A Covert Affair

by Susan Mann

  “It is the most holy place in all of Sikhism. Harmandir Sahib means ‘the Abode of God.’ The beginnings of this holy shrine began when the Amrit Sarovar, the holy tank, was first dug by the fourth guru, Guru Ram Das, in 1577.”

  Quinn immediately recognized the name. “The airport is named after him, right?”

  “Yes. Amrit means ‘nectar’ and sar is shortened from sarovar, meaning ‘lake.’ Amritsar means ‘pool of nectar.’ The Harmandir Sahib itself was built by the fifth guru, Guru Arjan Dev. It was finished in 1604.”

  “Was it always covered in gold?”

  “No. Maharaja Ranjit Singh, the great leader of the Sikh empire, had the gold plating applied two hundred years later.”

  “With that long line waiting to get in, it’s obviously the main draw here,” Quinn said.

  “Yes. They are waiting to give respect to the Guru Granth Sahib. It is where the Guru resides during the day.”

  “But the Guru Granth Sahib isn’t a person, right?” Quinn asked. “It’s a book.”

  “In a way. It was decreed by the tenth guru, Guru Gobind Singh, that the writings and hymns of the ten gurus would be the eleventh, final, and eternal Guru. A physical book of the Guru Granth Sahib is called a saroop. It is the embodiment of the living Guru.”

  “Is there just the one saroop?” Quinn asked.

  “No. Like any holy scripture, there are many copies. Every gurdwara has a saroop to read from.” She smiled. “You can even download the words of the Guru Granth Sahib from the Internet.”

  “So everyone here is reading from their copy of the Guru Granth Sahib?” Quinn asked.

  “Most likely. Reading and singing from the holy scriptures guides us when we meditate on God’s name and pray.”

  “And that’s what I’m hearing over the loudspeakers?”

  “Yes.” Neither spoke for several moments as they listened to the recitations echoing through the complex. Quinn had no idea what was being said, but the words clearly moved Amarjit.

  After a time, Amarjit said, “The Guru Granth Sahib is given greatest respect and honor. Early every morning, the saroop is carried on the head of a granthi to the Harmandir Sahib. There, it is placed on the takht, or throne. The granthis then read and sing from it throughout the day. In the evening, it is returned to its room inside the Akal Takht. The granthis also ensures it remains clean and well cared for.”

  Quinn seized on something Amarjit said. “It sounds a little like what I do, although it isn’t quite as important as what a granthi does.”

  Her statement garnered a questioning look.

  “I look after books, too. I’m a librarian.”

  Amarjit’s dark eyes flashed with excitement. “You are a librarian! How wonderful. Where do you work?”

  “UCLA.”

  “You must be a very excellent librarian to work at such a distinguished university.” Amarjit sat up straighter. “Did you know there is a library here in this complex?”

  “There is?” Quinn hoped her surprise appeared genuine.

  “Yes,” Amarjit said with an enthusiastic nod. “It is called the Sikh Reference Library. Would you like to see it?”

  “I would love to. Can you tell me where it is?”

  “It would be my pleasure to take you there.”

  “That would be fantastic. Thank you.”

  They both stood and joined the crowd walking the perimeter of the pool. Amarjit pointed out various memorials and shrines along the way and explained their significance.

  At another entrance to the complex directly opposite the main one Quinn had entered, Amarjit said, “The entrance to the library is outside the complex.”

  Once outside the compound, Quinn spotted a hand-painted sign with a red arrow and the words “Sikh Reference Library” written in English and Punjabi. After walking a short distance, they arrived at an unremarkable doorway with peeling white paint. It opened to a narrow staircase leading upward. Only the faded painted sign above the door told Quinn it was the library.

  Up the stairs they went and entered the library. An older gentleman with a white beard sat at a table reading a newspaper. He reminded her of Mr. Ackerman, the widower who sat inside the Westside Library every day and did the exact same thing. The fond memory of him made her smile.

  “I can see how much you love libraries from your smile,” Amarjit said.

  “I do love them. Libraries are more than just books. They preserve the knowledge that tells us who we are, where we’ve been, and how to go on from here.”

  “Well said. I could not agree more,” said a woman as she approached Quinn and Amarjit. “I hope you do not mind my interruption. I could not help but overhear your words.” From the woman’s expression, Quinn knew her presence was a great source of curiosity.

  Quinn smiled to put her at ease. “No, not at all. It’s always nice to meet someone who understands the importance of libraries.”

  “I do. It is why I am a librarian,” the woman said. Her eyes were hazel, and a smattering of gray streaked her otherwise black hair.

