The teacher was scribbling some theorems of physics on the black board and young Sandeep Singh like millions across the country was listening to a live commentary of the cricket match in progress across the border in Lahore, Pakistan. Radio devices of any sort were not allowed inside school premises, but the love of cricket, the national sport, had propelled the young student to carry a small radio to school by hiding it inside his lunch box.

The radio, the size of Sandeep's palm, was pressed close to his right ear. The magic of transistors, little pieces of metal, transporting millions across the border from their living rooms, offices and schools, out into a land where most Indians would dare not travel. In came the bowler, pitched the ball, the batsman swings the bat, and misses and millions sigh in unison. In comes another pitch and this one has been hit out for six runs and millions jump up in excitement, although Sandeep had to settle with mental twisting and jumping.

Suddenly the broadcast is interrupted. Moments of silence proceed. What could it be? Maybe the batteries ran out. Sandeep rotated the dial and out came the musical notes of Bollywood songs. Well maybe the transmitters from Lahore were having technical problems. Sandeep looked around impatiently. The teacher still kept scribbling theorems on the black board.

The silence was suddenly interrupted by a man's nervous voice announcing that the Prime Minister of India had been shot. The cricket match has been cancelled. Sandeep turned off the dial. He rubbed his elbow against that of Jasjeet, his best friend of years. He whispered in his ears that the Prime Minister had been shot. They looked into each other's eyes and knew in their hearts, the arrival of dark clouds, clouds of revenge. The best friends had learned it well in their young lives that political assassinations in India trigger a social knee jerk reaction devoid of any human rationale and compassion.

Within minutes the loudspeakers in the hallway burst forth with the announcement of school closure. On any normal day, loud youthful cheers would follow similar announcement but today the cheers were replaced by an eerie anxious silence.

The two friends gathered their books. They walked out of the classroom. They made their way through the crowd. Someone yelled, "All hell is going to break loose today." The two friends picked more pace. Sandeep felt a hand on his shoulder and he turned so fast as if to attack the person who had touched him. It was the vice-principal, Mr. Ahuja. "Sandeep I want you to be careful, go home straight. Do not make any stops." Mr. Ahuja knew Sandeep well, his anthropological spirit, talking to strangers, constantly exploring new parts of the city. "I know sir, but why is everyone so panicky." Mr. Ahuja sighed, "Son, the men who shot the Prime Minister were Sikhs. Need I say more?"

Sandeep rolled his eyes. Now he knew the reason for the panic at school. Sandeep was a member of the Sikh community just like the majority of students at his school. School authorities hurriedly scrambled to arrange for buses to take back all the students to their respective homes.

Within minutes all the students were loaded into a dozen buses, which started to roll out of school premises. The school staff hurriedly made plans to head back to their homes across the city relieved that all the students were on their way, hopefully to the safety of their homes.

Sandeep and Jasjeet stood at the edge of the school watching the buses leave in a single file, dark smoke billowing out of each bus setting the background for the dark days to come. Sandeep's anthropological spirit had overcome his sensibility to obey Mr. Ahuja's request. He had only read and heard about the violent eruptions of mobs destroying life and property on numerous occasions in the past throughout India, but now he wanted to see it with his own eyes.

Blinded by the illusion that his life would not be in any significant danger he had convinced Jasjeet to walk with him to their homes, only a few houses apart. Jasjeet was hesitant at first but as always relented to his best friends wishes.

The two friends started walking to undertake the 4.5-mile journey to their homes. As they walked through the streets, the two friends began to sense a dis-ease among people they passed by on the streets. Shutters were coming down on many shops and some shop owners were loading their vehicles to head to the safe confines of their homes.

Although it was early afternoon on a workday, the social and economic circulatory systems of the city of Delhi were rapidly coming to a standstill. The two friends had been walking for an hour now. Jasjeet was getting anxious by the minute. He was still an hour away from home but he kept visualizing himself sitting on his favorite sofa chair at home along with his family watching television. With each hasty, exerted step Jasjeet wished his next step would be home.

Another thirty long minutes passed by and the two friends had not spoken a single word since they started walking the streets of Delhi after leaving school. "I think we are going to make it to home alright," Sandeep broke the silence. Jasjeet responded by picking more pace. He was beginning to mentally curse himself and Sandeep for even thinking about walking home, let alone doing it.

