around that hub, the “spokes” are the defining episodes that repeatedly reconstituted Sikh grief into Sikh resistance and Sikh resistance into state suspicion. We begin with the early 20th-century gurduara reform struggles, because a gurduara is not merely a site of worship but a community institution where Sikh spirituality, education, collective deliberation, and public responsibility converge; control over gurduaras meant control over Sikh public life itself. We then move through Partition, where Punjab’s soil was soaked in mass slaughter and dislocation—an event that shattered social fabrics and implanted enduring anxieties about abandonment, betrayal, and survival. Post-independence, we track the accumulation of grievances as promises were made and broken, federal power expanded and contracted opportunistically, and Sikh political demands were alternately courted and crushed depending on electoral needs. The narrative then turns to 1984’s twin tragedies—the assault on Sikh sanctity and the mass killings that followed—events that did not merely injure Sikh bodies but assaulted Sikh metaphysics: the sense that a people’s sacred spaces, symbols, and lives could be violated without consequence. From there unfolds the decade-long insurgency and the counterinsurgency crackdown—a period of disappearances, torture, extrajudicial executions, and a culture of fear in which Sandhu became emblematic. And finally we confront the modern echoes—Punjab’s continuing social and political stresses, the diaspora’s renewed trauma, and the emergence of transnational intimidation and violence that suggests unresolved state habits can migrate beyond borders.
This study is chronological, but it is not merely a timeline. It is an argument about continuity—about how each rupture fed the next, how each unresolved injustice became tinder for later conflict, and how “order” was repeatedly purchased through coercion rather than reconciliation. The narrative is intentionally continuous and interconnected—less a chain of separate chapters than a web of causes and consequences—because Sikh experience over the last 125 years cannot be understood as a set of disconnected emergencies. The same recurring moves appear across eras: institutional capture, narrative inversion (victims reframed as perpetrators), selective legality, collective punishment, and the conversion of Sikh identity into a political problem to be managed. To read these events in isolation is to accept the very fragmentation that impunity depends on. To read them as one rolling wheel is to see the deeper pattern—and to understand why the wounds persist.
Ultimately, this work is not written to inflame, but to insist on clarity: that truth is not extremism, that remembrance is not sedition, and that justice is not a threat. It treats Sikh testimony, historical record, and institutional analysis as essential sources of understanding, while remaining disciplined about what can be established, what is alleged, and what remains contested. In tracing this wheel’s rotation from 1900 to 2025, we will see how the past mirrors the present, how the language of power repeats itself with new costumes, and why the pursuit of accountability—legal, moral, and historical—remains as urgent now as at any point in this long and unfinished story.
At the dawn of the 20th century, Sikhs in Punjab lived under British colonial rule in a tense paradox of pride and subjugation—praised when useful, disciplined when inconvenient, and constantly reminded that even admiration could be a form of control. On one hand, the British Raj cultivated a public narrative of Sikh “martial virtue,” heavily recruiting Sikhs into the British Indian Army after 1857 and celebrating them as a so-called “martial race,” dependable, hardy, and brave. Sikh regiments were showcased, decorated, and deployed across imperial frontiers, and many Sikh families carried genuine pride in military service, seeing it as consistent with a historic ethic of courage, discipline, and protection of the vulnerable. Yet this same praise concealed a colder calculus: colonial recruitment did not represent equality or respect for Sikh sovereignty—it was an imperial strategy to harness Sikh manpower for British wars, to weaponize identity for empire, and to divide communities by selectively rewarding those who served the Raj while politically constraining those who demanded self-rule.
On the other hand, the daily reality of colonial governance repeatedly exposed the limits—and the hypocrisy—of British “respect.” Sikh political aspirations were treated with suspicion, Sikh civil institutions were interfered with, and Sikh religious life was often administered through a condescending bureaucratic lens that reduced living traditions into manageable “communities” on a colonial ledger. Officials who celebrated Sikhs as soldiers could, in the same breath, dismiss Sikh grievances, undermine Sikh autonomy over sacred institutions, and tolerate—sometimes actively empower—local intermediaries whose legitimacy did not flow from the sangat but from colonial patronage. The British state’s instinct was to manage Sikh institutions as assets of order: to keep shrines quiet, leadership pliable, and collective mobilization fragmented. Whenever Sikh gatherings began to resemble political or moral power rather than harmless religiosity, the Raj’s patience thinned, and the machinery of surveillance, censorship, coercion, and selective prosecution became visible.
This contradiction—honor in uniform paired with humiliation in civic life—shaped a generation. It produced Sikhs who understood discipline and sacrifice, yet also learned, through bitter experience, that colonial promises could be elegantly worded and quietly betrayed. The Raj could flatter Sikhs as “loyal” while denying them meaningful voice; it could claim neutrality while siding with corrupt custodians; it could preach law and order while enabling injustice so long as imperial stability was preserved. In that crucible, Sikh consciousness sharpened: courage was not merely a battlefield trait but a civic necessity; resistance was not romantic rebellion but moral self-defense. And a hard wariness settled in—that rights offered as favors can be withdrawn, that respect given by power is conditional, and that promises made to Sikhs, whether in recruitment rhetoric or political negotiations, could be perfidiously broken the moment Sikh demands threatened the imperial architecture. This era, therefore, did more than set the stage for later conflicts; it trained Sikh society to recognize the difference between symbolic recognition and real autonomy—and to organize, again and again, for the latter.
A critical point often erased in colonial and later majoritarian narratives is that Gurduaras are not “temples” in the historic Brahminical sense—they were never conceived as priest-controlled sites of ritual appeasement, hereditary gatekeeping, or mediation between the devotee and the Divine. A Gurduara is a community-centered public institution—anchored in Gurbani (the Guru’s Word), governed by the sangat, and expressed through seva and langar—where spirituality is not separated from learning, ethics, or public responsibility. It is a spiritual center of Naam and Shabad, where one gathers to internalize the Guru’s teaching and align daily life with truth and justice, not mere ceremony; it is also a school of learning, where literacy (often Gurmukhi), kirtan, history, interpretation of Gurbani, and practical skills were historically taught as part of the Sikh belief that knowledge and spiritual growth rise together. It is a training ground for character and leadership, where humility, discipline, responsibility, public speaking, organization, and decision-making are cultivated without ego; and it is a community court and deliberative commons, where the sangat meets to resolve disputes, plan mutual aid, and practice collective governance in the spirit of Sarbat Khalsa—especially in moments of danger and moral crisis. Through langar, the Gurduara becomes a public safety net and an everyday act of equality—feeding anyone without distinction and often serving as a hub for shelter, employment support, emergency relief, and protection for the vulnerable—while also preserving identity and resilience by transmitting memory of martyrdom, struggle, and values across generations. This entire civilizational design is etched into the paired institutions of Amritsar: Harmandir Sahib (Darbar Sahib) as the luminous spiritual court where the Guru’s Word presides, and the Akal Takht as the sovereign seat of temporal responsibility and accountability—the embodied doctrine of miri–piri, spirituality with backbone, and worldly duty with humility. And it is precisely because the Akal Takht represents Sikh collective sovereignty—conscience, governance, and the obligation to defend dignity—that, across history, invading powers and hostile rulers have repeatedly targeted it: to strike the Takht was to strike the community’s command center, to break the spine of Sikh self-rule, to silence the institutional voice that refuses tyranny. Generations of Sikhs have paid in sweat and blood to defend it, to rebuild it after destruction, and to keep that center of miri–piri standing—not as a monument of conquest, but as a sanctuary of responsibility, a fortress of moral courage, and a reminder that Sikh spirituality is inseparable from the duty to protect the weak, confront injustice, and preserve collective dignity. In this way, to control a Gurduara was never merely to control a “place of worship”; it was to control Sikh public life—its education, resources, moral authority, and capacity to organize—while the Akal Takht, again and again, became the historic test of whether Sikh sovereignty could be crushed or whether it would rise, rebuilt by the sacrifices of its people.
A flashpoint in this period was the Gurduara Reform Movement of the early 1920s. Sikh Gurduaras (temples) had historically been managed by hereditary mahants (priests), many of whom had grown corrupt under British patronage. Sikhs, agitating for self-governance of their shrines, launched peaceful morchas (campaigns) to liberate Gurduaras from these mahants. The British bureaucracy initially sided with the mahants to thwart this grassroots uprising, leading to several violent confrontations that would forever be etched in Sikh collective memory. One of the most horrific was the Nankana Sahib Massacre of 1921, when a band of peaceful Sikhs seeking to take charge of the birthplace shrine of Guru Nanak in Nankana Sahib (now in Pakistan) were trapped and mercilessly butchered. The mahant, Narain Das, and his henchmen attacked the unarmed reformists at predawn, even burning many Sikhs alive inside the shrine. Contemporary records put the death toll between about 140 and 260 Sikhs[1][2], including women and children. Photographs from the aftermath showed piles of charred bodies[3][4]. The massacre sent shockwaves across the subcontinent. It was second only to the 1919 Jallianwala Bagh atrocity in its impact on Punjab’s psyche[5]. The British administrators, embarrassed by the scale of the outrage, eventually arrested and later executed Mahant Narain Das, but not before the episode became a rallying cry for Sikh rights.
Another seminal episode was the Guru Ka Bagh Morcha of late 1922, a nonviolent campaign where Sikhs protested British restrictions on harvesting wood from lands attached to a Gurduara. When daily batches of volunteers courting arrest were instead brutally beaten by police with steel-tipped lathis (clubs), the Sikhs astonished observers (including international journalists) with their discipline — silently enduring blows that broke bones but not their resolve[6]. The beatings continued day after day for weeks[7], until even the colonial Punjab Governor, appalled or simply fearing a larger revolt, ordered a halt to the brutality[8]. The arrested Sikhs were swiftly tried and packed off in trains to distant jails. It was during the prisoner transports that another extraordinary sacrifice occurred: Saka Panja Sahib. On 30 October 1922, at the railway station of Hasan Abdal (Panja Sahib) in present-day Pakistan, local Sikhs led by Bhai Karam Singh and Bhai Partap Singh insisted on serving food (langar) to a trainload of Sikh prisoners being taken to Attock fort jail[9][10]. When the station master warned that the train would not halt, the Sikhs declared they would stop it with their bodies if need be. As the train approached without slowing, these devotees laid themselves on the tracks. The locomotive eventually ground to a halt, but not before running over a number of them[11][12]. Bhai Karam Singh (age 30) and Bhai Partap Singh (age 24) were fatally injured and attained martyrdom within a day, while others lost limbs[13][14]. Even in dying, their concern was to feed the prisoners first: Bhai Partap Singh, grievously hurt, urged the gathered Sikhs, “Serve the hungry Sikhs on the train first, attend to us later.”[15] Only after the prisoners had eaten did the community tend to the crushed volunteers. The selfless bravery of Saka Panja Sahib galvanized the Sikh nation. Until 1947, Sikhs commemorated that event with an annual fair at the site[16], and to this day it is remembered as the epitome of Sikh concept of seva (selfless service) and sacrifice.
The cumulative effect of such incidents – including other clashes like the Keys Affair of 1921 (when the British briefly seized control of the Golden Temple’s keys, triggering massive protests), and the Babbar Akali movement (a militant offshoot in the 1920s that sought revenge on oppressive officials) – was a rare victory. The British government, finally relenting to pressure, enacted the Sikh Gurduaras Act 1925, which recognized an elected body, the Shiromani Gurduara Parbandhak Committee (SGPC), to manage major Sikh shrines in Punjab. This was a landmark achievement: for the first time, Sikhs regained institutional control of their religious life. Alongside the SGPC, the protest leaders also formed a political party, the Shiromani Akali Dal, in 1920 to represent Sikh interests. These twin institutions became cornerstones of Sikh socio-political identity going forward. Importantly, the British had been forced to concede by largely peaceful resistance; yet, the Sikhs had paid in blood for this outcome. Over a thousand were estimated killed or injured in the various Gurduara agitations[17][18], and thousands more had been imprisoned. The community emerged inspired and politicized, but also deeply wary of authority. Many elders in that era, including veterans of those struggles, would later inculcate in the next generations (like that of Ajit Singh Sandhu’s parents and grandparents) a sense of pride in Sikh heritage of resistance, and a keen awareness that Sikhs must be prepared to sacrifice to safeguard their rights and faith.
As the freedom movement against the British gained momentum in the 1930s–40s, Sikhs played an outsize role relative to their population. They figured prominently in revolutionary activities (from the Ghadar Party to Bhagat Singh’s martyrdom) and in the Indian National Army of Subhas Chandra Bose. In World War II, Sikh soldiers fought valiantly for the Allies. By the mid-1940s, as independence loomed, Sikh leaders found themselves courted by the larger political players – the Indian National Congress and the Muslim League – both of whom recognized that Sikh support could tilt the balance in Punjab, the region likely to be split in any Hindu-Muslim partition of India. Congress leaders made explicit promises to Sikhs during this time, aiming to secure their alliance in a united India. In 1946, Jawaharlal Nehru declared, “The brave Sikhs of Punjab are entitled to special consideration. I see nothing wrong in an area and a set-up in the North wherein the Sikhs can also experience the glow of freedom.”[19]. This assurance of an autonomous Sikh-majority region within India was echoed and formally resolved in Congress’s 1946 Calcutta session and earlier in 1929 when the Congress Party, in Lahore, passed a resolution vowing that no future constitution would be acceptable to them unless it was acceptable to Sikhs[20][21]. Even Mahatma Gandhi affirmed that betraying the Sikhs would doom India, noting in 1931 that Sikhs are “a great people” who know how to secure their rights by force if needed[22]. On the Sikh side, there was a spectrum of views – some Sikh leaders flirted with the idea of a separate Sikh state or aligning with the Muslim League’s Pakistan (which Jinnah enticingly offered, even proposing a Sikh autonomous zone in a divided Punjab), but the main Sikh political body, the Akali Dal, eventually threw its lot firmly with India. They trusted Congress’s promises and vehemently rejected British or Muslim League overtures for a Sikh homeland outside India[23][24]. This decision was fateful. As we shall see, many of those promises to the Sikhs evaporated once the British were gone. But before that realization would dawn, the Sikhs (along with the rest of the subcontinent) were plunged into the cataclysm of Partition.
The end of British colonial rule in 1947 brought independence – and the creation of Pakistan – at an unfathomable human cost. Nowhere was the partition of British India more blood-soaked than in Punjab, the traditional homeland of the Sikhs that was split in two by the new boundary line (the Radcliffe Line). In the upheaval, Sikhs – who constituted a small minority in British India but a considerable presence in Punjab – found themselves caught in an ethnic-religious whirlwind of violence. The communal tinder that had been steadily drying through the 1940s ignited into an inferno once Partition was announced. As both newly-formed dominions, India and Pakistan, scrambled to establish authority, Punjab descended into genocidal fury. On the western side (Pakistani Punjab), extremist Muslim mobs, sometimes with the connivance of local officials, turned on minority Sikh and Hindu populations; on the eastern side (Indian Punjab), extremist Sikh and Hindu gangs (including rogue elements of princely armies) retaliated with equal ferocity against minority Muslims. It was a mutual madness, but for the Sikhs it carried an especially bitter sting: the land of their Gurus, shrines, and heritage in West Punjab was being lost, and with it, centuries-old communities were being wiped out.
