Ghost Train to the Eastern Star

In June of that year, after some days of fruitless negotiation, Indira Gandhi, the prime minister, gave the order to dislodge Bhindranwale and his men. The army occupied Amritsar in large numbers, and black-suited commandos stormed the temple complex. They were cut down by machine-gun fire from Bhindranwale's men. Some soldiers fired from a distance, but succeeded only in killing civilians and wrecking parts of the temple. Indian army officers begged for backup, insisting they needed tanks. After initial refusals—because of the danger to civilians—permission was granted. Thirteen tanks were lined up and were met by a barrage of antitank fire and rocket launchers. Hundreds more died.

Still, Bhindranwale was trapped, and it was only a matter of time before he ran out of ammunition. He decided to go down in a blaze of glory. In the course of the siege he had become messianic, and in one version of the events he said to his men, "Those who want to be martyrs, come with me." He emerged from his hiding place firing his machine gun, and was mowed down with fifty of his men. Six hundred men on both sides had already been shot or blown up.

That was not the end of the business. Sikhs were furious that the Golden Temple had been desecrated by the assault, and Mrs. Gandhi was blamed. Stories circulated that Indian soldiers who occupied the temple drank alcohol there and, much worse, smoked tobacco. Sikhs have a unique horror of cigarettes. Mrs. Gandhi hunkered down, protected by a number of bodyguards. But Sikhs got their revenge four months later when, in October, Mrs. Gandhi (who had ignored several warnings) was murdered by two of her bodyguards, who were Sikhs. One morning in Delhi, on the pretext of guarding her, they pulled out their service pistols and shot her dead.

With their obvious turbans, their full beards, and their characteristic silver bracelets, Sikh males are among the most easily identifiable believers in the world. In the aftermath of Indira Gandhi's assassination Sikhs were singled out and set upon by Hindus—dragged from trains and buses, stabbed in bazaars, set on fire as they tried to flee in their cars. Perhaps three thousand were killed—no figures are accurate, just round numbers of a tragic event that no one has forgotten.

"It was terrible," Amar Singh said. "So many people killed."

"But it finished the problem of Bhindranwale, didn't it?"

"It finished problem, yes. But danger for us lurked everywhere."

"What did you think of Mrs. Gandhi?"

"A nice woman," he said, but he was being polite. Even Indira Gandhi's closest friends would not have called this manipulative demagogue a nice woman.

"Do people still talk about Khalistan?"

"In villages, some people. Not city people."

Nevertheless, Khalistan, "an aspirant Sikh nation," has an office in Washington, which sends out press releases, campaign information, furious rants, and images of the Khalistan flag.

That night I was making notes in my room in a cheap hotel in Amritsar, where there are no good hotels. It occurred to me why the Golden Temple looked golder and brighter and better kept than it had when I'd first seen it. Because of the damage of the siege and the reassertion of Sikh identity, the temple had been renovated, regilded until it dazzled.

I called Amar Singh the next day to get a ride to the railway station and to say goodbye. He mentioned the other journalists he had taken around. Besides Mark Tully, there was Satish Jacob, whom I had also met many years ago—Tully and Jacob had written the definitive account of the Blue Star operation.

"And David Brown from the Guardian— I drove him, too. He is now in Jerusalem. I helped him."

Amar Singh said he still listened to the BBC. He followed world news and always looked for word of journalists he had driven. I complimented him on his curiosity and helpfulness.

"My aim is good service," he said.

It could have sounded like a cliché, but it didn't. It was serious and sincere, and it touched me coming from this old driver who had a book and a newspaper on the front seat of his car, who lived at the periphery of journalism, who kept up with the news. That was part of the pleasure I felt being back in India again, where everyone seemed overqualified for whatever job they were doing. Though their talk could be maddening and their demands exasperating, I loved the fluency of Indians. The crowds of people seemed worse than ever, but I was pleased to be back in the Indian stew.

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