The two friends turned left onto a street corner with a Sikh Gurudwara across the street. As soon as they took the turn they saw a crowd in the distance. For a few moments they kept walking and suddenly Sandeep pulled Jasjeet to a stop. "Wait a second," Sandeep spoke. "What?" Jasjeet demanded. "The whole city is shutting down, everyone's leaving for home, then why are these people not going home." Jasjeet looked in the direction of the crowd. It seemed to have swelled a little, more bodies in the crowd and it seemed to be heading in their direction.

"Bloody Sikhs," yelled a voice. Sandeep and Jasjeet glanced at each other and lept on their feet in unison. They picked pace as if their feet were on fire. Jasjeet immediately gained speed on Sandeep, displaying the reason why he was the track and field star at school.

Sandeep saw Jasjeet take a right turn onto a street almost a block ahead of him. Sandeep followed his friend, took the right turn and as soon as he took the turn, hit an oncoming car head on. The car had braked so the impact was not fatal. Sandeep fell to the ground. He saw Jasjeet vanishing in the distance almost the size of a matchstick. The approaching danger came back to him; he got up and fell again. He sensed immense pain in his knees. He got up, took a few steps, fell down again. The car had exited the scene. The voices got louder, approaching like loud sirens, sirens of doom. He got up one last time before someone grabbed him and knocked the turban off his head.

He saw one face, a second face, third face,………..too many to count. Someone slapped him, another kicked him. His body wanted to fall but was held up as punching bag. Sandeep could feel his wet, warm blood on his body. Then it all blacked out as if the lights had been turned off in the middle of the night. He had been hit and thrown off by the high velocity of a swinging cricket bat at the hands of a mad man.

Sandeep fell into a ditch on the side of the road. Someone in the mob carried a cannister of gasoline. The mob wanted to burn him alive, in case he had survived the impact of the bat. A few men in the mob peeked down at the sewage covered wet body of Sandeep and decided to find another dry human target for roasting.

The mob with its many heads but no brains, moved on like many other mobs in Delhi and cities throughout India, looking for revenge. Lists were being prepared of residences, businesses, and places of worship belonging to the members of the Sikh community. The powers to be wanted revenge, lynching, beatings, killings, rapes, defiled places of worships all over India to send a message, a message of subservience, a message of might is right.

For days the city of Delhi along with cities across India burned with fury, thousands of innocent Sikh men, women and children burnt alive, daughters, sisters, mothers raped repeatedly many in front of their families. Sikhs were chased out of their homes, out of trains, out of buses, to be burnt alive by pouring gasoline on their bodies, by fitting burning tires around their bodies. Places of worship were gutted down, burnt, Holy Scriptures urinated upon, defecated upon, burnt to ashes.

The ashes of innocent victims gathered volume across the streets of India. Sandeep opened his eyes for the first time in over 24 hours. They felt heavy, as if somebody had poured mud on them. He looked around in a daze. It felt like being in a dream. Everything appeared new, dark, shaded, with no connection to the past. He closed his eyes again and fell asleep.

Sandeep woke up to someone shaking his hand. He opened his eyes and saw a middle aged woman with a white hood on her head. Must be the dream. "Can you hear me," the voice begged. The voice brought him back, he was not sleeping anymore, it was real. "Yes," Sandeep responded mustering all his courage. "I need to change your dressing," the nurse responded. "What happened?" Sandeep whispered.

"Someone brought you in to the hospital with wounds all over your body," the nurse replied. It all rushed back like a flash of light. "Where is Jasjeet, my friend," Sandeep spoke in a panic. "You were alone when you were brought in to the hospital." Sandeep fell silent. He mentally retraced his steps, the mob, kicking him, physically abusing him. Then he remembered seeing the thin matchstick image of Jasjeet in the distance. "Maybe he made out alright," Sandeep thought out loud.

The nurse left Sandeep after changing some of the dressings on his body. He kept recounting his encounter with the mob. After a while a man with a white coat walked in, a doctor. The doctor asked him some questions and left the room to call Sandeep's family and inform them about his being in the hospital.