  “Me too,” Quinn said and glanced around. The library wasn’t fancy or ornate. The shelves were metal and utilitarian. Some were stacked with large volumes of bound newspapers; others were crammed with books from one end to the other.

  Amarjit turned and pressed her palms together. She dipped her head to the other woman in a respectful bow. “Sat Sri Akal,” Amarjit said, reciting the Sikh greeting that roughly translated meant, “God is the ultimate Truth.” “I hope you do not mind that I brought Mrs. Riordan here. As we sat together on the parikrama, she mentioned she is a librarian at UCLA.”

  Quinn noticed the woman’s guard lower, and the polite smile gave way to a sincere one. “Welcome. My name is Harbir Kaur.”

  Quinn thanked Amarjit for spending time with her when the young woman took her leave, then introduced herself and handed Harbir one of her fake UCLA business cards. She seemed duly impressed by it. “Would you mind if I looked around?” Quinn asked.

  “Please do. I am sure our library is not as large as the one you work in, but we are proud of it.”

  “It may not be as large, but I’m sure you have a lot of items we don’t.”

  “That is true. We have many books and manuscripts here that are irreplaceable.” Harbir lowered her voice and took a half step closer to Quinn. “I am so pleased our manuscripts are safe. I am sure you heard of the unfortunate incident at your Library of Congress several nights ago.”

  She wanted to know what Harbir knew, so Quinn answered, “Only a little. My husband and I have been traveling. What happened exactly?”

  Harbir wrung her hands. “Soldiers in the Sikh regiment were guarding an exhibition of valuable Indian manuscripts displayed at your library. They stole them and kidnapped our ambassador to your country.”

  Quinn gasped. “That’s terrible. Does anyone know why they did it?”

  “Many think they will ransom the ambassador and sell the manuscripts,” she said. A ferocious scowl twisted her features. “Such treasures should be valued for more than how much money they can fetch.”

  “So true,” Quinn said. “Since the soldiers are Sikh, are people here concerned about backlash?”

  “Some are. But we try to go about our lives. It is not the first time the rest of India has turned an angry eye toward us Sikhs.”

  “You mean Operation Blue Star? I learned a little about it in college.”

  Harbir’s gaze dropped to the floor. “Yes,” she said in a quiet voice. “It was a terrible time. I was young, but I know it is something I do not wish to experience again.”

  Quinn blinked in surprise. “You were here?”

  “Yes.”

  “It must have been completely terrifying.”

  “It was. My parents, older brother, and I lived here in the complex. My father was an assistant librarian here in this very room.” A shadow of sadness passed over Harbir’s face. “I was only ten years old at the time. It was very hot and very loud. Expl
osions shook the buildings. Debris rained down on us from the ceiling. I have a memory of my father sheltering me with his body.”

  Quinn nodded and swallowed at the thickness in her throat. “My father would have done the same for me.”

  Something over Quinn’s shoulder caught Harbir’s attention, chasing away the shadow. Quinn turned to see a tiny, older woman walking toward them.

  Quinn stood silently while the other two women spoke in rapid Punjabi. Quinn knew she was the object of conversation when Harbir showed the other woman Quinn’s business card. As they talked, Quinn studied their faces. Based on their similar facial features, she had a pretty good idea who the older woman was.

  Harbir turned to Quinn and spoke to her in Punjabi. When she caught her name, she realized she was being formally introduced. Harbir then switched to English and said, “Mrs. Quinn Riordan, this is my mother, Mrs. Rupinder Kaur.”

  Quinn pressed her palms together and bowed. “Sat Sri Akal.”

  The elder Mrs. Kaur returned Quinn’s greeting, a delighted smile on her face.

  “I told my mother you are also a librarian. She is quite pleased to learn of your interest in ours. This library has been a part of her life for many years.”

  “It’s my honor to be here.” Quinn paused. This was an incredible chance to get a firsthand account of what happened to the library in 1984. She didn’t want to blow it, nor come off as being disrespectful or pushy. She needed to tread carefully. “I’m afraid I’m like most Americans. We don’t know much about Operation Blue Star other than what we might learn in a university class. I’d like to know more. Would your mother be willing to tell me about her experience?”

  Harbir and her mother held a short conversation while Quinn mentally crossed her fingers.

  “She says you are the first Westerner to ask to hear her story. She would be pleased to tell you.”

  Quinn nodded. This wasn’t only about gathering intel anymore. Looking into two of the faces of Operation Blue Star, it was now very real and very personal. It was no longer an abstract political and military event that took place before Quinn was born a half a world away. It was about real lives of real people who had lived through a terrifying and life-shattering event.