Train stations and rolling stock became charnel houses. Infamous “blood trains” criss-crossed Punjab’s rail lines – trains that departed filled with one community of refugees and arrived at their destination as ghostly steel coffins, everyone on board slaughtered en route. In one such incident etched in memory, a train from West Punjab pulled into Amritsar in late 1947 silently – packed with the butchered bodies of Sikhs who had tried to flee[25]. Caravans of Sikh and Hindu refugees trudging on foot or bullock carts towards the Indian side were ambushed on highways by armed brigands; likewise, Muslim convoys heading into Pakistan met the same fate. Contemporary accounts – including those by shocked British officers overseeing the transfer of power – describe rivers literally running red with blood and the sun obscured by pillars of smoke from burning villages. In cities like Lahore, Rawalpindi, Amritsar, Multan, and Sheikhupura, neighborhoods were reduced to cinders and whole populations decimated. Women suffered the most horrific atrocities: abduction and rape were tragically rampant, and in countless cases Sikh (and Hindu) women, when faced with imminent capture, embraced death by suicide – sometimes in mass ‘martyrdom’ acts by jumping into wells – rather than fall into the hands of ravagers. Sikh religious leadership, recalling bygone episodes of persecution, urged their followers to uphold dharam yudh (righteous resistance) but also to preserve the honor of their women at any cost, even if it meant ending their lives – an unbearable choice that thousands of families indeed made amid the chaos.
By the time the frenzy subsided, an estimated 1 million people lay dead across India and Pakistan[26], with Punjab as the epicenter of the carnage. Of those, a hugely disproportionate number – several hundred thousands – were Sikhs. Approximately 75% of all Sikhs on Earth at that time lived in Punjab, and suddenly half of Punjab was now Pakistan, a state defined by Islam. Virtually the entire Sikh community of West Punjab was annihilated or uprooted. Around 5 million Sikhs became refugees, pouring into East Punjab (India) penniless and traumatized. They left behind everything: ancestral lands, farms, Gurduaras (including sacred sites like Nankana Sahib and Panja Sahib), factories, schools – the cultural hearth of Punjabi Sikhs for generations. “We left in the clothes we wore, stepping over the corpses of our kin,” recalled one survivor; another recounted the desperate last stand of a village where outnumbered Sikhs, knowing they couldn’t save everyone, performed a final Ardaas (prayer) and then mercifully killed their own wives and daughters before charging out to die fighting – episodes so harrowing that the community still shudders in remembrance.
Sikhs also found themselves on the giving end of violence, particularly in East Punjab, where vengeance bred vengeance. Some Sikh princely states’ forces, notably Patiala’s militia under their Maharaja, were implicated in large-scale killings of Muslims. In cities like Amritsar and Gurdaspur, there were documented instances of trains of Muslim refugees being stopped and massacred in reprisal. The cycle of retribution between communities was gruesomely symmetrical in cruelty, if not in absolute scale. Yet, the end result for Sikhs was singular: the loss of their historic heartland and a wound of personal and collective trauma that remains raw decades later. “I can never forget that kind of brutality,” said one Sikh who was 12 at Partition, recalling how in Rawalpindi he saw piles of Sikh bodies, and then later witnessed similar carnage of Muslims by Sikhs in East Punjab[27][28]. Partition thus seared into the Sikh psyche a dual lesson – the depths of inhumanity that majoritarian rage can descend to, and the grim reality that Sikhs, despite their valor, were not immune to victimhood or to being complicit in atrocity under extreme circumstances.
While the violence was ostensibly along religious lines (Hindu vs Muslim vs Sikh), Sikhs perceived a distinct element in their suffering. Unlike Hindus (who formed an overwhelming majority in independent India) or Muslims (majority in Pakistan), Sikhs ended up as a vulnerable minority on both sides of the new border. In Pakistan they were virtually non-existent after 1947; in India they were a small minority nationally (around 2% of India’s population), though holding a slim majority in what remained of (East) Punjab. Sikh leaders had been instrumental in convincing the community to opt for India, based on assurances from the Congress that Sikhs would have a spacious future in a secular India that recognized their distinct identity and needs. Tragically, the immediate post-Partition period made many Sikhs feel betrayed. There were reports that as refugees poured into Indian territory, some officials treated them with suspicion rather than compassion. A chilling directive circulated in the months after Partition, attributed to the governor of Indian Punjab, C.M. Trivedi, instructed officials that Sikhs (especially the incoming refugees) be treated as a “criminal tribe” and that “harsh treatment must be meted out to them to the extent of shooting them” so that they “recognize who are the masters and who are the slaves”[29][30]. Whether or not this directive was widespread or fully implemented, its existence (reported in a Sikh parliamentarian’s affidavit later) confirmed the community’s fear that even in India, they could be viewed as a troublesome minority to be kept in check.
It’s in this backdrop that Ajit Singh Sandhu’s family – like tens of thousands of other Sikh families – rebuilt their lives in Indian Punjab. Sandhu was born into a scarred but resilient environment. His parents or grandparents would have told stories of 1947: of the comrades lost, of trains to Amritsar under constant threat, of the unbearable choice of migration over martyrdom, and of the broken promises by leaders who had vowed Sikhs would “experience the glow of freedom”[19] in India. Growing up in a post 1947 community meant growing up with a sense of grievous loss and a simmering demand for recognition and respect. This legacy would shape the politics of Punjab in the decades after independence, as Sikhs sought to secure their place in the new republic, to ensure that such betrayal and trauma would never be visited upon them again. Young Sandhu would come of age amid those political struggles – and ironically, he would later become an enforcer of the very state that many Sikhs believed had betrayed them. But to understand that irony, one must understand the path Punjab took in independent India, which we turn to next.
In August 1947, when the Union Jack was lowered and India’s tricolor unfurled, Sikhs celebrated freedom from colonialism but were also mired in grief and uncertainty. The Sikh leadership had cast its lot with India, trusting in pre-independence pledges that Sikhs would have a conspicuous space in the power structure of the new nation. Jawaharlal Nehru, Vallabhbhai Patel, Mahatma Gandhi – all had reassured Sikh representatives that their rights and identity would be safeguarded. Yet, as the dust settled, the community increasingly felt those assurances evaporating. The first major blow was the Constitution of India (1950). During its drafting, Sikh representatives noticed that beyond lofty rhetoric, there were no specific provisions reflecting the autonomous “area and set-up” promised to them. In fact, the Constitution refused to even acknowledge Sikhs as a distinct socio-religious community separate from Hindus. Article 25(b) of the Indian Constitution, much to Sikh outrage, lumped Sikhism (as well as Buddhism and Jainism) under the umbrella of the Hindu religion for purposes of personal law. To devout Sikhs, who have a unique scripture, identity, and rites, this was an insulting negation of their status. During the Constituent Assembly debates, Sikh representatives like Bhupinder Singh Mann and Hukam Singh protested these arrangements. When their pleas went unheeded, all Sikh members of the Assembly refused to sign the final Constitution in 1950, an astounding act of dissent in the very moment of India’s birth as a republic[31][32]. One of them, Sardar Kapur Singh (an ICS officer-turned-politician), later articulated the Sikh position by describing the Constitution as “conceived in sin” because it represented a betrayal of a series of solemn promises made to Sikhs by Congress’s top leadership[33][34]. He reminded Parliament in a scathing 1966 speech how Sikhs had been assured no constitution would be imposed on them without their consent[35][36], and yet that is exactly what happened. The “glow of freedom” Nehru spoke of seemed dimmer now to many Sikhs, who felt like a minority with an implicitly second-class status in the officially secular but implicitly Hindu-majority India.
Aside from constitutional grievances, Sikhs had cultural and linguistic concerns. The Punjabi language, written in Gurmukhi script and a core carrier of Sikh tradition, was given short shrift in the early years. Punjab’s state government (dominated by the Congress Party and often led by Hindu chief ministers in the 1950s) treated Hindi as equal or superior to Punjabi in administrative matters. In 1952, the Congress Chief Minister Bhim Sen Sachar proposed a dubious “Sachar Formula” that divided Punjab into Punjabi and Hindi zones by scripted declaration – an implicit acknowledgement that many Hindus of Punjab, under influence of the Arya Samaj and fear of Sikh dominance, were disowning Punjabi. In the 1951 census, a large section of Punjabi-speaking Hindus chose to register their mother tongue as Hindi[37][38]. This deliberate distortion aimed to undercut Sikh demands for recognition of Punjabi. It “vitiated the atmosphere” and widened communal cleavages, as noted by observers[38]. The Akali Dal, sensing an existential threat to Punjabi language and Sikh identity, made the demand for a Punjabi Suba (Punjabi-speaking state) its main political plank by the mid-1950s. This was in line with a broader national trend of linguistic states (India was in fact reorganizing states on linguistic lines, creating Andhra for Telugu speakers in 1953, Karnataka for Kannada, etc.). Yet, paradoxically, when Sikhs asked for the same principle to be applied – to carve a Punjabi-majority state from the existing East Punjab – the response from India’s central leadership was starkly different. The Congress, which had once championed linguistic states, now resisted Punjabi Suba tooth and nail. Prime Minister Nehru saw it as a veiled attempt to create a “Sikhistan” by the back door, anathema to his vision of a unified nation.
Thus began a nearly two-decade-long peaceful agitation for Punjabi Suba and the concurrent government repression of that agitation. The Akali Dal organized rallies, passed resolutions, and when ignored, launched morchas (agitation campaigns) not unlike the Gurduara agitations of the 1920s. In the mid-19500s, these escalated. The tipping point came in 1955 when the government decided to crush the Akali campaign by force. On July 4, 1955, as Akali volunteers congregated in Amritsar, the Congress government of East Punjab (allegedly under direction from Nehru at the Centre) ordered the infamous police entry into the Golden Temple. Police forces entered the sacred precincts of Sikhs’ holiest shrine – some reports say they even did so with their boots on, a grave sign of disrespect – and used tear gas and bullets to disperse the protestors who had sought shelter there. The environs of the Golden Temple complex were turned into a battleground: tear gas shells and bullets tore through the tranquil compound, and the Akal Takht (the temporal seat of Sikh authority within the complex) was hit by gunfire. Dozens of protesting Sikhs were killed or wounded in this melee, although exact figures remain disputed (the government downplayed casualties, the Akalis claimed significant fatalities). In addition to the loss of life, the sacrilege of the holy space infuriated Sikhs worldwide. Never before had the independent Indian state demonstrated such direct disregard for Sikh religious sentiments. It was a tragic foreshadowing of a far deadlier invasion of the Golden Temple that would occur in 1984. At the time, however, the 1955 action backfired against the government: Sikhs across political lines condemned it, and even moderate Congress-aligned Sikh figures were appalled. Eventually, the government pulled back – the chief minister (Bhagwat Dayal Sharma, who had replaced Sachar) offered an apology under pressure[39][40], and the ban on the slogan for Punjabi Suba was lifted. But trust was badly eroded. The Sikh masses had seen the face of Indian secularism’s heavy hand, and it was disillusioning.
Throughout the late 1950s, the Punjabi Suba movement simmered. Tens of thousands of Sikhs courted arrest in waves of civil disobedience. By 1960, the movement reached another crescendo. The government’s response again was draconian. In 1960–61, when Master Tara Singh (the venerable Akali leader) and Sant Fateh Singh renewed the Suba morcha, nearly 50,000 Sikhs were arrested and jailed for defying prohibitory orders[41]. Peaceful protestors were met with mass detentions; Punjab’s jails overflowed, and makeshift camps were set up to hold Sikhs whose only crime was shouting slogans or waving the Punjabiyat flag. Some protesters even died in custody or due to police manhandling, although these incidents were often hushed up. The press (largely in English and dominated by Congress sympathizers) painted the Akalis as parochial at best, or separatist at worst. Meanwhile, Hindu communal organizations like the Arya Samaj whipped up public sentiment against Punjabi Suba by painting it as a Sikh sectarian plot. The atmosphere was highly communalized: many Punjabi Hindus insisted “Punjabi” was not their mother tongue (calling it a mere dialect) and that Hindi represented Indian national identity – a stance that deeply hurt Sikhs, for whom Punjabi was not just a language but the tongue of their scripture and daily prayer. In one telling incident, in 1965, a Punjabi-speaking Hindu bureaucrat in Chandigarh pointedly refused to take his oath of office in Punjabi, doing so in Hindi instead, sparking an uproar.
Several times, compromises were attempted. The States Reorganization Commission (SRC) in 1955, influenced by bias and fearing Punjab’s strategic border location, initially rejected the Punjabi Suba demand outright, which Sikhs saw as another betrayal. A short-lived “regional council” formula was tried to give limited autonomy to Punjabi and Hindi zones within Punjab, but it satisfied nobody. Only after two external factors intervened did the impasse break: the 1962 Sino-Indian war and the 1965 India-Pakistan war. During these conflicts, Sikhs (true to their patriotic fervor) rallied to India’s defense; Punjabi Suba agitation was voluntarily suspended as Sikhs from villages lined up to donate blood, money, and even enlist in the armed forces, proving their loyalty beyond doubt. Sikh soldiers covered themselves in glory in 1965, fighting Pakistan on the very fields of Punjab that were under dispute. This display of good faith and bravery softened opposition to their demands. Additionally, Prime Minister Nehru’s death in 1964 removed the single biggest opponent to Punjabi Suba. His successors were more amenable. By 1966, the Congress high command, led by Lal Bahadur Shastri (and after his untimely death, Indira Gandhi), decided to yield to linguistic logic.
Punjabi Suba was achieved in 1966 with the passage of the Punjab Reorganization Act. The state of Punjab was trifurcated: a new state of Haryana was created (comprising the south-eastern, predominantly Hindi-speaking areas), the hilly districts were merged into Himachal Pradesh, and the remaining core (largely Punjabi-speaking) became the new Punjab, where Sikhs formed about 60% of the population. On paper, this was the fulfillment of the Sikh aspiration to have a Punjabi-majority state which they would administer. Master Tara Singh, Fateh Singh, and the Akali leadership hailed it as a victory of perseverance. The Akali Dal soon formed the government in Punjab in 1967 (the first non-Congress government in independent India, albeit short-lived), signaling a new chapter. Yet, the euphoria waned almost immediately. The Sikhs realized that the Punjabi Suba that was delivered had several key shortcomings – some deliberate, some structural – which would become sources of contention for decades. First, the status of Chandigarh, the modern city built as Punjab’s capital, was left in limbo: it was to be a temporary joint capital for Punjab and Haryana, pending a final decision. Sikhs were aggrieved that their new state was denied full ownership of its capital. (This issue festers to this day, with Chandigarh remaining a Union Territory, not fully Punjab’s.) Second, many Punjabi-speaking areas were left out of Punjab. Regions like parts of southern Haryana (Sirsa, etc.) and the Ganganagar area of Rajasthan had sizable Punjabi-speaking Sikh populations but were not merged into Punjab, largely for political reasons. The Akalis felt cheated that the linguistic principle was not applied honestly to benefit Sikhs. Third, and perhaps most crucially, the division of Punjab raised the question of how to share river waters – an issue that would become a running sore. Punjab’s rivers (Sutlej, Beas, Ravi) irrigated not only Punjab but were now allocated to the downstream states (Haryana and Rajasthan) in large measure by central diktat. The new Punjab, though the source of the waters, saw vast quantities diverted out, ostensibly to benefit all-India needs but practically to the benefit of other states’ agriculture at Punjab’s expense. Sikhs compared this to “riparian rights” being violated and viewed it as an economic strangulation in the making. Indira Gandhi’s government in 1976, and later the 1981 water agreement, forced Punjab to give a majority of its river waters to non-Sikh states, fueling resentment that Punjabis (mostly Sikh farmers) were being deprived of their lifeblood.