Sandeep fell asleep again and woke up to find himself in the same surroundings. This time he explored the room and realized he was not alone in the room. There was another person on the bed to his right. It appeared like a young girl's body under the white hospital bed sheet. He wondered if she had also been a victim to the mob's fury. While lost in his thoughts, Sandeep was interrupted by a young sweet voice. "They thought they were going to lose you."

"I think I am going to make it," Sandeep responded turning his head to face the young girl. He could see her young face now, eleven years old, maybe twelve. "How are you? What are you here for?" Sandeep spoke with concern. "A mob attacked my family," the young girl spoke without emotion. "Not you, you are a young child," Sandeep spoke with pain in his heart.

The young girl remained silent. Sandeep could not believe the mob attacking a young girl. "How can these men attack innocent people like that? Don't they have brains, families of their own." He paused.

"They should be arrested and hung for their heinous crimes," Sandeep vented his anger. Sandeep went on to vent more of his anger on the wild savage like mob mentality that was consuming innocent Sikh lives throughout cities across India. "Don't you hate these mad men?" Sandeep spoke loudly almost commanding a response from the young girl.

"No", the young girl quipped. "What good is hating these men or anybody? Hate is what sets these men apart from others," the young girl spoke elaborating like a wise aged person with years of experience behind her. Sandeep could not begin to comprehend the young girl's response. What was she talking about? The room felt silent one more time.

The young girl broke the silence and recounted her family's encounter with the mob.

The young Sikh girl, Mehtab, came back home early as her school closed before the scheduled time following the Prime Minister's assassination. Mehtab's mother was relieved to see her home but was concerned about her husband. He worked across the city, more than an hour's commute away. Mother and daughter waited all night long through the rising sun next morning. The father had not come home and news of Sikh residents of Delhi being burnt alive had started coming in, raising the young mother's fears that her husband might have been caught in a mob's fury.

Mehtab and her mother read the Guru's Bani in the early morning hours and they had been doing as long as the Mehtab could remember. Mehtab's mother had taken the Sikh vows when she was a young teenager, dedicated her life to the Shabad Guru by undergoing the Khalsa ceremony in the presence of the Panj Pyaras. After reading the Guru's Bani, Mehtab's mother decided to have a difficult talk with her daughter.

Mehtab was very well versed in Sikh history, fully aware of the young Sikh history bridled with sacrifices by young and old Sikhs alike. Mehtab's mother had read her stories from Sikh history since she was a young life in her mother's womb. She knew of the countless sacrifices given by the Sikh panth to uphold the honor of human dignity. So Mehtab was prepared well to hear her mother's talk. Mehtab herself had taken the Sikh vows two years ago dedicating her life to the Shabad Guru and, if called upon, to uphold the freedom of human dignity.

Mehtab's mother told her that in all likelihood her father had fallen victim to the mob's fury. The mob had killed her father for the values and path of life he lived and practiced as a Sikh. This was nothing new in Sikh history. His physical body might have been burnt to ashes but his spirit essence was still alive and so there was nothing to mourn about.

Realizing the possibility of the mob coming to their house, Mehtab's mother took out two long kirpans she had in the house. She kept one for herself and gave the other to her daughter. She reminded Mehtab about the significance of the kirpan and asked her to keep it as an extension of herself when she held it in her hands. The kirpan was an extension of her body to be used as a hand guided by the love of Shabad Guru in her heart, not by notions of revenge in her head. The mob that might come to their house will be guided by fear and hatred. The only way to confront and dissolve fear, hatred is by yielding the sword of love to protect human honor and dignity, be it of oneself or another human life in danger.

After the talk, Mehtab went to her bedroom and took out her books on Sikh history. She refreshed herself with the courageous sacrifices of the four young sons of Guru Go bind Singh, Ajit Singh, Jujhar Singh, Zorawer Singh and Fateh Singh. She imagined their last moments before their physical deaths, before dying on the battlefield, before being bricked alive. No fear, no hesitation. Complete faith in the Shabad Guru presence in their hearts. Sacrificing their lives for the love of humanity, Shabad Guru's creation. Mehtab dozed off into an afternoon nap.

