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Journalism of Courage
HE enters the room like a gust of fresh air. Cool and invigorating with the promise of happiness. He is youth. Hope, expectation, but above all, Harbrinder Singh Manochahal is his father8217;s son. His best friend, his advocate, his biographer, his most ardent admirer. He likes his surname and the dark baggage it carries. The eldest son of Gurbachan Singh Manochahal, the dreaded chief of the Bhindranwale Tiger Force, still remembers the day he read about the death of his father. 8216;8216;We had gone to someone8217;s house to do paath when I picked up this paper. It was a banner headline8217;8217;. He remembers going numb. 8216;8216;I didn8217;t feel a thing8230;8217;8217; Twelve years have gone but he8217;s never let his father die. Manochahal, the Akal Takht jathedar at the height of militancy, is a flesh-and-blood presence in his son8217;s memory. More alive today then he was in those bloody days when he came home only under the cover of darkness, and only for a few hours snatched from his war against the state. Today, the dapper twenty-two-year-old with an Esprit bag slung on his shoulder, smiles when you tell him he resembles his father. No, he doesn8217;t. He lacks his height, his girth8212;Manochahal was a six-footer who weighed a ton. But what he does have is his gumption8212;the villagers already call him a Baba. That comes through as he settles himself down on the bed, and warms up to his favourite topic of conversation8212;his father. Though only twelve when he died, he8217;s made it his business to know everything about him.
It8217;s a winding road that leads to the house of Baba Manochahal. It skirts past the golden yellow fields of wheat before gently guiding you to a brick-lined lane shining like dew in the gentle rain. It8217;s a quiet village. With tall gates jealously guarding every house. A fat mango tree stretching its arms langurously flutters its greetings as you near the house. A lone buffalo glares at you out of those huge almond eyes. The gate to the Manochahals house is ajar. 8216;8216;It8217;s always like that with so many people coming and going,8217;8217; Dalbir Kaur, the Baba8217;s window, explains8230;
It8217;s not just a house, it8217;s symbol of life, a peace, of a family that had almost ceased to be. They built it four years ago after surviving the tidal wave of militancy that swept them away from one another. And took away four members forever8230;Today, with the elders gone, it8217;s a family united by memories of suffering. And divided by the exciting possibilities held by the present and future.
But today the memories still have an upper hand. They tumble out in a rush8212;tales of pain and partings. The turbulence started in the early 1980s, but hit them hard after Manochahal was declared an absconder in 1986, and floated his BTF the following year. The police, which had begun calling on them after Manochahal got close to Sant Bhindranwale, now became a daily visitor, confident that it could lay its hands on the fugitive by pressuring the family. Unable to withstand the pressure, the family split. 8216;
Their dreams are humble. Rooted in hard reality. Their flights of fancy fettered by years of fear, their childhood companion. The dark, brooding animal was the only constant in the life of the three sons of Baba Gurbachan Singh Manochahal, the man who feared no one but was feared by all. It crept into their lives when he left home to wage a war against the state. A normal life was not their lot; they drifted from one place to another, always at the mercy of kind relatives or friends.
What they most looked forward to was a meeting with their father8230;he would tell us, 8216;Let me see if you can put your arms around me8217;. We could never do that, for he was so huge,8217;8217; Harjinder lets a smile escape his lips. Their father never gave them any advise except on gurbani8230; He also gave them a word of caution: 8216;8216;Don8217;t emulate me.8217;8217;