Despite these issues, the post-1966 period initially offered a hopeful template: Sikhs had their Punjabi Suba and even governed it at times via the Akali Dal; they were making India flourish, especially through the Green Revolution where Sikh farmers turned Punjab into India’s breadbasket. However, beneath the surface, Sikh discontent and consciousness of unresolved grievances remained high. Cultural assertions like seeking recognition for Sikh marriage rites (Anand Karaj) or campaigning to remove the “Sikhs are Hindus” clause in law persisted. Politically, the Akali Dal and the central government (often run by the Congress) had an uneasy relationship. Punjab’s autonomy became a sticking point: each time the Akalis ruled Punjab, the central government found excuses to dismiss their ministries (Punjab saw President’s Rule imposed several times). Sikhs observed that while other states had a fair degree of autonomy in practice, any assertion of Sikh distinctiveness was viewed with suspicion, as if the community’s loyalty was perpetually in question.
Ajit Singh Sandhu’s boyhood and youth in the 1960s were undoubtedly influenced by these currents. Perhaps his own family had participated in a Punjabi Suba rally or faced the language tensions in daily life (many Sikh families were bi-lingual but had to assert Punjabi under pressure). Sandhu would have also seen first-hand the post-Partition reconstruction of Punjab’s psyche: the brave face Sikhs showed to the world, the Chardi Kala (eternal optimism) with which they moved forward, but also the lingering feeling that they had been wronged yet again by power-brokers. By the time Sandhu entered adulthood and training for the police force, Punjab was outwardly stable – but storm clouds were gathering again. The next round of Sikh demands and state responses would take a more lethal turn.
By the early 1970s, it had become evident to Sikh leaders that Punjab’s and Sikhs’ issues in India were not fully resolved by the creation of Punjabi Suba. The Akali Dal, having tasted power briefly and then lost it due to internal splits and Congress machinations, undertook a comprehensive introspection of Sikh demands and Indian federal structure. The result was the Anandpur Sahib Resolution of 1973, a seminal document adopted at a general assembly of the Akali Dal held in the holy town of Anandpur Sahib. This resolution distilled the Sikh political aspirations within India. Contrary to later propaganda, it was not a blueprint for secession, but it was a bold call for greater autonomy. It demanded that India be truly federal, with the states (especially Punjab) having control over all subjects except defense, foreign affairs, communications, and currency. Key points included: the right of Punjab to govern its own affairs in areas like agriculture, land rights, education, and industry; a reallocation of river waters solely by internationally accepted riparian principles (which would greatly favor Punjab); the return of Chandigarh solely to Punjab; special protections for Sikhism’s distinct status (such as exclusion from the Hindu personal law); and even concerns like fair representation of Sikhs in the armed forces. It also implicitly sought redressal of the post-Partition economic imbalances that left Punjab saddled with refugee rehabilitation but with a diminished industrial base (most industry stayed in Indian states like Maharashtra, Gujarat, etc.).
The Anandpur Sahib Resolution (ASR) was a constitutionalist and democratic demand, couched in the language of Indian federalism and minority rights. However, when it was publicized, it sent alarm bells ringing in New Delhi. Prime Minister Indira Gandhi (back in power since 1966) was a centralizer by instinct. The early 1970s were a time of her consolidating authority; any regional assertion was seen as a challenge to her personality cult. Congress propagandists painted the ASR as a secessionist manifesto – cherry-picking lines to misrepresent that Sikhs wanted a “theocratic state” or some kind of internal independence. The fact that the document used strong rhetoric of Sikh identity (naturally, since the Akali Dal is a Sikh-centric party) made it easy for detractors to brand it “communal” or anti-national. In truth, had its demands been heeded, India might have moved toward a more federal structure for all states. Instead, the central government’s refusal to even discuss most points of the ASR gradually convinced many Sikhs, especially the youth, that perhaps their interests would perpetually be denied under the existing system.
During the 1970s, tensions in Punjab ebbed and flowed. The Akali Dal came to power in Punjab in 1977 after the Emergency (a repressive national crisis from 1975–77 when Indira suspended democracy). In that period, Parkash Singh Badal became Chief Minister, and the Akalis were part of the short-lived Janata Party coalition that ruled India. One might have expected the ASR demands to gain traction then, but the Janata government had other priorities and fell apart by 1979. Indira Gandhi’s return to power in 1980 was a turning point: her attitude towards the Akalis hardened considerably, in part because the Akali Dal had fiercely opposed her Emergency rule (Sikhs had been among the only communities to stand up to Indira during the Emergency – over a thousand Akali workers went to jail protesting it, a fact not forgotten by Indira). By the late 1970s, the unresolved Punjabi issues (water, Chandigarh, etc.) and fresh economic concerns (Punjab’s Green Revolution success brought new problems: rising unemployment among educated Sikh youth, who felt their state’s resources fueled the nation’s growth but they didn’t see proportional benefit) were creating a fertile ground for disillusionment.
It was in this milieu that a dramatically unforeseen catalyst of conflict emerged: a clash not directly between Sikhs and the Indian state, but between Sikhs and a heterodox quasi-Sikh sect known as the Sant Nirankaris. This incident in 1978 would escalate Sikh indignation in a way the government could not have predicted, and it became the spark that ignited the powder keg of Punjab.
On April 13, 1978 (the festival of Vaisakhi, anniversary of the Khalsa’s founding), the simmering discontent in Punjab found a violent outlet. In Amritsar that day, a large gathering of the Sant Nirankari Mission – a splinter sect that many Sikhs viewed as heretical – was organized with the permission and protection of Punjab’s government. The Sant Nirankaris, led by their “Guru” Gurbachan Singh, had long angered orthodox Sikhs by their practices: they venerated a living guru (contrary to Sikh tenets that Guru Gobind Singh was the last and there’s to be no human guru after the Guru Granth Sahib), they had their own scriptures with passages perceived as derisive parodies of Sikh verses, and their leader openly wore an aigrette (turban ornament) in the style of historic Sikh Gurus. Tensions had been brewing for years between the Sant Nirankaris and Sikh religious groups like the Akhand Kirtani Jatha and Damdami Taksal (the latter a prestigious Sikh seminary). In 1977, Akali Dal’s government under Badal had kept an uneasy peace, but now in 1978.
When news spread that the Nirankaris would hold a convention in Amritsar on Vaisakhi – practically in the Golden Temple’s backyard – many Sikhs saw it as a deliberate provocation. A peaceful protest was planned: a procession of devout Sikhs, including many from the Akhand Kirtani Jatha and students of Damdami Taksal, marched towards the Nirankari venue carrying symbolic black flags. They intended to stage a non-violent demonstration, registering their opposition to what they considered blasphemous activities. Sant Jarnail Singh Bhindranwale, then a relatively obscure missionary preacher in his early 30s heading the Damdami Taksal, was not physically present in the protest (contrary to later government claims), but some of his close associates, including a charismatic ex-serviceman named Bhai Fauja Singh, were leading it. As the peaceful protestors neared the venue, they were met by armed Nirankari henchmen and a cordon of Punjab Police who were ostensibly there to keep peace. What ensued is still bitterly recounted in Sikh chronicles: the Nirankari guards, allegedly egged on by Gurbachan Singh himself, opened fire and attacked the unarmed Sikhs. Gunshots, swords, spikes, and spears were unleashed on the protestors, who were caught utterly off guard. In the melee, 13 Sikhs were killed on the spot[17][42], and many more wounded. Among the martyred was Bhai Fauja Singh, who according to eyewitnesses was shot and then brutally hacked with a sword while he lay bleeding. On the Nirankari side, three people died as well, likely as the Sikhs tried to defend themselves once all hell broke loose, but the imbalance of force was evident. The police present did little to prevent the bloodshed – in some accounts, they even assisted the Nirankaris or at least allowed them a free hand.
This “Amritsar Massacre of 1978” (often just called 1978 Saka, meaning martyrdom-event, by Sikhs) was a watershed. For the Sikh community, the imagery was searing: devout believers, fresh from celebrating Vaisakhi at the Golden Temple, slaughtered in public by a group they saw as heretics – all while the state’s law enforcement looked on. News of the massacre spread like wildfire. Many Sikhs viewed it as not an isolated sectarian clash, but symptomatic of a broader pattern: Sikhs could be killed in the streets of Amritsar and the Indian state would not punish the killers. In the immediate aftermath, the Akali Dal (which was in opposition at that time) demanded action against the Nirankari leader and his followers. A criminal case was indeed registered for the murders. However, in a move that outraged Sikhs, the venue of the trial was shifted out of Punjab to the neighboring Haryana state (on the Nirankaris’ plea that a fair trial in Punjab was impossible). After a few years of proceedings, in 1980 an Indian court acquitted all the accused Nirankaris, accepting their claim that they acted in “self-defense” against a mob. The Sikh protestors, in this version, had essentially committed suicide by provoking a peaceable congregation. For Sikhs, this legal outcome was the ultimate travesty: it signaled that the lives of their brethren were cheap, and their killers enjoyed impunity as long as they aligned with the powers that be. Indeed, Gurbachan Singh Nirankari was perceived to have high-level political patronage – it was rumored that Indira Gandhi’s home ministry looked kindly on him, seeing the Nirankaris as a counter-weight to Sikh religious orthodoxy.
Long before the verdict, however, the events of April 1978 had already triggered momentous changes within Sikh society. The martyrdom of the 13 Sikhs catalyzed a new militancy. Jarnail Singh Bhindranwale in particular found in the incident a cause that resonated with the masses. Prior to 1978, Bhindranwale was a preacher focused on Sikh revivalism (encouraging youth to follow the faith: give up drugs, alcohol, and return to the Sikh fold from Hindu influences). He was not widely known outside religious circles. But after 1978, he became an outspoken firebrand for Sikh rights and honor. In his sermons, delivered in rustic Punjabi across villages, he recounted the carnage: “They killed our Bhai Fauja Singh and cut his limbs… what was his crime? Only that he protested insults to our Guru. Is this not our right in this so-called free India?” He railed against the Indian government’s double standards: “Had 13 Hindus been killed, would the killers roam free? But it’s 13 Sikhs, so the murderers are hosted by the sarkar (government)!” Young Sikhs, especially those in rural Punjab who may not have cared for the Anandpur Sahib Resolution’s nuances, were viscerally moved by such rhetoric. It tapped into an undercurrent of ghairat (honor) and qsameen (oaths of vengeance) that runs deep in Punjabi culture. In their eyes, 1978 proved that peaceful protest was futile – the system was stacked against Sikhs, and justice would not come via courts or parliament.
It is crucial to note that the radicalization set in motion in 1978 was not initially aimed at creating Khalistan (a separate Sikh country). It was about avenging wrongs and defending Sikh values. When the state failed to prosecute the Nirankaris, some Sikhs took matters into their own hands. On April 24, 1980, nearly two years to the date after the massacre, the Nirankari chief Gurbachan Singh was assassinated in Delhi. The hit was carried out by a Sikh youth, Bhai Ranjit Singh, affiliated with the Akhand Kirtani Jatha. Ranjit Singh later surrendered; he proudly proclaimed the killing was retribution for 1978. He was convicted, but in a stunning turn of events a few years later, the militant-controlled Akal Takht (in 1986) honored Bhai Ranjit Singh by naming him Jathedar (head) of the Akal Takht in absentia while he was still in jail[43][44] – effectively declaring that the Sikh religio-political authority approved of his act of vigilante justice. (He would actually assume that position upon release in 1996, illustrating how the community’s mainstream had shifted by then.)
Between 1978 and 1980, several other confrontations and killings happened as fallout. Some Nirankari mission offices in Punjab were attacked by enraged Sikhs. Conversely, known critics of Sikh extremists were found dead. It was as if a Pandora’s box opened: political assassination entered the Sikh agitation playbook. Figures linked (even tenuously) to anti-Sikh acts became targets. The message was that if the state wouldn’t punish what Sikhs saw as crimes, Sikhs themselves would.
Within the police and administration, including officers like a young Ajit Singh Sandhu, this rising ferment was seen as a dangerous breakdown of law and order – and perhaps the birth of “terrorism” in Punjab. But at that point, the numbers were still small; just a handful of radicals, and the violence intermittent. Sandhu in the early 1980s served as a lower-ranking officer in some district, watching these developments warily but not yet directly involved in any heavy-handed action (since the Akali government of 1977–80, under which he served, tried to handle the situation politically rather than by force). However, New Delhi’s approach was shifting. Indira Gandhi’s return to power in 1980 – and the outbreak of militancy in neighboring Kashmir and the rise of separatism in Assam around the same time – made her increasingly intolerant of what she perceived as fissiparous tendencies.
Parkash Singh Badal, the Akali leader and former CM, played a controversial role in these years. While publicly condemning the Nirankari massacre and supporting protests, it was whispered that Badal (a savvy politician with an eye on power) was uncomfortable with the rise of extremist elements like Bhindranwale who could eclipse traditional Akali leadership. Later on, documents and testimonies surfaced suggesting that some Akali leaders had backdoor communications with Indira’s government. Notably, Harchand Singh Longowal, then President of Akali Dal, wrote to Indira Gandhi in April 1984 (on the eve of the Army attack) implying that if force was used against Bhindranwale and his men, they would likely surrender and run[45]. Badal too has been accused (by political rivals) of tacitly encouraging the central government to “deal with” Bhindranwale, seeing him as a Frankenstein partly of Akali creation that had slipped out of control. Whether Badal specifically invited military action is debated, but it’s clear he later distanced himself from the militant movement and conveniently escaped the crackdown that consumed other Akali leaders. Sikhs of more radical persuasion have since labeled Badal a betrayer for, in their view, “protecting the Nirankaris in 1978” (since his government did not prosecute them vigorously) and later not standing firmly with the Sikh militancy when the chips were down. These accusations would shadow Badal throughout his long career, including blame for compromises like agreeing to the flawed water-sharing arrangements and even his government’s role in incidents like the 2015 Behbal Kalan police firing on Sikh protestors (which we shall revisit).
Returning to the late 1970s: by 1981, the die was cast. The Akali Dal formulated a list of demands (many based on the Anandpur Sahib Resolution) and began a new agitation called the Dharam Yudh Morcha (righteous struggle). Sant Bhindranwale by now was lionized by a large section of Sikh youth; he had an aura of fearless authenticity and was not beholden to the compromises of electoral politics. The Akali Dal, recognizing his influence, somewhat warily included him in the Morcha. From August 1982 onward, Bhindranwale and the Akali leaders together led Punjab’s populace in massive civil disobedience: blocking roads, refusing to pay certain taxes, courting arrest by the thousands. The demands ranged from the specific (return Chandigarh, stop diversion of our waters, etc.) to the general (justice for 1978, greater autonomy, end discrimination). The movement was largely peaceful, yet the government’s patience was thin. Indira Gandhi, now facing simultaneous crises (Assam agitation, a burgeoning insurgency in Kashmir, Sikh protests), and keen to project strength, decided to adopt a hard line. As 1983 gave way to 1984, Punjab was spiraling. Some fringe militant acts had begun: in September 1981, a notorious anti-Sikh Punjab newspaper editor was assassinated (the government blamed Bhindranwale’s men); sporadic violent incidents were happening by 1983 such as attacks on Hindus passengers on buses, believed to be extremists trying to spark Hindu-Sikh strife (though at the time these incidents were few, they were highly publicized).
For officers like Ajit Singh Sandhu, now moving up the ranks, this period was formative. The state was increasingly casting the Sikh unrest as a law-and-order problem with “foreign hand” (Pakistan’s ISI was accused of aiding Sikh extremists, and indeed some weapons and training did later flow from across the border, though the roots of the problem were indigenous). As a policeman, Sandhu was trained to be loyal to the Indian Union above all. Yet, being a Sikh, he was also experiencing the cognitive dissonance of seeing legitimate Sikh grievances go unresolved and instead being answered by police action. Any ambivalence he or other Sikh officers might have had was soon subsumed by the exigencies of what was to come: Indira Gandhi’s fateful decision to strike at the heart of Sikh activism – literally, at the Golden Temple – to snuff out the burgeoning militancy.