Mehtab's mother woke her up. The mob was at their house guided by hatred and fear. Mehtab's mother told her to get her kirpan and stay in the back of the house, read the Guru's Bani and thank the Guru for its grace, for the gift of life.

Mehtab's mother took her kirpan in her hands. She thanked the Shabad Guru and sought the grace of Shabad Guru. She stepped out of the house to face the mob - dozens of men armed with metal bars, wooden sticks, gasoline canisters and hatred.

At first the mob was a little taken aback not expecting resistance, that too from a woman. The men in the front hesitated for a moment. They were hungry for taking life, not giving their own life. They hurled abuses at the Sikh woman trying to provoke her into the hatred game. She stood peacefully with the kirpan in her right hand.

Then a few men with metal rods and wooden sticks attacked the Sikh woman. The Sikh woman skillfully wielded her sword against attack by multiple assailants. She had learnt the martial art of wielding swords in her youth. She injured some of the men as the rest of the mob watched in utter disbelief and fear. Outer appearance had fooled the men into believing the notion of a weaker female sex. The men were witnessing the strength of the Sikh heart, the Sikh spirit.

In 1699, the tenth Guru of the Sikhs, Guru Gobind Singh had given the sword to both men and women to protect human dignity from attacks of tyrants. Women were at par with men. It was the Sikh spirit that had infused women to lead men in battlefield against tyrants. Today this young Sikh mother was displaying the ever-present Sikh spirit to confront the tyranny of hatred.

Mehtab sat on the floor in the back of her house thinking about her mother while holding the kirpan in her right hand.

The she heard a loud bang. She firmed her grip on the kirpan.

Someone in the mob had fired a shot. The shot pierced the young Sikh mother's chest. She fell back on the ground still holding her kirpan. She used her last few breaths to thank the Shabad Guru and recited the Mool Mantar, the first few verses from the Guru Granth Sahib Ji, living spiritual guide of the Sikhs.

A policeman in the mob who had fired the cowardly shot without confronting the Sikh woman approached the Sikh woman's dead body. He flashed his gun and put his foot on the Sikh woman's chest. The mob stood in a silent daze more from the Sikh woman's brave stand than the fired shot. The policeman ordered the mob to pour gasoline on the Sikh woman's body and set it on fire.

After a few minutes the mob moved on under the auspices of the armed militia, officers of Delhi Police Department. The mob had forgotten to ransack the house of the Sikh woman. Unexpected display of resistance and valor from a woman had confused the mental faculties of the mob. Maybe another surprise waited for them in the house.

After the din of the mob's fury subsided, Mehtab came to the front room of her house and took a peek through the closed curtains in a living room window. She saw the still simmering body of her mother. Unsure of what to do, Mehtab went back to her room and started reciting the Guru's Bani to seek direction.

Hours passed by as the darkness of evening hours arrived. Mehtab was reciting Rehras Sahib, an evening prayer. Her recitation was interrupted by some noise, which appeared to be coming from the front of her house. All the lights in the house were turned off. Mehtab took the kirpan in her hand and approached the front door of her house. She heard the voices of young boys.

She heard her name being called out by the young male voices. She recognized one of the voices. A neighborhood boy who lived a few houses down from Mehtab's house. The she heard loud thumping sounds from the front door. The boys were breaking down the door. The neighborhood boy suspected Mehtab was in the house and wanted to take advantage of her now that her mother and father had been burnt by the mob.

The boys succeeded in breaking the door. They stepped into the dark room lit barely by the light from a street lamp. Mehtab stood with her kirpan in a dark corner of the room. She counted four boys including the neighborhood boy. They appeared armed with rods or maybe daggers, she could not tell. She stepped forward and swung her sword. One of the boys let out a scream. She had gotten a boys wrist with her sword. The boys swung their weapons in panic not exactly sure of their target. Metal sounds filled the dark room. More screams followed as Mehtab's sword cut through more male flesh filled with the venom of lascivious hatred.

The boys made a hasty exit leaving a trail a blood behind them. Mehtab stood with her sword in her hand for a few minutes. She felt a little dizzy. She sat down on the floor and that is when she felt the pain, the result of a wound inflicted from a dagger. One of the boys had managed to slash his dagger into Mehtab's abdomen. The dagger had penetrated her liver. She eventually passed out.