By early 1984, Punjab had reached a precipice. The Dharam Yudh Morcha had morphed into a mass protest that paralyzed governance: every day, batches of Sikhs offered arrest, clogging jails; rail blockades and rallies were frequent. But alongside the peaceful agitation, a shadow war was escalating between Sikh militants and the state. Dozens of murders and violent incidents were occurring: militants targeted officials seen as oppressors (Hindus and moderate Sikhs alike), and in some instances, innocent Hindus were killed in market bombings or bus shootings to terrorize the government and provoke communal backlash. Hindus in Punjab (who were just under 40% of the state’s population) started feeling unsafe, many beginning to migrate out. India’s national media amplified these acts and painted the entire Sikh agitation as verging on secessionist revolt. Indira Gandhi’s government portrayed Punjab as a state in chaos, overrun by extremists led by Sant Jarnail Singh Bhindranwale – who by now had taken up residence inside the Harmandir Sahib (Golden Temple) complex in Amritsar, along with armed followers.
Why did Bhindranwale hole up in the Golden Temple? Partly for protection and partly as a political statement. Ever since 1982, when the police sought to detain him under preventive laws, Bhindranwale found sanctuary in the Guru’s abode, calculating (rightly) that the government would hesitate to violate the sacred precincts again after the 1955 debacle. Over late 1983 and early 1984, the Golden Temple complex became the de facto headquarters of the militant agitation. A historical Sikh institution, the Akal Takht Sahib (within the Temple complex), was fortified under Bhindranwale’s direction. Bags of sand, steel shutters, and defensive positions turned the Akal Takht building into a sort of bunker. Scores of insurgents from various groups (Bhindranwale’s own band, factions of All India Sikh Students Federation, Babbar Khalsa, etc.) stationed themselves there. Among them was a battle-hardened Sikh, Gen. Shahbeg Singh, a retired Indian Army officer who had fought in wars for India but now joined the militant cause; he applied his military acumen to training the volunteers in combat and laying out defenses. By mid-1984, intelligence reports suggested that hundreds of firearms – from country-made pistols to assault rifles, even a few light machine guns – had been amassed inside, and perhaps a few militants had smuggled in rocket-propelled grenades. The government spun this as the Golden Temple being turned into a “fortress of secession.” To Sikhs, however, it was still the ultimate place of refuge – a tradition since Mughal times that their holiest shrine was also a sanctuary against tyranny.
There were multiple opportunities to defuse the crisis before it reached Armageddon. The Akali Dal was open to negotiations; indeed, in late 1983 and early 1984, mediators came and went between the Akalis and Indira’s emissaries. But trust was scant. Indira seemed convinced that a dramatic show of force was needed to uphold her image as a strong leader and end the Punjab problem once and for all. Critics later pointed out that Indira’s ruling Congress party had actually helped fuel Bhindranwale’s rise in the late 1970s as a tactic to undercut the Akalis (India’s home minister in 1980, Giani Zail Singh, had allegedly patronized Bhindranwale initially[46]). If true, it was an ironically deadly game: the man propped up to divide Sikh votes had grown into a Frankenstein. By 1984, whether out of desperation or design, Indira chose the military option. Some observers believe she wanted to send a message not just to Sikh militants, but to all of India’s restive minorities: that separatism would be crushed mercilessly. Others think she grossly underestimated Sikh reaction and thought a quick operation would decapitate the militancy with minimal fallout. What is indisputable is that Operation Blue Star – the codename for the army attack on the Golden Temple in June 1984 – forever changed the course of Sikh–Indian relations.
On June 1, 1984, a full military curfew was clamped on Amritsar and much of Punjab. All foreign journalists were expelled and Indian press censored – ominous signs. The Gurpurab (religious anniversary) of Guru Arjan Dev was on June 3, and thousands of pilgrims had gathered at the Golden Temple for the occasion, oblivious to what was coming. That very dawn, the Indian Army, led by Lt. Gen. Kuldip Brar under overall command of Gen. Sundarji, moved tanks, artillery, and thousands of troops into position around the Golden Temple complex. Simultaneously, about 40 other Gurduaras across Punjab suspected of harboring militants were surrounded (this was a lesser-known part of Blue Star: a statewide crackdown named Operation Woodrose, which followed the main assault). Over a tense June 3 and 4, negotiations were virtually nil – the army used loudspeakers ordering those inside to surrender, but few heeded the call. Bhindranwale and his men, for their part, were determined not to be taken alive without a fight. For Sikhs, this was shaping into a modern-day Siege of Amritsar, reminiscent of historic raids by Afghan or Mughal forces on the Golden Temple, except now the perpetrators wore Indian Army uniforms – soldiers of a nation many of those same Sikhs had served loyally.
The battle began in earnest on the night of June 5, 1984. Army units launched multi-pronged incursions into the Golden Temple complex. A contingent of commandos attempted to storm in through the main gateway but met with withering gunfire. In the narrow lanes and holy sarovar (pool) surrounding the temple, firefights erupted. The militants, though far fewer in number (perhaps 200-250 armed defenders), had the advantage of defensive positions and intimate familiarity with the complex’s layout. The army, reluctant to cause damage at first, found themselves taking heavy casualties as they tried to clear building after building. By the army’s official account, 83 soldiers were killed and over 200 injured[47][48] – a toll that indicated the level of resistance. Veteran generals later acknowledged that they had grossly underestimated the skill and resolve of the militants. As night turned to the predawn of June 6, with fighting still raging, the Army command made the fateful decision to employ tanks and heavy artillery. Vijayanta tanks rolled down the parikarma (marble promenade) and trained their big guns on the Akal Takht, where Bhindranwale, Shahbeg Singh, and others were holed up. What followed was outright devastation: the Akal Takht Sahib was pummeled into rubble by point-blank tank shells. The stunning edifice, which housed priceless historical weapons and relics of Sikh Gurus, was reduced to a smoking, gaping ruin. The echoes of explosions mixed with the cries of the dying. By mid-morning of June 6, the firing had largely ceased. Sant Bhindranwale lay dead, as did Shahbeg Singh – their bodies later displayed to dispel rumors of escape. Many of Bhindranwale’s loyalists fought to the last bullet and were killed. Some survivors were captured, later to be executed in custody or prosecuted.
But the cost in civilian lives was the darkest aspect. When the guns fell silent, the true horror emerged: the Golden Temple complex was littered with bodies of pilgrims, including women and children who had been trapped inside when the fighting began. The exact civilian death toll has never been ascertained. Indian government sources initially claimed only a few dozen “hostages” died. But independent investigations by human rights groups and journalists later suggested that hundreds of innocent men, women, and children were killed in the crossfire, if not more. Some estimates from Sikh sources put the figure in the thousands, though that may include militants. The harm extended to Sikh heritage: the Akal Takht’s destruction was a psychological blow of incalculable magnitude. Sri Darbar Sahib (the Golden Temple building itself) was riddled with bullet holes, though thankfully not destroyed. The Sikh Reference Library, located within the complex and containing rare manuscripts of Sikh scripture and history, mysteriously caught fire and burned down during or after the operation, destroying irreplaceable artifacts. (To this day, Sikhs allege the library was deliberately torched by Indian forces to erase historical records, an accusation the army denies but has never credibly answered why they failed to protect it.)
Operation Blue Star didn’t end with the cessation of shooting. In the days immediately after, the army combed through the ruins and rounded up every Sikh male in the vicinity. Many were beaten, interrogated, and humiliated. There were credible reports (later documented by groups like the Citizens for Democracy) that dozens of young Sikhs were summarily executed after surrender – lined up in the all-weather pool area and shot, their hands tied behind their backs. In villages across Punjab, the concurrent Operation Woodrose saw soldiers raid Gurduaras and homes, arresting thousands of Sikh youths on suspicion of being militants or sympathizers. The vast majority of those picked up had nothing to do with any violence, but they were Amritdhari (initiated) Sikhs or political activists. In those tense weeks of June–July 1984, Punjab was under something close to martial law, with a media blackout. Countless ordinary Sikhs faced arbitrary detentions and custodial torture.
The reaction of Sikhs worldwide to the Golden Temple assault was instantaneous and intense. There was profound grief and fury. In India, virtually every Sikh household went into mourning as word spread that the Golden Temple – their holiest shrine, equivalent to the Vatican for Catholics or Mecca for Muslims – had been desecrated by India’s own government. Elderly Sikhs who had lived through Partition said even that horror did not prepare them for seeing the Akal Takht in flames. Among Sikhs in uniform (in the army and police), shock turned to outrage. Approximately 400 Sikh soldiers mutinied in different places – an unprecedented event in Indian military history[49][50]. In one case, a unit marched from its barracks intending to go to Amritsar to protect the Golden Temple. These mutineers were all subdued and later court-martialed, with some given life sentences and others dismissed; but the message was clear: Blue Star had pierced the soul of Sikh loyalty.
For Punjab’s Sikh youth, any remaining faith in the Indian system evaporated. Even moderate Sikhs who had until then opposed Bhindranwale felt something sacred had been assaulted. As a community, Sikhs felt singled out and humiliated by the timing (the army attacked on Guru Arjan’s martyrdom day, one of Sikhism’s most significant anniversaries, when extra pilgrims were present – a fact seen as a deliberate slight, although the army claimed tactical necessity).
From the perspective of officers like Ajit Singh Sandhu, Operation Blue Star was a turning point too, but in a different way. Sandhu was by then in mid-career, serving as a police officer in a Punjab being put under army boots. Many Sikh officers in Punjab Police felt demoralized and were viewed with suspicion by superiors – indeed, some Sikh policemen resigned or quietly absented themselves during Blue Star, unwilling to partake in actions against their own shrines. Sandhu, however, stayed firmly on the job. If he had any personal misgivings, he buried them. In the years after, Sandhu would prove to be one of those who internalized the state’s narrative: that Bhindranwale’s insurgency had nearly broken India, and it was now an existential duty to root out “anti-nationals” by any means necessary. Blue Star, for men like him, justified a hard-line approach.
For the Sikh populace, however, Blue Star changed everything. If before some might have been ambivalent about the militants, after June 1984 there was a swell of sympathy for anyone who vowed revenge or justice. The army action gave a post-facto validation to Bhindranwale’s warnings that “the government is out to destroy Sikhism.” Even many who disagreed with his methods found a new respect for his martyrdom. Communal polarization in Punjab hit the roof: Hindu-Sikh friendships frayed; the exodus of Hindus from rural areas accelerated (many moved to cities or out of Punjab, fearing retaliation). Moderates like the Akali Dal leaders were discredited in the public eye for failing to protect the Golden Temple. In fact, several senior Akalis who had not been present during the onslaught (they had been negotiating with government and were outside) were assassinated by enraged Sikh youths in the following months as “traitors.” The Sikh diaspora, especially in the UK, North America, and Canada, rose in vociferous protest. Within days of Blue Star, huge demonstrations took place in London, Vancouver, and New York with Sikh protesters burning India’s flag and effigies of Indira Gandhi, and carrying placards labeling her a butcher.
Blue Star therefore, while achieving Indira’s immediate goal of eliminating Bhindranwale and clearing militants from the Golden Temple, unleashed a far more potent and diffused insurgency. It was like decapitating one head of a hydra only for dozens to sprout in its place. The Sikh resistance movement now gained a moral legitimacy in the eyes of many ordinary Sikhs. If the Indian state could invade our holiest site and kill our innocent pilgrims, what faith can we have in Indian democracy? – this was the question on countless lips. Some answered it by turning to the separatist idea of Khalistan, which until then had been a fringe concept. Suddenly slogans of “Khalistan Zindabad” (Long live Khalistan) were heard, not just from extremists but from common folk angered beyond measure.
In the immediate three months after Operation Blue Star, there was a relative calm only because Punjab was under full military grip. But beneath that surface, volcanoes were rumbling. And then, one act of vengeance set off an entirely new conflagration: the assassination of Indira Gandhi herself by her Sikh bodyguards on October 31, 1984. That act – widely seen by Sikhs as a deed of earned retribution and by Indians in general as an unforgivable treachery – triggered events that would push Punjab and the nation into the darkest chapter of modern Indian history: the pogrom of November 1984 and the years of insurgency and state terror that followed, in which Ajit Singh Sandhu would rise to notoriety.
On the morning of October 31, 1984, India’s Prime Minister Indira Gandhi was walking through the garden of her New Delhi residence for a TV interview appointment. In the wake of Operation Blue Star, security around her was paradoxically both high and lax – high in that dozens of guards patrolled her compound, yet lax in that she continued to have Sikhs in her personal bodyguard detail despite the obvious risk (perhaps a reflection of her faith in individual loyalty or a desire not to appear biased against Sikhs). As she passed a gate, two Sikh bodyguards who were on duty seized their moment. Beant Singh, an inspector, stepped forward and fired three shots from his sidearm into Indira at point-blank range; a second later, Satwant Singh, a young constable, unleashed a burst from his Sten submachine gun. The bullets riddled Indira Gandhi, shredding her internal organs. She collapsed and, despite being rushed to AIIMS hospital, was declared dead a couple of hours later. The two assassins surrendered immediately to other security personnel – they had done what they came to do, avenging the desecration of the Golden Temple as per their own statements. (Beant Singh was killed on the spot in a scuffle with guards; Satwant Singh was later tried and hanged in 1989, going to the gallows with the cry “Waheguru ji ka Khalsa, Waheguru ji ki Fateh!”)
Indira’s assassination stunned India. But for India’s Sikh community, it was a complex moment: on one hand, no one really cheered the killing of a Prime Minister publicly; on the other, in private many Sikhs felt a grim satisfaction that the “tyrant of June 84” had met justice at Sikh hands. Some even viewed Beant and Satwant as dharamyudh warriors, modern-day versions of legendary Sikhs who had struck down oppressors. This nuanced Sikh reaction, unfortunately, was completely lost on the broader Indian public. For many average (especially urban Hindu) Indians, all they saw was that Sikhs had killed the beloved (or at least strongly respected) leader of the nation, who had kept India intact. A volcano of grief and anger erupted among Congress Party loyalists. Within hours of the announcement of Indira’s death, organized chaos unfolded on the streets of Delhi and many other cities.
What happened in the first week of November 1984 in Delhi (and places like Kanpur, Bokaro, and Patna) was not a spontaneous Hindu backlash, but a state-sanctioned pogrom against Sikh citizens. The timing was coldly calibrated: Indira’s son Rajiv Gandhi was quickly sworn in as Prime Minister on the evening of Oct 31, while his mother’s body lay in state. Instead of immediately calling for calm, Rajiv Gandhi and his coterie seemingly turned a blind eye as senior Congress politicians prepared for “reprisal.” By the night of Oct 31, voter lists and school registration records were procured by local Congress leaders to identify Sikh households in Delhi[51][52]. Starting November 1 and continuing for three days, murderous crowds were trucked into Sikh-populated neighborhoods, armed with iron rods, knives, gasoline, and even white phosphorous (to accelerate fires). These mobs didn’t arise organically; they were led by figures identifiable as Congress Party operatives – the likes of Jagdish Tytler, Sajjan Kumar, Lalit Maken, HKL Bhagat, and others who either incited or directly oversaw the attacks, as later affidavits by witnesses attested. In the open, these leaders (some MPs and councilors) exhorted the crowds: “Khoon ka badla khoon se lenge!” (“We will take blood for blood!”) and chillingly, “Ek Sikh bhi zinda na bachne paaye!” (“Not even one Sikh should be left alive!”).
What unfolded was genocidal carnage: over 3,000 Sikhs were killed in Delhi alone within 72 hours[51]. Men and boys were the primary targets for murder, but women and children were not spared brutality. Mobs would surround Sikh localities (often those adjacent to resettlement colonies where working-class Sikhs lived). They began by looting Sikh homes and shops, then set them ablaze. Sikh men were dragged out, beaten with rods and often doused in kerosene and burnt alive – a barbaric method involving throwing a tire around the neck (the “necklace of death”) and setting it alight. Many victims were hacked or bludgeoned to death. Women suffered mass rape, gang-rape, and mutilation; there are heart-rending accounts of mothers violated in front of their children, young girls abducted, and in several cases, whole families burned inside their houses. Gurduaras were desecrated and torched. The atmosphere reeked of petrol and charred flesh. Crucially, the police force that should have intervened was by and large complicit or apathetic. Numerous witnesses later recounted that police officers disarmed Sikhs who were trying to defend themselves, telling them, “It’s for your own safety,” only to then leave them at the mercy of the mobs. Police lines rang busy or officers claimed “no orders to help.” Fire brigades refused to go into Sikh neighborhoods that were ablaze, letting them burn. This was not a riot (which implies two sides fighting); it was a one-sided, targeted massacre – a pogrom in the classic sense, carried out with precision.
There were stories of exceptional Hindu neighbors who saved Sikh friends by hiding them or fighting off mobs – acts of humanity that shine in the darkness. But these were scattered lights. Overall, the organs of the Indian state either actively facilitated or at least allowed the pogrom to continue until it had exhausted itself. By November 4, the violence ebbed largely because there were no more Sikh targets easily left to kill; either they were dead, in hiding, or the Army finally patrolled the streets (only after three days of butchery did the central government deploy the military to restore order). The final death toll countrywide was likely around 4,000–5,000 Sikhs (the government’s all-India official figure was about 2,800 in Delhi and 3,350 overall, which many consider an undercount). Entire neighborhoods in Delhi like Trilokpuri, Kalyanpuri, Sultanpuri and Mangolpuri became ghost towns of Sikh widows and orphans. It was in the relief camps afterward that survivors recounted horrors such as small children tossed into fires, infants cut into pieces, and piles of bodies on Delhi’s streets being lifted by garbage trucks.
To the Sikhs, this was Partition redux, but this time at the hands of their own countrymen, not foreign mobs. The psychological impact was shattering. Many could not believe that the same Delhi where Sikhs had lived side by side with Hindus since 1947 and contributed in every sphere could suddenly erupt and devour them. The complicity of the ruling party was especially galling. Rajiv Gandhi, when finally pressed for a response, delivered a chilling justification: “When a big tree falls, the earth shakes.” This statement, metaphorically excusing the massacre as a natural reaction to Indira’s assassination, was heard by Sikhs as the sanction of mass violence from the very top. It reinforced what the community had long suspected: that in the Indian establishment’s eyes, Sikh lives didn’t matter if political power or revenge was at stake. The impunity bestowed on the killers in the years to come only confirmed this. Out of the thousands of murderers and rapists in 1984, virtually none were arrested during the violence. In the immediate aftermath, a few token arrests were made, only to result in acquittals. For instance, Lalit Maken, a Congress leader identified by victims as leading a mob, was never charged; instead, he continued in politics until two Sikh youths (associated with Sukha and Jinda, about whom more soon) assassinated him in July 1985[51][52] right in Delhi, pumping bullets into him and his wife in retaliation for his role in the carnage. Another ringleader, Arjun Dass, met a similar fate in 1985, killed by militants who saw him on the “hit list” for 1984[53]. These acts of vigilante justice were celebrated quietly in Gurduaras, as people felt some solace that “Sikh lions” were avenging what the law would not.
However, aside from such isolated paybacks, justice through institutions was a mirage. Several inquiry commissions (Misra Commission 1985, Nanavati Commission 2000s, etc.) were set up over the years, but their recommendations were either toothless or ignored. Only after two decades did senior Congress politicians like Jagdish Tytler or Sajjan Kumar even face charges, and it took until 2018 – 34 years later – for Sajjan Kumar to be convicted (Tytler’s cases still linger, with no conviction as of this writing). This staggering delay and denial of justice for the 1984 pogrom stands in stark contrast to, say, how swiftly India hanged Indira’s Sikh bodyguards. To Sikhs, it underscored that the blood of Sikhs was cheap in the republic.
The pogrom also had the effect of sealing the fate of Punjab’s insurgency. Before October 1984, even after Blue Star, there might have been a chance to win back hearts by some reconciliation. But after November, that window closed. Any Sikh who had doubted the militant path now saw the writing on the wall: if the Indian state could permit the mass killing of Sikhs in its very capital, what future did Sikhs have within this state? Hence, from late 1984 onwards, the Sikh militant ranks swelled with a flood of new recruits – not only in Punjab but from among survivors of Delhi who moved to Punjab thirsting for revenge, and from foreign countries where angry Sikh youth felt compelled to act seeing pictures of burned bodies and widows. The militant groups, which had been a fringe, suddenly had a deep pool of resentment to draw on. As a Sikh, one either succumbed to despair or channeled it into resistance. Thousands chose the latter, whether by directly picking up arms or by supporting those who did. A popular slogan emerged in those days: “Kaum de shaheedan nu, juta diyan salaam” (Even the shoes of the martyrs of our nation deserve salutations) – reflecting the valorization of those who fought or died for Sikh dignity.
For Ajit Singh Sandhu, the Delhi pogrom was perhaps slightly removed (since he was in Punjab, not Delhi). But even in Punjab, there were some revenge attacks on Hindus in the weeks after, and tension was sky-high. Sandhu, as a policeman whose loyalty was to the Indian state, likely saw the immediate effect: the militants were about to wage a full-scale insurgency, and it would be his job to combat it. However, one wonders if in some corner of his mind, as a Sikh, the events of 1984 gave him pause. If they did, outwardly he did not express it. He remained in service, now facing an unprecedented challenge as Punjab headed into the abyss of competitive terror – militants on one side, and the state on the other, with innocent civilians (Sikh and Hindu) suffering in between.
The stage was thus set for a decade-long nightmare (1985–1995) in Punjab, a cycle of violence and counter-violence that would claim more lives than anyone could have imagined and erode the rule of law entirely. In that decade, Ajit Singh Sandhu would emerge as one of the most infamous instruments of state repression, just as men like Sukha and Jinda (who assassinated General Vaidya in 1986, avenging Blue Star[54]) emerged as iconic militants symbolizing Sikh retaliation. The wheel of history had now turned through Partition’s massacre, the post-independence betrayals, the 1978 awakening, the 1984 twin shocks – each spoke of the wheel intensifying the next. Now the wheel would grind through an era of insurgency, where distinctions between right and wrong blurred, and only the anguished cries of victims on all sides remained clear.
The years following 1984 plunged Punjab into a grim tableau of insurgency and counter-insurgency – a period often referred to as the “dark decade” of Punjab. The conflict pitted Sikh militant organizations fighting for revenge and a separate homeland (Khalistan) against the Indian state’s security forces bent on quelling what they termed terrorism and secession. Caught in the crossfire was the civilian population of Punjab, which endured atrocities and fear from both sides. The human toll was staggering: by most estimates, tens of thousands of people were killed in Punjab in this period, including militants, security personnel, and ordinary civilians.
In 1985, the turmoil was temporarily papered over by a political negotiation: the Rajiv-Longowal Accord (July 1985). Rajiv Gandhi, who had just won a massive election victory riding sympathy after his mother’s death, reached out to moderate Akali Dal leader Sant Harchand Singh Longowal. The accord promised to transfer Chandigarh to Punjab, set up commissions on river waters, compensate victim families, and generally resolve grievances. In exchange, the Akalis agreed to persuade militants to lay down arms. Longowal took a brave, if naive, step by signing the pact. Tragically, within a month, Longowal was assassinated by Sikh extremists who saw him as traitorous for negotiating with Delhi. The collapse of the accord reaffirmed that the militant movement would not be tamed by half-measures or paper promises – especially promises that many Sikhs doubted Rajiv would keep (indeed, many clauses of that accord were never implemented, validating that skepticism).
From 1986 onwards, the militant groups effectively set an agenda of their own. In April 1986, a gathering of radicals inside the Golden Temple (which had been restored by Sikh volunteers after Blue Star) issued a symbolic “Declaration of Khalistan”, though it had no official standing. This spooked the government but was mostly propaganda. More tangibly, various militant Jathebandis (organizations) coalesced or splintered: there were the Babbar Khalsa, the Khalistan Commando Force (KCF), Khalistan Liberation Force (KLF), Bhindranwale Tiger Force (BTF), and the All India Sikh Students Federation factions, among others. They didn’t always coordinate and sometimes even feuded, but broadly they shared the aim of an independent Sikh homeland and avenging perceived injustices. They targeted what they saw as enemies of the Panth (community): this included figures of the state like Congress politicians and police officers, as well as Sikhs deemed collaborators or “enemies within,” and members of the Hindu community in Punjab to create chaos and polarize society further.
The violence escalated in a gruesome tit-for-tat. Assassinations became common: in 1986, two militants shot dead General A.S. Vaidya (the Indian Army Chief who had led Operation Blue Star) while he was driving in Pune[54] – the operation was carried out by Harjinder Singh Jinda and Sukhdev Singh Sukha, who quickly became folk heroes to many Sikhs for “bringing justice” to the architect of the Golden Temple attack. That same duo, Sukha and Jinda, were involved in other high-profile hits: the 1985 assassination of Lalit Maken (Congress politician implicated in the anti-Sikh riots) as mentioned[51][55], and the killing of Arjun Dass (another Congress leader) in September 1985[53] – both of whom were on the top of the list of accused in the civil rights report “Who Are The Guilty?” documenting the 1984 pogrom. Each such killing was celebrated in Sikh militant literature as delivering righteous punishment to the perpetrators of 1984 when the courts had failed to do so. Sukha and Jinda also carried out what was then the biggest bank robbery in Indian history in 1987, raiding the Punjab National Bank in Ludhiana and seizing nearly Rs. 6 crore (about $4.5 million at the time) to finance the rebellion – notably without harming any bystander[56]. These exploits became legend among sympathizers, who contrasted the militants’ avoidance of collateral damage in that robbery (not a single person was injured) with the indiscriminate violence of the state.
However, it must be stated: as the insurgency wore on, militant violence did claim many innocents as well. Particularly heinous were the indiscriminate killings of Hindu civilians by some extremist factions. Starting in late 1986 and peaking around 1987-88, there were incidents of militants stopping buses or trains, segregating Hindu passengers and gunning them down in cold blood. Bombs were placed in marketplaces frequented by Hindus. For instance, a notorious attack in 1987 saw bus passengers in Haryana sorted by religion and 34 Hindu men shot dead. Such acts were ostensibly to drive Hindus out of Punjab (many who lived in rural areas fled to safer city centers or out of state altogether) and to retaliate for Sikh victimization, but in effect they eroded any broader sympathy and hardened the resolve of the Indian state to use an iron fist. Meanwhile, intra-Sikh score settling also occurred: members of the Communist and leftist organizations in Punjab (some of whom were vocal critics of Khalistan) were assassinated; even moderate Akali politicians or relatives of police officers were targeted to terrorize the establishment. By the late 1980s, the militancy had morphed in parts into outright gangsterism under the guise of ideology – some criminal elements engaged in extortion, and a few militant factions fought each other over turf, further muddying the waters.
Against this daunting insurgency, the Indian government deployed a multi-pronged counter-insurgency strategy that grew more ruthless by the year. Initially, the police (under Punjab’s DGP Julio Ribeiro in 1986-88) attempted a “hearts-and-minds” approach coupled with strong action, dubbing his strategy “Bullet for Bullet.” Ribeiro, a non-Sikh brought in from Mumbai, survived an assassination attempt in 1986 (a bomb attack by militants). His near-death perhaps convinced the top brass that no quarter could be given. By 1988, the central government imposed President’s Rule again and sent in Kanwar Pal Singh (KPS) Gill as the new Director General of Police (DGP) of Punjab. KPS Gill was a Sikh, but one utterly unsympathetic to the religious or political demands of his kin; he was a career officer known for crushing a rebellion in Assam, and he believed in a no-holds-barred approach. Under Gill and a cohort of handpicked officers – superintendents like Ajit Singh Sandhu, Mohammed Izhar Alam, Sumedh Saini, and others – the Punjab Police was transformed into a deadly efficient force of encounter specialists.
It’s here that Ajit Singh Sandhu truly made his mark. By the late 1980s, Sandhu had risen to the rank of Senior Superintendent of Police (SSP) and was posted in districts that were militancy hotbeds – notably in Amritsar and then Tarn Taran, the latter being the most militancy-infested district, often referred to as “Khalistan’s heartland” due to its proximity to the Pakistan border and dense network of militant hideouts. Sandhu embraced a macabre calculus: the way to finish terrorism was to kill all the terrorists, even if that meant bypassing courts and laws. In practice, this devolved into killing many young Sikh men merely suspected of sympathy or sometimes for personal enmity or reward. He was far from alone in this approach – this was becoming the norm among Punjab’s security forces. The rule of law collapsed as the state tacitly authorized “encounter killings” (extra-judicial executions staged as armed confrontations).
The system that incentivized such behavior was both formal and informal. Bounties and promotions were given for militant leaders captured or killed. An SSP could earn tens of thousands of rupees for eliminating a “dreaded terrorist,” and many were indeed hardened assassins. But what if there weren’t enough genuine militants to meet the ‘kill quotas’ or satisfy ambitions? Then, the line blurred. Officers like Sandhu were alleged to have abducted innocents or minor offenders and labeled them as slain terrorists to chalk up higher body counts. In many cases, surrendered militants or rival faction members who had outlived their utility were summarily executed. The police became judge, jury, and executioner.
Torture chambers in police stations across Punjab worked overtime. Methods described by survivors and defectors included barbarities like the roller treatment (heavy logs rolled on legs), waterboarding, electric shocks to genitals, and mock executions. Women relatives of suspects were not spared intimidation or worse – there are documented cases of mothers and sisters of militants being molested or raped in custody to extract surrender or confessions. Some police officers (like the infamous “encounter specialist” Labh Singh, not to be confused with the militant General Labh Singh) gained notoriety for sadistic methods, although Sandhu’s specific involvement in torture is less individually documented because it was so widespread a practice among all police then.
One of the most extreme tactics adopted under KPS Gill, likely with implicit sanction of New Delhi, was the use of undercover death squads composed of reformed ex-militants or bandits – the so-called “Black Cats” or “Vigilante gangs.” These were irregulars who, working with police backing, eliminated militants in off-the-books operations, giving the state deniability. Police like Sandhu also fomented inter-gang rivalries, sometimes by leaking information to cause militants to kill each other.
By 1990-91, the Indian state had also passed draconian laws like TADA (Terrorist and Disruptive Activities (Prevention) Act), which allowed long detentions without trial and virtually removed standard evidentiary requirements. Punjab’s prisons filled with thousands of detainees held under TADA; many languished for years without charges framed. Such legal cover, combined with President’s Rule (direct federal control) meant that the security forces in Punjab operated with near-total impunity.