Sandeep was spell bound at the events recounted by Mehtab. He had experienced the savagery of the mob but the story of the brave Sikh spirit amazed him. What amazed him more was the utter lack of disgust or anger on the part of Mehtab and her mother. How could one confront tyranny with the sword of love? That amazed his anthropological spirit. Sandeep was born into a Sikh family and had read some of the Sikh stories of the past. But he was beginning to realize that just being born into a Sikh family was not an instant passport to the Sikh faith. It seemed like a path one had to willfully choose, to tread upon, to learn from, to live, to breathe at all times.

Sandeep was not sure how to respond to this amazing tale of love. "How are you doing, your wound," is all Sandeep could think about asking. "It will heal," replied Mehtab.
Sandeep fell into another long bout of sleep. He woke up hours later in the early hours of the morning. He turned to his right to see if Mehtab was still asleep. Her bed was empty, cleaned up with a new bed sheet wrapped around the mattress. Sandeep wondered where Mehtab could be.

The nurse came in a little while later to check up on Sandeep. As soon as he saw her, he inquired about Mehtab. "She is gone", replied the nurse. "Where?" Sandeep asked, concerned and a little irritated. In her condition where could Mehtab go? "She passed away just past the midnight hour," the nurse replied. "She left this for you," the nurse handed Sandeep a little paper bag. Sandeep was stunned, in a state of shock. He wanted to hear, to learn so much more from the young, the wise Mehtab.

Tears ran down his cheeks. He had lost a friend. He opened the paper bag to inspect its contents. He pulled out a piece of paper and a small three-inch kirpan. He unfolded the piece of paper. It was a letter from Mehtab to Sandeep. Sandeep could not believe it; Mehtab had known she was going to die, so she wrote this letter before leaving.

"Dear Sandeep," the letter began. "In case you are wondering, the nurse told me your name. I have to leave; the next phase of my life is here, death. Another beginning, or another step in our lives. I leave behind my nitnem gutka, verses from Guru Granth Sahib Ji, and my kirpan. The words of the Guru in the gutka are the vehicles to the mysteries of life that puzzle so many of us and much more. The kirpan, the physical manifestation of the Guru's grace, you get when you humbly accept the path of a Sikh, you walk the ceremony of the Khalsa in the company of the Panj Pyaras and strive to make constant efforts to seek the Shabad Guru ever after. Take these as a gift from me but remember, to become a Sikh is your own choice. Once you act on that choice and walk the path of the Khalsa, then you get your own kirpan from the Guru. Then you have made the choice to walk the path of love, the path guided by love, the path treaded upon to seek love, the Shabad Guru's love. May you make the choice to walk the Sikh path of love."

A week later, Sandeep walked out of the hospital with his family, a hand in his pocket holding on to Mehtab's kirpan. He had not seen daylight in over a week. As he left the hospital premises, a spontaneous prayer emerged from within, a prayer of gratitude, a prayer for a second chance at life. His thoughts turned to Mehtab, Mehtab's mother, the Sikh spirit. He thirsted for this Sikh spirit.

Eighteen years later.

The killers of thousands of Sikhs across India in 1984, still roam free. Not even a single has been convicted. The killers live freely as husbands, brothers, fathers, police officers, politicians, lawmakers, mobsters, rich, poor…

Sandeep Singh, father of two daughters, Mehtab and Gursimran, owner of a small business, lives with his family in Punjab.

Sandeep took his first steps towards the Sikh path six months after leaving the hospital in 1984, by walking the Khalsa ceremony in the company of Panj Pyaras.

As part of his efforts to evolve on the Sikh path of love, he contributes his time and wealth in the service of orphans, young Sikh children who lost their parents to the tyranny of hatred filled mobs and individuals in the 1980's throughout India.

This fictional account is inspired by actual events that transpired through the last two decades in India, when thousands of innocent Sikhs lost their lives to forces of hatred and tyranny. This story is dedicated to the departed Sikh souls, to affirm that their loss is not forgotten. It is their sacrifice that serves as the source of freedom for millions of Sikhs to practice their faith around the globe today. - Vishavjit Singh