Let’s ground this in specifics: Ajit Singh Sandhu in Tarn Taran became a legend among police for breaking the back of the insurgency there, and a legend among Sikhs for cruelty. Human rights groups later linked him, either directly or via the actions of officers under his command, to the disappearance of upto at least 1,000 people in Tarn Taran district alone. One typical practice was the “fake encounter”: a suspect would be arrested (often secretly), and then hours or days later, the police would stage a scene – say, the suspect was being taken to recover weapons and “attempted to escape” or “fired at police,” leading to police firing back and killing him. In reality, the person might have been killed in custody and then simply dumped, bullets pumped into the body post-mortem to simulate a firefight. To avoid accountability, police rarely handed over bodies to families; instead, they performed secret cremations. Municipal crematoriums in Punjab, particularly in Amritsar, Patti, and Tarn Taran, became disposal factories for unidentified corpses. In late 1995, human rights activist Jaswant Singh Khalra discovered through public records that 2,097 unclaimed bodies were cremated by police in Amritsar district alone in the early 90s[57][58] – a number that spoke to the enormous scale of extra-judicial killings. This figure, which included many whose identities were later partially verified, was just the tip of the iceberg statewide.
Khalra’s findings specifically implicated Ajit Singh Sandhu’s tenure in Tarn Taran (since Tarn Taran was part of Amritsar district until 1992). Shockingly, among those cremated as “unidentified terrorists” were people whom everyone in the village knew, even some old men or children with no militant link. One was Bhai Avtar Singh, a pilgrim from the UK visiting Golden Temple, who was picked up and later found cremated as an “unidentified.” Stories like his abounded. Khalra’s relentless exposure of these truths made him Sandhu’s nemesis, as we shall see later.
The militants, for their part, did not relent easily. The assassination of Punjab’s Congress Chief Minister Beant Singh in August 1995 by a suicide bomber was one of the last big militant strikes – Beant was credited with bringing Punjab to peace, and his killing showed the embers of rebellion still glowed. But by 1993-94, the movement was largely crushed within India. Many top militant commanders were dead or had fled abroad. The common people, exhausted by violence and tired of economic stagnation, were no longer providing cover or sympathy as before.
One reason the militancy lost local support was precisely because of the brutal excesses of both sides. Ordinary Sikhs were squeezed: if they harbored militants, they risked police retribution; if they didn’t, they risked militant wrath for being “informers.” In some villages, police CATS ( covert action teams aka Alam Sena) would extort money for their cause; in others, police would torture the entire family of a militant on the run. A generation of Sikh youth was basically decimated – either becoming militants and dying young, or being killed as suspects, or languishing in jails. From 1984 to 1994, an entire cohort of Sikh males in Punjab lived under the shadow of being labeled terrorist at any time. Many fled to foreign lands as refugees (some legitimately escaping persecution, others opportunistically). Punjab’s economy and society were traumatized deeply, a trauma that still surfaces in waves of drug abuse and emigration among the youth, arguably symptoms of the unresolved legacy.
It was in this cauldron that Ajit Singh Sandhu thrived as an apex predator for a time. Among his colleagues, Sandhu was seen as fiercely effective – he “sorted out” Tarn Taran, once the hardest district, making it “manageable” again by 1993. The government duly rewarded him: President of India’s Police Medal for gallantry, promotions, commendations. KPS Gill sang praises of officers like Sandhu as the saviors of India’s unity, crediting them with ending Punjab’s insurgency. Indeed, by 1993, militancy was at its last gasp. By 1995, aside from the one Beant Singh assassination and a few sporadic incidents, Punjab was largely at peace – a sullen, graveyard peace, but peace. The Indian state’s narrative: terrorism had been vanquished and normalcy restored.
Yet, the methods of this victory were already casting a long shadow. The blatant disregard for laws created a culture of impunity. Punjab’s police had become judge and executioner; and in victory, many of them believed they could forever escape judgment. Officers involved in misdeeds were seldom held accountable in those days – on the contrary, many were given plum postings or political careers (for example, some notorious Punjab cops joined political parties later and became legislators).
But the victims’ families did not forget, and neither did rights activists. By the mid-90s, as guns fell silent, voices for accountability grew. This clashed directly with the interests of men like Sandhu. Here enters the pivotal event that ties the spokes of our narrative back to the hub: Jaswant Singh Khalra’s disappearance in 1995.
Khalra, whom we mentioned, was a mild-mannered Sikh bank employee turned human rights activist from Amritsar. Using public records, he courageously publicized the macabre truth of Punjab’s counter-insurgency – naming Tarn Taran’s SSP (Ajit Sandhu) as responsible for many of the 2,000 secret cremations uncovered[57][58]. Khalra even traveled abroad, to Canada and the UK, presenting evidence and urging the international Sikh diaspora to demand justice. Upon returning to Punjab, he was warned by Sandhu’s men: stop, or you’ll become “disappeared” as well. Khalra refused to be silenced. True to the threat, on September 6, 1995, as Khalra washed his car in front of his home in Amritsar, police abducted him. Multiple witnesses saw this brazen daylight kidnapping by identifiable officers from Tarn Taran (i.e., Sandhu’s subordinates). Khalra was never seen free again. For months, authorities denied knowledge of his whereabouts even as world leaders and NGOs pressed for answers. It later emerged from witness testimonies (including one police insider who broke ranks) that Khalra was tortured for about two months in illegal detention – ironically kept in the same police station in Tarn Taran Punjab police district where many of the youths he spoke for had been held. When international pressure mounted, Sandhu and co. decided to eliminate him. According to a police witness, on October 27, 1995, at the orders of Director General of Punjab Police Mr. KPS Gill, Khalra was taken out of his cell, made to stand, and shot dead by Ajit Singh Sandhu himself with a carbine. His body is believed to have been weighted and dumped in the canal (it was never found). Thus, the man who sought justice for the disappeared became one more “disappeared.” Sandhu reportedly told his men that Khalra’s crusade threatened the entire police force, and that “such a man has no right to live.”
If Sandhu and others thought killing Khalra would bury the truth, they miscalculated. Khalra became a martyr figure, and his disappearance became an international embarrassment for India. By 1996, under Supreme Court orders, the Central Bureau of Investigation (CBI) had to investigate the cremations. They ended up charging Sandhu and several officers in Khalra’s murder case. The impunity era was cracking, slightly. It’s important to note that none of this accountability fervor came from the Indian government voluntarily – it was pressure by activists, judiciary, and international voices that forced the issue. Even the National Human Rights Commission (NHRC) took up the mass cremations case, albeit with many limitations (the NHRC was constrained to only examine cases from one district, and it never named individual officers).
By late 1996, Ajit Singh Sandhu found himself in a situation he likely never anticipated: behind bars. He was arrested for the Khalra kidnapping and for a couple of other cases (one involving the abduction and murder of a family). Though soon released on bail, his aura of invulnerability was punctured. The state that had once celebrated him was now, under a new political dispensation, allowing him to be sacrificed to appease critics. Sandhu reportedly grew despondent. He felt betrayed that while he was being prosecuted, his superiors like KPS Gill remained not only free but lauded. Indeed, the political winds had shifted: by 1997, Punjab voted the Akali Dal (led by Parkash Singh Badal) back to power in alliance with BJP. This government gingerly tried to address some Sikh grievances. But interestingly, Badal too did not pursue broad justice for past abuses – perhaps because he had made peace with the security establishment, perhaps because digging too deep risked undermining the narrative of victory or implicating people now in power. In any case, only a handful of cases moved forward against specific officers like Sandhu.
For a man like Sandhu, who had been decorated as a hero, the stigma of being labeled a common criminal was reportedly unbearable. On May 24, 1997, Sandhu committed suicide by jumping in front of a speeding train near his village. It was a darkly poetic end: the man who had consigned so many unidentified bodies to fires ended by making himself an unrecognizable mangled heap on railway tracks. He left a note, media reported, that said he could not live with the shame of being called a human rights violator after all he had done to protect the nation. Some of his colleagues alleged that “the system” had driven him to death, essentially blaming rights activists for hounding an officer who was just doing his duty. KPS Gill famously said that Sandhu was “a victim of the morality of fools” and that his suicide was a direct outcome of the campaign against Punjab police by misguided human rights groups[59][60]. Gill’s view, shared by many in the security establishment, was that by questioning or prosecuting the police’s methods, India was effectively punishing its saviors and demoralizing future officers. This view found resonance in some quarters, and indeed after Sandhu’s death, a kind of pushback occurred – the NHRC, for instance, scaled down its pursuit of cases, perhaps fearful of more suicides or backlash.
From the Sikh perspective, Sandhu’s demise was met with mixed feelings. Many families quietly felt a grim justice – “Dharm raj” (divine justice) had caught up with a tyrant who escaped human courts. Some fundamentalists even celebrated his end as God’s will. Yet, there was also frustration: Sandhu’s suicide meant he never stood trial, never named higher-ups, never gave closure by revealing where bodies were disposed. In a sense, he took many secrets to his pyre.
With the principal villain (in their eyes) gone, victims’ families turned focus to the remaining ones. Court cases against other officers ground on slowly. In 2005, in an unprecedented judgment, six Punjab policemen (including a DSP) were convicted for Khalra’s murder – a tiny modicum of justice[17][61]. But beyond that single case, almost no one else was punished for the thousands of extrajudicial killings and tortures that occurred. The Indian state’s appetite for self-scrutiny was low; it was more convenient to move on and promote a narrative of “terrorism defeated, Punjab healed.”
However, Punjab was not fully healed. The events from 1978 through 1995 left deep scars. While externally normalcy returned – elections, economic growth, pop music, bhangra – internally a lot of trauma lay unresolved. Many Sikh families continued to wait for the knock that would tell them where their missing son’s bones lay, or whether their loved one might miraculously be alive somewhere. The impunity rankled: seeing those who had likely killed their relatives walking free as respected citizens or officials was salt on wounds. This collective angst did not dissipate; it instead morphed and expressed itself in new ways in the coming decades.
Before moving to the post-1995 developments, it’s worth reflecting on Parkash Singh Badal’s role in this saga, as requested. Badal, as the preeminent Akali leader, indeed cast a long shadow. Critics accuse him of “betrayals” at multiple junctures. In 1978, as Chief Minister, Badal did not aggressively pursue the Nirankari perpetrators; some suggest he even shielded them due to political calculations. In the 1980s, Badal took a backseat during the height of tensions (some say conveniently getting himself arrested before Blue Star so as not to be in the Temple). Documents unearthed by adversaries allege Badal had indirect communications with Indira’s government urging firm action against Bhindranwale – essentially eliminating the Akalis’ radical rival. While the authenticity of specific letters is debated, there’s no doubt Badal positioned himself to inherit the leadership after Bhindranwale and Longowal were gone. Post-militancy, in 1996, Badal’s party at the “Moga conference” formally abandoned the hardcore Sikh agenda and rebranded as a secular Punjabi party[59][60], which many old Akalis saw as an ideological betrayal done to align with the Hindu-right BJP and to avoid being banned for communalism. Once in power (1997-2002 and later terms), Badal did little to pursue justice for 1984 or for fake encounter victims. In 2015, under Badal’s government, the Behbal Kalan incident occurred where police fired on Sikhs peacefully protesting Guru Granth Sahib’s desecration, killing two – an act seen as another Badal-era betrayal of Sikhs, echoing 1978 when his government had been soft on blasphemers. Badal’s legacy thus is contentious: hailed by some for bringing development and relative peace, but criticized by others for sacrificing Sikh causes for personal power. He passed away in 2023, leaving behind this complex legacy.
Thus, by 1996, the armed chapter in Punjab closed with a sigh of relief from the Indian state, but unresolved justice from the Sikh standpoint. The wheel of history had by then rotated through spokes of oppression and resistance repeatedly. Yet, as we move beyond the 90s, we see that the momentum of that wheel did not stop. It carried forth into the next generation in subtler yet significant ways – from legal battles for truth to the simmering of discontent manifesting in new forms of activism and, occasionally, violence.
The late 1990s in Punjab were a time of uneasy calm – the sound of gunfire had faded, but the silence was heavy with grief and unresolved questions. For the first time in over a decade, Punjabis were not waking up to news of another shootout or bomb blast. Festivals like Vaisakhi and Diwali once again drew large, carefree crowds. Economically, Punjab even rebounded to an extent: investments trickled back in, and fields yielded bumper crops under the peacetime skies. On the surface, it looked as if normalcy – that much-vaunted goal – had returned. But beneath that surface, the scars of the insurgency and crackdown remained tender. Families of militants killed in fake encounters, or innocents who vanished, were still in mourning and often in penury (as their primary breadwinners were gone). Sikh diaspora communities, freer to speak, held conferences and commemorations to keep 1984 and the 1990s atrocities in memory. In Punjab itself, people generally avoided discussing the horror years openly – there was a palpable fatigue and a fear of rekindling trouble. Instead, there was an attempt at collective amnesia: focus on business, on music, on the joy of survival. But history has a way of demanding acknowledgment.
One significant development of the aftermath was the slow churn of judicial and investigative efforts regarding the abuses. The democratic framework of India did, haltingly, provide some avenues. For instance, the Nanavati Commission was set up in 2000 to re-examine the 1984 anti-Sikh massacres. In its 2005 report, it confirmed much of what survivors had said all along – that Congress leaders likely orchestrated the violence – leading to at least public shaming of a few individuals (Sajjan Kumar had to resign from Parliament then, though he was convicted much later; Tytler was removed from a ministerial post). While these were token, they marked the first official admissions that something gravely wrong had happened in 1984[62]. On the Punjab front, the NHRC’s inquiry into the mass cremations led to a 2004 order where it identified 2,097 bodies cremated illegally and directed monetary compensation to families of 1,245 identified victims[57][58]. The compensation was not much – Rs. 1-2 lakh (a few thousand dollars) per death – and pointedly it did not admit criminal wrongdoing by the state, calling it relief for “violation of fundamental rights” rather than an acknowledgment of murder. Many victim families refused the money, seeing it as blood money that absolved killers. Still, the NHRC proceeding created an official record that such illegal cremations happened, which is a form of truth recorded.
Civil society and human rights organizations kept the flame of remembrance alive. Groups like Punjab Human Rights Organization (PHRO) and later Ensaaf (a U.S.-based nonprofit) and the Punjab Documentation & Advocacy Project (PDAP) compiled detailed reports with case studies of fake encounters, rapes, and disappearances. One seminal work, “Reduced to Ashes” by Ram Narayan Kumar in 2003, documented hundreds of individual cases of alleged extrajudicial killings in Punjab, putting names to the numbers that Khalra spoke of. Each story – like that of a teenager picked up and never seen again, or a father-son pair summarily executed – served as a witness against forgetting. These reports were submitted to courts or UN bodies to press for action.
On the political front, the Akali Dal (led by Badal) took some steps to symbolically address Sikh grievances. A major one was the construction of memorials: the “Wall of Truth” in New Delhi (a memorial dedicated to 1984 riot victims) and a June 1984 memorial in Amritsar (honoring those who died in Operation Blue Star). These were inaugurated years later, around mid-2010s, amidst some controversy (the Indian government was not enthusiastic about memorializing what it considered a sensitive episode, especially since the June 84 memorial implicitly honors Bhindranwale and fighters whom the state still labels terrorists). But the memorials went ahead as a form of community catharsis – writing the history in stone so that future generations would remember.
The Sikh religious leadership (SGPC and Akal Takht) also made pronouncements to heal or assert the community’s standpoint. In 2005, the Akal Takht declared that the events of 1984 were a “genocide” of Sikhs – a term politically loaded, implying intent by the state to destroy a community, something India vehemently denied. In 2014, on the 30th anniversary of Blue Star, the SGPC passed a resolution glorifying Bhindranwale as a “martyr of faith”. Such steps were cheered by Sikhs who felt their narrative was finally being officially embraced by their institutions, though it also kept wounds from closing entirely.
Meanwhile, Sikh militant activity in Punjab ceased by late 90s, but that didn’t mean all militants were gone. Many had escaped abroad (to Pakistan, or Western countries), where they remained vocal. Groups like Babbar Khalsa and ISYF maintained networks in the diaspora, albeit under watch by foreign governments post-9/11. Some die-hards sheltered by Pakistan’s ISI still fantasized about sparking a fresh insurgency; once in a while, weapons or consignments were caught being smuggled in, but these attempts didn’t gain traction. One significant militant, Jagtar Singh Hawara of Babbar Khalsa (mastermind of the CM Beant Singh assassination), was actually caught and sentenced in India in 2005 – interestingly, even from jail, he was declared a “Jathedar” (head) of Akal Takht by radical Sikhs in 2015 to signal that armed struggle leaders were heroes, though that appointment was short-lived and largely symbolic.
Through the 2000s, Punjab enjoyed peace, but not unblemished by strife. In 2007 and 2009, two incidents reminded people of the past: a clash in a Sikh religious congregation in Mumbai in 2007 when followers of a heterodox sect (Dera Sacha Sauda) costumed one of their leaders as Guru Gobind Singh – offending Sikhs and causing violence that killed a Sikh protester; and a 2009 incident of police firing on Sikhs in Ludhiana protesting the same sect. These were minor compared to the 80s, but they showed religious undercurrents still run strong.
Then came 2015. Punjab was rocked by a series of sacrilege incidents – desecrations of the Guru Granth Sahib. In over 100 cases, torn angs (pages) of the holy scripture were found scattered in villages (starting with Bargari in Faridkot district). No one definitively knew who orchestrated these blasphemous acts (suspects ranged from anti-Sikh sects to undercover agencies to personal feuds). The Sikh populace was deeply hurt and outraged. Peaceful protests erupted – reminiscent of earlier eras where Sikhs would gather in thousands to do sit-ins and demand action. At a protest in Behbal Kalan (near Bargari) in October 2015, the Punjab Police under Badal’s government opened fire without sufficient warning, killing two Sikh youths and injuring many. The scene – blood of unarmed Sikhs staining Punjabi soil yet again – brought back memories of 1978’s Nirankari clash and 1955’s Temple assault, where Sikhs felt state forces desecrated their sanctity. The public outcry was intense. An inquiry later found that the police firing was unprovoked and excessive, recommending charges against officers. The Akali Dal’s reputation as protector of Sikhs took a severe hit; indeed, in the 2017 Punjab elections, the sacrilege issue and Behbal Kalan killings were a major reason Badal’s party was voted out after a decade in power.
Meanwhile, beyond India’s borders, the Sikh diaspora became increasingly assertive in seeking justice and keeping the memory of the struggle alive. In Canada, where Sikhs form a notable portion of the population (with significant political clout – as of this writing, Canada even has a Sikh as Defense Minister, etc.), provincial legislatures in Ontario and elsewhere passed motions labeling the 1984 anti-Sikh violence a “genocide.” This infuriated the Indian government. Britain saw annual rallies at Trafalgar Square by Sikh groups denouncing 1984. Social media connected young Sikhs to their history like never before – where Indian textbooks had perhaps one sanitizing line about “Operation Blue Star to flush out terrorists from Golden Temple,” Sikh youth on the internet could easily find photos of the Akal Takht in ruins or watch interviews with 1984 survivors and ex-militants. A “living history” online archive was launched, recording survivor testimonies of 1984 riots, much like Holocaust survivors’ archives, to ensure it’s not forgotten[63][59]. The discourse in diaspora somewhat romanticized the militancy era – songs and movies began depicting militants as folk heroes who had sacrificed for the faith, akin to the way Bhagat Singh is lionized in India.
The Indian state’s intelligence wings kept a wary eye on diaspora activities, often pressuring Western governments to curb what they called “pro-Khalistan extremism.” Sometimes, those appeals met receptive ears, especially post-9/11 when any separatist talk was conflated with potential terror. But Western countries also valued free speech; waving Khalistan flags or holding “Referendum 2020” (a campaign by U.S.-based Sikhs for Justice to gauge support for Khalistan) were generally legal activities abroad, however much India protested.
This tug-of-war culminated in one of the most dramatic international incidents related to Sikhs since the Air India bombing: the 2023 assassination of Hardeep Singh Nijjar in Canada. Nijjar was a Sikh-Canadian plumber by trade, and also the president of a Sikh Gurduara in Surrey, BC. He was an outspoken advocate for Khalistan (India accused him of involvement in plotting terror in Punjab, charges he denied). On June 18, 2023, Nijjar was shot dead by two masked gunmen in the parking lot of his Gurduara. The murder shook the large Sikh community in Canada. Initially it was thought to perhaps be internecine violence, but soon Canadian intelligence, with inputs from allies, pointed the finger at agents of the Indian government (RAW). In a bombshell statement in September 2023, Canadian PM Justin Trudeau told his Parliament that there were “credible allegations” of Indian state involvement in Nijjar’s killing[64][50]. This sent Indo-Canadian relations into a tailspin: diplomats were expelled on both sides, and India angrily denied the charge, calling it absurd[65][66]. For Sikhs, Trudeau’s announcement was monumental – a sitting Western leader validating what many had whispered: that India might be carrying its old war against Sikhs onto foreign soil. Indian media, for its part, largely took the government line, painting Nijjar as a terrorist who “got what he deserved” and casting Trudeau’s stance as politically motivated pandering to Sikh voters. But the fact that Western intelligence reportedly shared evidence (media allusions to intercepted communications of Indian diplomats, etc.) convinced many observers that India likely did cross a line.
This episode harks back to the hub of our story because it reveals how the ethos of impunity – nurtured in Punjab in the 80s-90s – may have emboldened Indian agencies to think they could eliminate a bothersome Sikh abroad without consequence. If true, it’s a tragic export of the Punjab conflict. It also shows the conflict’s legacy is alive: Nijjar was of a younger generation, inspired by 1984 and Khalra’s work, continuing activism in a new way (pushing a non-binding referendum). That even this was seen as enough of a threat to warrant assassination suggests the ghosts of the old struggle still haunt the present.
Apart from Nijjar, other incidents signaled transnational repression. In the UK, some exiled Sikh activists reported threats and one was physically attacked by assailants allegedly linked to Indian intelligence (e.g., an attempted hit on UK-based Paramjit Singh Pamma in 2015, which failed). In Germany, a local Indian-origin man was convicted in 2021 for spying on Sikh expatriates for Indian intel[67]. In Punjab itself, a new phenomenon of late 2010s was the emergence of organized crime gangs that sometimes invoked militant ties; when the farmers’ protests of 2020-21 (a huge peaceful movement where many Sikhs protested farm laws) happened, the Indian government again reflexively painted it as infiltrated by Khalistanis – an overblown claim, but it showed the trope remains handy to delegitimize Sikh dissent.
By the late 2010s and 2020s, one can identify a lingering sense of injustice among Sikhs but also a fatigue and desire not to relive the bloodshed. It’s telling that when a young Sikh separatist, Amritpal Singh, arose in 2022-23 in Punjab, gathering crowds with fiery speeches reminiscent of Bhindranwale, the government swiftly cracked down, but there was no mass uprising protecting him – most Sikhs, while sympathetic to the rhetoric of justice, were not keen to go back to an armed showdown. They prefer pursuing aims via advocacy, diaspora pressure, and democratic protest.
And so, as we near the end of this historical analysis, we see that while the wheel of tragedy that started in 1947 (or earlier, 1900) has slowed, it has not completely stopped. Sikhs today still demand answers for 1947 (some Sikh groups now talk of seeking apology for the Partition carnage), for 1984 (justice for the Delhi widows is incomplete, with a few convictions being too little too late), and for the 1990s (recognition of the excesses as a sort of internal war crime, maybe a truth commission someday). Without these acknowledgments, there remains a psychological distance between many Sikhs and the Indian state – a deficit of trust. The Indian establishment, on the other hand, often feels that enough has been done; they issued a formal apology in Parliament in 2005 for 1984 riots (PM Manmohan Singh, a Sikh, said he bows his head in shame for what happened), and they stress that Sikhs have held the highest offices (the same Manmohan was PM for a decade). But representation doesn’t equal reconciliation. Many Sikhs point out that systemic issues remain: Article 25 still classes them as Hindus in law, Punjab’s river waters are still mostly controlled by central schemes, and Sikhs outside Punjab (like in Kashmir or Northeast postings) still face slurs or suspicion at times.
Yet, the Sikh community also has remarkable resilience and patriotism. The 1999 Kargil War saw Sikhs in the Indian Army win honors for bravery, showing that despite all, many Sikhs continued to serve and die for India. The Farmers’ Protest in 2020-21, overwhelmingly Sikh-led, was a peaceful assertion that compelled the Indian government to roll back laws – a sort of nonviolent “morcha” victory reminiscent of Punjabi Suba days, achieved without violence.
The echoes of the Punjab conflict have indeed transcended borders, carrying the story of Sikh struggles to the international stage in unprecedented ways. As mentioned, the Sikh diaspora, particularly concentrated in countries like Canada, the UK, and the US, became the torchbearer of Sikh memory and advocacy after the guns fell silent in Punjab. This global dimension has added a new spoke to our wheel of analysis – call it the diaspora and international human rights spoke – which has, in recent years, converged with geopolitics.
One cannot overstate how much the diaspora narrative of the events (especially 1984 and the 1990s) has influenced younger Sikhs who grew up outside India. Free from Indian censorship or fear of local police, diaspora Sikhs produced a rich body of literature, documentaries, and art about those events. They organized yearly remembrance marches in world capitals on June 6 (Blue Star anniversary) and November 1984 anniversaries, ensuring those tragedies stayed in the public eye. Museums and exhibitions – like a 1984 Sikh Museum exhibit – traveled to Gurduaras around the world. The term “Sikh Genocide” for 1984 gained traction largely due to diaspora lobbying[63][59], culminating in official usage by some Western entities. All this embarrassed India on the world stage, as it prides itself on secular democracy credentials.
In response, Indian diplomatic missions often attempted to discredit these diaspora voices as fringe “separatists.” At times, diplomats pressured foreign governments to ban or limit activities (for example, asking Canada to stop allowing Khalistan rallies, or the UK to monitor Sikh organizations). Indian intelligence also invested resources in diaspora infiltration – recruiting informants in Gurduaras abroad to report on activists (as evidenced by convictions like the one in Germany).
This invisible tug-of-war largely stayed in the realm of propaganda and minor covert ops until the Nijjar affair in 2023 blew it open. Trudeau’s direct accusation that India orchestrated a “targeted killing” on Canadian soil[64] stunned the international community. If proven, it marks a radical and dangerous extension of the impunity Indian agencies enjoyed internally, now being applied externally – a threshold more associated with autocratic regimes than with democracies. For many Sikhs, it validated a long-held suspicion that Punjab police or Indian agents had previously been involved in mysterious killings of Sikh figures abroad (there were unsolved murders of ex-militants in Pakistan, and the 1990 assassination of a pro-Khalistan Canadian newspaper editor Tara Singh Hayer, among others, that were suspected to be hits, although nothing was proven).
The Nijjar case also galvanized many moderate Sikhs who otherwise weren’t pro-Khalistan: they saw it as an attack on civil liberties and sovereignty of a country (Canada) that gave Sikhs respect and equality – a cruel irony that one might be safer as a Sikh in India now than as a Sikh political dissident in the West. Canada, the US, and others are now grappling with how to hold India accountable if the allegation is true, without rupturing strategic ties. It’s a complex diplomatic challenge, but for our purposes what’s key is that it shows the long shadow of the crimes against Sikhs from 1947 onward still darkens relations today.
Within India, the current government under Narendra Modi (since 2014) has taken a Hindu majoritarian tilt which in some ways worsens Sikh anxieties. Though Modi’s BJP allied with the Sikh Akalis until 2020, at grassroots the BJP has often ignored Sikh distinctness (e.g., trying to homogenize school textbooks to project Sikhs as part of Hindu civilization, not giving Punjabi language its due in non-Punjab states, etc.). In 2019, the Modi government did a good thing by opening the Kartarpur Corridor – a visa-free pilgrim route for Sikhs from India to visit the Kartarpur Sahib Gurduara in Pakistan (where Guru Nanak is buried) – fulfilling a long-standing Sikh wish. It earned goodwill. But conversely, some BJP rhetoric revived old demons: in the farmer protests, top BJP leaders insinuated that “Khalistanis” were behind the protests simply because many Sikh flags were visible, an assertion widely debunked but which poisoned the discourse, leading many Indian Hindus on social media to abuse protesting Sikhs as separatists.
Even culturally, the wounds show up: There are now Bollywood films revisiting 1984 and militancy (like Punjab 1984, Kesri (about earlier Sikh battles), etc.), which help educate the broader Indian public. Some Hindi films portrayed Sikh suffering empathetically, others still treat militants as one-dimensional villains. Within the Sikh community, artistic expressions abound: rock songs about 1984, novels, and so forth, keeping the narrative alive.
As we summarize the aftermath, one theme stands out: the pursuit of acknowledgement. The Sikh story since 1947 has been one of demanding that the Indian state and society acknowledge their pain and address their rights. Whether it was linguistic rights in the 50s, justice for 84 in the 90s, or truth about the 90s in the 2000s, it boils down to seeking validation and respect. Many feel that if only mainstream India truly understood what Sikhs went through, attitudes and policies would change. Conversely, many in mainstream India (fed by official narratives) believe Sikhs have been too fixated on the past and must “move on.”
It is here that Ajit Singh Sandhu’s story offers perhaps the most instructive cautionary tale. He, the hub of our wheel, exemplifies how a government’s failure to provide justice at one time leads to individuals taking extreme measures, which then leads the government to unleash individuals like Sandhu, which in turn creates new injustices, and the cycle continues. Sandhu himself became both a perpetrator and arguably a victim (of the system’s abandonment). After his death, a relative of his was quoted saying something like, “He fought for the nation, but the nation didn’t fight for him.” On the flip side, families of his victims said, “We didn’t even get a chance to see our boys’ bodies, and he got full state honors at his funeral – how is that fair?”
In truth, there was no winner in Punjab’s decade of darkness. The militants lost – many dead or forgotten, their political aims unfulfilled. The Indian state, though it quelled the insurgency, lost too – its claim to be a just, law-governed democracy was tarnished by the means it employed. The common people definitely lost – an entire generation traumatized, economic progress set back, and communal fabric torn. The only way to turn that collective loss into a future gain is through reconciliation grounded in justice and truth-telling.
South Africa had a Truth and Reconciliation Commission after apartheid, and many have suggested India needs something similar for Punjab (and 1984). But so far, no government has had the appetite to wash such dirty linen in public. Perhaps they fear that acknowledging excesses would revive calls for punishing those who gave orders (some of whom are still alive or politically connected). Perhaps they believe it’s better to let sleeping dogs lie, especially since Punjab is peaceful now.
However, as the events of 2023 show, sleeping dogs don’t lie forever if past wrongs fester – they can resurface as specters in new forms. The ghost of Ajit Singh Sandhu – as a symbol, not literally – still haunts in the sense that Punjab police today faces public mistrust in any crisis, because people haven’t forgotten the 90s. The ghost of 1984 haunts India’s Sikhs every time a leader like Jagdish Tytler (still unpunished) is seen getting political plum roles (in 2023, Congress gave Tytler a party post, causing uproar among Sikhs). These unresolved threads keep the wounds from fully healing.
Yet, hope persists that the wheel can turn towards healing. The fact that India has had Sikh presidents, prime ministers, army chiefs – while simultaneously having done injustice to Sikhs – is a dichotomy that many feel can be resolved by genuine outreach. There have been moments: in 2019, on Guru Nanak’s 550th birth anniversary, the Indian Parliament praised Sikh contributions and Modi himself acknowledged Sikhs’ role in nation-building. Small measures like including Sikh history accurately in curricula, preserving sites of Sikh significance, and actively prosecuting any officials responsible for past crimes (even if symbolically, since many have died) would go a long way.
For the Sikh community, the lesson of the last 125 years is perhaps encapsulated in a proverb: “Chittey ang sang naal ne, par dhabbey vi ne” – “We wear white (meaning pure) garments, but they do have stains too.” The community has immense pride in its identity and sacrifices, but also carries the trauma and sometimes the stigma of being seen as separatists or militants due to the actions of a few. Overcoming that requires engagement and narrative correction on both sides – Sikhs asserting their rightful place in India unequivocally, and India wholeheartedly respecting Sikh uniqueness and addressing grievances.
As we conclude this extensive examination of crimes against Sikhs from 1900 to 2023 through the prism of Ajit Singh Sandhu’s life, it’s evident that history is not a series of isolated events but a continuum – a wheel with interconnected spokes. Let us briefly recapitulate and draw out the insights, like a wheel coming full circle:
The early 20th century gave Sikhs a taste of both oppressive violence (British firing on pilgrims, Nankana massacre) and the power of resistance (Gurduara Reform movement). The British policies sowed the seed that taking up agitation, and even arms if needed, was sometimes the only way to safeguard Sikh interests. That legacy carried into the post-colonial period.
Partition 1947 was a cataclysm that taught Sikhs their very existence could be threatened by communal majoritarian violence. It left a permanent scar and a wary realization: never again should Sikhs allow themselves to be defenseless pawns. Unfortunately, the promises made to them for joining India were quickly forgotten, creating the first feelings of betrayal. Sandhu’s generation grew up in that shadow of vulnerability mingled with patriotism.
The Punjabi Suba movement and events like the 1955 Golden Temple police action reinforced the lesson that even democratic India could turn repressive when Sikhs asserted themselves. Still, the community largely stuck to nonviolent struggle in the 1950s-60s, achieving success with Punjabi Suba but also encountering new injustices (water theft, etc.). That partially fulfilled autonomy sowed both hope (that India’s system worked somewhat) and cynicism (that New Delhi would always try to undermine Sikh power).
The 1970s Anandpur Sahib Resolution was a good faith attempt by Sikh leadership to articulate demands within India’s union. Its dismissal as “separatist” signaled a dangerous intransigence from the Center. The 1978 Nirankari clash then lit a fuse: it awakened the militant impulse by showing a scenario where Sikhs were killed and the state protected the killers. That was the first post-47 mass bloodletting of Sikhs and essentially started the modern Sikh militant movement for justice.
The 1980s saw that movement explode: Operation Blue Star’s overkill turned a political problem into a full-scale military conflict between Sikh militants (now viewed by many Sikhs as saints or freedom fighters) and the Indian state. Blue Star’s immediate strategic success masked its moral and political failure – it alienated an entire people. Indira’s assassination and the orchestrated pogrom of November 1984 then convinced even moderate Sikhs that they were not seen as equals in India, that a pogrom could be perpetrated with impunity. This was a genocidal moment for Sikhs in independent India – and it propelled the insurgency to heights it may never have reached otherwise. Thus, one spoke (Blue Star) led to another (the pogrom) which led to another (the insurgency).
The decade of insurgency (1985-95) was brutal on all sides. Militants committed egregious violence, undermining their moral high ground over time. The state, deploying men like Sandhu, matched brutality with brutality, ultimately “winning” the conflict physically but at great cost to the rule of law and humanity. The impunity culture that was entrenched – where security forces could kill at will, and legal norms were suspended in Punjab – is one of the darkest legacies of that era. Ajit Singh Sandhu personified this impunity. His story – rising through ranks as an “encounter specialist,” feared and rewarded, then facing accountability and choosing suicide – encapsulates the trajectory of state excess. Initially hailed as a hero, later condemned as a murderer, Sandhu became a tragic figure illustrating how violence dehumanizes the perpetrator too. His end was a sort of Greek tragedy brought into real life: like the proverbial “man who became a monster to slay monsters and in the end was devoured by his own monstrosity.” The hub of our wheel, indeed.
The aftermath (late 90s onwards) shows that while physical conflict ended, the battle for justice and memory continued. Some small victories occurred (a few convictions, some compensation, public apologies by leaders). But largely justice was elusive, especially for the mass crimes of 84 and the 90s. Affected Sikh families and human rights advocates turned to courts and global forums. The diaspora emerged as a powerful carrier of the torch, pressuring India on an international stage, which in some respects achieved more acknowledgment than internal efforts did.
The modern echoes highlight that unresolved history can spark new disputes: e.g., the sacrilege unrest of 2015 in Punjab (with clear through-lines to earlier religious affronts) and the Nijjar assassination saga internationally (with clear through-lines to earlier impunity). They demonstrate that attempts to bury the past without resolving it are futile; ghosts find ways to wander into the present.
If one looks at all these spokes radiating from the hub of Ajit Singh Sandhu (who sits roughly at the center of these events timeline-wise, having been born post-47 and died post-conflict), a pattern emerges: whenever Sikh legitimate aspirations were denied or their rights trampled, a section of Sikhs took to rebellion (or at least sympathy for rebellion); whenever such rebellion grew, the state responded with heavy-handed repression; and that repression in turn planted seeds for the next cycle of turmoil. It’s a feedback loop that, unless broken, could continue.
Breaking that loop, the wheel of tragedy, requires breaking the chain at multiple points: through genuine dialogue, through accountability for past wrongs so they don’t fester, and through building trust. The story of the past 125 years, painful as it is, offers guiding lights too. It shows the resilience of the Sikh spirit – how despite everything, Sikhs remain, by and large, a thriving community contributing in all fields (Punjab today has its challenges, but Sikhs globally are doing well and assert their identity with pride). It also shows that the use of force is ultimately a band-aid on political problems. No problem that was fundamentally political or cultural was ever truly solved by force in this saga – at best, it was delayed or transformed. The Punjabi Suba demand was met not by imprisoning Akalis forever but by eventually granting the state; the Sikh militancy wasn’t truly “solved” by killing militants – the sense of alienation ebbed only when a degree of normalcy and some redressals (like removing the controversial Article 25 explanation in 2016 by Punjab assembly, though not at national level) occurred and when people were just exhausted by violence.
From a humanistic point of view, one can only look back with sorrow at the immense loss of life: the countless innocents of 1947, the 3,000 of 1984 Delhi, the 11,000 civilians and 2,000 security forces and 3,000 militants (approximate figures often cited) killed in the Punjab insurgency[58][68]. Each number is a universe of suffering. What mitigates such suffering is acknowledgment and remembrance. That’s why this narrative is important – it is an act of remembrance and analysis, to glean lessons.
If we have to articulate those lessons succinctly: Firstly, a nation must uphold justice uniformly; if a community feels justice is biased against them, they will eventually mobilize against the state – maybe violently. Secondly, if a state responds to dissent with repression rather than reconciliation, it may quash dissent temporarily but fuels it in the long run (Blue Star begot Indira’s assassination and a decade of insurgency). Thirdly, communities must be wary of extremists in their midst who might drag them into unwinnable wars; while states must be wary of advisors who promise quick military fixes to socio-political issues. Fourthly, dialogue and addressing grievances early could have averted so much bloodshed – had Nehru honored his promise to Sikhs in 1950 constitution, had Indira been more flexible with the Anandpur Sahib demands, had justice been delivered in 1984 riots swiftly – the trajectory could have been very different.
The wheel of history in the Sikh context appears to have slowed. Punjab today is not in open conflict, and Sikhs are part of India’s tapestry, as they have been since independence. But the wheel hasn’t stopped. There remain centrifugal forces pulling at the wheel – memories of injustice that can be reignited by careless politics or deliberate mischief (for instance, if another incident like a major sacrilege or a political provocation by anti-Sikh elements happens, it could trigger unrest).
Ultimately, the story of “Crimes Against Sikhs (1900–2023)” through the lens of Ajit Singh Sandhu is a story of a community’s quest for dignity and the tragic mistakes made by both that community’s fringe and the state’s regime which derailed that quest at times. Sandhu’s own journey from being shaped by history (Partition-obsessed family, turmoil in youth) to shaping history (via encounters) to becoming history (his demise prompting re-thinking of police impunity) is emblematic of the complexities. He was not born a violator of human rights; circumstances and choices made him one. That doesn’t absolve him, but it contextualizes the system that produced dozens like him.
In closing, one hopes that by understanding this history in full – the spokes of the wheel that led from one tragedy to another – future stakeholders (whether government, society, or Sikh leadership) will be wiser. The goal should be that when the wheel turns next, it turns towards Chardi Kala (eternal optimism) rather than tragedy. The onus lies on both the Indian state to genuinely reconcile and on the Sikh community to channel their grievances through peaceful and democratic means. There are signs of hope: modern India, for all its faults, is more aware now (thanks to social media and global scrutiny) that it cannot just brush minority grievances under the rug. And the Sikh community, through its global presence, has avenues to be heard that it lacked in 1984.
Let the last image in our minds be a positive one: the sight of Sikh farmers marching to Delhi in 2020, not with guns but with the Guru Granth Sahib in a chariot, asserting their rights with courage but nonviolently – and the government eventually bending and repealing the laws. That was a modern morcha that succeeded without a single shot fired. It showed a path where conflict can be resolved in the spirit of Guru Nanak’s teachings: through dialogue, justice, and Sarbat da Bhala (welfare of all).
If the lessons of the past 125 years are heeded, perhaps the next 125 will finally see the wheel of strife broken and replaced by one of harmony, where Sikhs and the Indian state move in sync rather than at odds. Until then, we continue to remember and to hope.
Bibliography
Amnesty International. "Break the Cycle of Impunity and Torture in Punjab," January 2003. (A report detailing human rights violations by security forces during Punjab’s counter-insurgency and the lack of accountability for those abuses.)
Grewal, Gurinder Singh. "Promises Made to the Sikhs and Promises Never Kept: India, The Compulsive Liar," Sikh Heritage Education, 2024[20][29]. (Compilation of historic quotes and documents showing assurances given to Sikhs pre-1947 (like Nehru’s 1946 statement[19]) and how they were broken, including reference to a 1947 circular treating Sikhs as a “criminal tribe”[29].)
Indian Express (Navjeevan Gopal). "40 Years Ago, clash between Nirankaris, Sikh radicals pushed Punjab into dark days of terror," The Indian Express, Nov. 19, 2018[17][61]. (A retrospective news article on the 1978 Sikh-Nirankari clash, confirming 13 Sikhs were killed and that the subsequent trial was moved to Haryana where Nirankaris were acquitted, as well as noting Bhindranwale’s rise and Gurbachan Singh’s 1980 assassination.)
Kumar, Ram Narayan et al. Reduced to Ashes: The Insurgency and Human Rights in Punjab, Kathmandu: SAFHR, 2003. (Comprehensive documentation of over 600 cases of disappearances and extrajudicial killings in Punjab, with evidence of mass secret cremations by police. Confirms at least 2,097 illegal cremations in Amritsar district[58][68] and examines specific figures like SSP Ajit Sandhu.)
Human Rights Watch. "India: 1984 Anti-Sikh Bloodshed – No Justice for Victims," Oct. 31, 2014[62]. (HRW commentary on the 30th anniversary of the 1984 pogrom, summarizing how organizers of the violence (naming figures like Sajjan Kumar, Jagdish Tytler) escaped justice and only few convictions occurred decades later.)
Indian Express (Chandigarh). "Nehru sent police into Golden Temple: Ex-Akal Takht Jathedar," July 5, 2020[39][40]. (Article recalling the 1955 Golden Temple incident when police entered and fired inside the shrine, and that the Punjab CM apologized afterward due to Sikh global outrage.)
The Tribune (Kuldip S. Dhir). "United by spirit, divided by language," June 12, 2016[38][69]. (A book review that provides historical details on Punjabi Suba movement: notes that many Punjabi Hindus declared Hindi as mother tongue in 1951 census[38], about 50,000 Sikhs jailed and “many lives lost” during 1960 agitations[41], and that police entering Golden Temple in 1955 sent shockwaves[39].)
Reuters (Kanishka Singh). "Hardeep Singh Nijjar death: a timeline of recent India-Canada tensions," Sept. 19, 2023[64][49]. (News timeline listing key events: Trudeau’s statement about “credible allegations” of Indian government link to Nijjar’s murder[64]; India’s prior complaints about Sikh protests in Canada[49]; background that 1980s insurgency was suppressed but small pro-Khalistan groups abroad remain active.)
Los Angeles Times Archives. "Gunmen Kill High Politician, Wife in India," July 31, 1985[51][55]. (Wire report on Lalit Maken’s assassination: notes he was named as a ringleader in 1984 riots, on a “hit list” of Sikh terrorists[51][70], and had received threats related to his role instigating anti-Sikh violence[52].)
The Guardian (Aina J. Khan). "‘A Sikh soldier pulled me out of the rubble’: survivors recall India’s violent partition – and reflect on its legacy," Aug. 11, 2022[26][71]. (Article with Partition survivors’ testimonies: gives overall toll ~1 million killed, ~15 million displaced[26]; one Sikh survivor recalls seeing Sikhs and Hindus murdered in Rawalpindi and then Muslims killed in Jalandhar in retaliation[71].)
Videography / Web Sources
“1984: A Sikh Story” (BBC, 2010) – Documentary examining Operation Blue Star and the Delhi pogrom through interviews with survivors and participants. (Includes footage and accounts that capture the anguish of those events and context of Bhindranwale’s rise.)
“Punjab Disappeared” (2019) – A documentary by the Punjab Documentation & Advocacy Project investigating enforced disappearances in 1980s-90s Punjab. (Features testimonies of victim families and whistleblower cops, highlighting cases that Khalra uncovered.)
Ensaaf (www.ensaaf.org) – Website of a human rights NGO focused on Punjab. (Archive of reports like “Protecting the Killers” (2007) detailing how Punjab police who committed abuses were shielded, and short films like “The Last Killing” about a Punjab cop speaking out, and “A Song for Sikh Justice” featuring Khalra’s speeches.)
“Who Are The Guilty?” – 1984 report by PUCL-PUDR (civil liberties groups) documenting the Delhi massacre with names of perpetrators. (Accessible via multiple human rights archives online; it provided evidence used later in trials and media, e.g. noting Lalit Maken and HKL Bhagat’s roles which was a basis for militants targeting them.)
Sikh Museum – 1984 Gallery (www.sikhmuseum.com/1984) – Online exhibit with rare photographs, documents and timelines of both Operation Blue Star and the November 1984 pogrom. (Useful for visualizing the destruction at Golden Temple and the carnage in Delhi, and includes lists of prominent victims and perpetrators.)
“The Widow Colony” (2006) – Documentary on widows of 1984 Delhi massacre residing in Tilak Vihar, Delhi. (Highlights the personal trauma and struggles for justice of the survivors, reinforcing why 1984 remains a open wound.)
Khalra Mission Organization (YouTube channel) – Contains audio/video of Jaswant Singh Khalra’s speeches (notably his 1995 speech in Canada where he reveals the cremation numbers[58]), and updates on legal cases related to disappearances.
Facebook (NeverForget84 archives) – Social media archives where individuals share stories, photos and translated firsthand accounts of 1984 and insurgency-era incidents. (Useful to gauge grassroots memory and inter-generational transmission of these histories among Sikhs.)
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