  The prospect of what Quinn was about to hear filled her with awe and trepidation. From the bits Harbir had already mentioned—and what Quinn already knew of Operation Blue Star—Mrs. Kaur’s story would be difficult to listen to. And yet, it was Quinn’s privilege to be told the woman’s account. It wouldn’t be easy, but it was a story she needed to bear witness to, not so much as an officer of the CIA, but as a human being.

  Quinn looked directly at Mrs. Kaur and said, “It is an honor for me to hear it.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  The three women sat in the shade of a tree not far from the entrance to the Sikh Reference Library. The air around them was hot and dry and would only get hotter as the day wore on.

  The Kaur women were settled in chairs while Quinn sat on the grass facing them. The amplified voice of a chanting granthi drifted over them.

  When Mrs. Kaur began to speak in a strong and measured tone, her eyes were fixed on a point off in the distance, as if staring into her past.

  “The army and paramilitary police had the Harmandir Sahib complex surrounded,” Harbir said, translating her mother’s words. “It was very tense. Early in the afternoon on the first day of June, they fired bullets into the complex, mostly at the Harmandir Sahib itself. My father and the others inside the library took cover behind steel book cabinets when some of the bullets came their way. The shooting ended that evening as suddenly as it started.”

  Mrs. Kaur spoke again when Harbir fell silent.

  “The second of June was quiet,” Harbir said a moment later. “There was no gunfire. Many pilgrims and their families traveled to Amritsar that day. They came to observe the martyrdom of Guru Arjan Dev Ji at the Harmandir Sahib the next.”

  “I know that name,” Quinn said. “He was the one who built the Harmandir Sahib.”

  Mrs. Kaur glanced down at Quinn, looking rather astonished.

  “Amarjit told me about him,” Quinn said.

  Harbir relayed Quinn’s response. Mrs. Kaur nodded in approval and continued.

  After another long passage, Harbir said, “It was very hot the next day, but it did not matter. Thousands of people filled the Harmandir Sahib to pay their respects to the Guru Granth Sahib and Guru Arjan Dev Ji. Men and women, old and young, entire families had come. That evening, the army imposed a curfew. No one was allowed to leave. There were still thousands of pilgrims inside.”

  “They wouldn’t even let the women and children leave?” Quinn asked.

  Harbir answered without consulting her mother. “To this day, the army insists it announced a warning to the pilgrims over the loudspeakers, telling them they should leave.”

  “And you didn’t hear it?”

  Harbir asked her mother the question and she shook her head in response. “If there had been such a warning, why would the people have stayed?”

  That was a good question. Quinn tuned into the voice coming over the loudspeakers again. If they were set to the same volume that fateful day in 1984 as they were today, an announcement would have been difficult to miss.

  When Quinn had no answer for Mrs. Kaur’s question, the older woman picked up her narrative.

  “At four in the morning on June fourth, there was a sudden and loud explosion. She thought the entire complex was going to collapse on top of us,” Harbir said. “My father took my brother and me from our beds. The four of us huddled in a corner as the explosions continued around us.”

  As Harbir spoke, her mother stared into the distance again, obviously lost in the memory. Her folded hands rested on her lap, one thumb absently rubbing the thumbnail of the other.

  “At one point, my father peeked through a window of our home into the interior of the complex. He said he saw people crawling on their bellies across the bridge away from the Harmandir Sahib. Water sprayed high into the air when shells landed in the sarovar and exploded.”

  Mrs. Kaur continued. She lifted a hand and circled it in the air.

  “Helicopters flew overhead,” Harbir said. “A bright spotlight shone down, marking where the bombs should go. Many young men were blown to pieces that way. It went on like this most of the day.

  “The next day, the militants who had fortified the Akal Takht shot back at the soldiers trying to infiltrate the compound. The commandos had to retreat.

  “The water and electricity had been cut off, so we had no food or water. We could not escape. If we went outside, we would have been shot. We all were very thirsty. As if to taunt us in our thirst, helicopters fired at the overhead water tank until it burst. All the water was lost.”

  The intensity and speed with which Mrs. Kaur told the next part of the story increased. Quinn found herself straining forward to catch the words Mrs. Kaur spoke even though she didn’t understand them.

  “That evening, there were suddenly very bright lights shining inside the complex. At first my mother and father thought they were ambulances coming to take away the many wounded and dying people. They were not. They were army tanks. They rolled down the stairs at the main entrance and drove over the parikrama toward the Akal Takht. All night the tanks bombarded it.”

  When Mrs. Kaur continued, she was subdued. “When the sun rose the next morning, we saw the Akal Takht with large holes put there by the shells. It was burning. Tanks had also invaded the complex near the hostels where many of the pilgrims had taken shelter. There were many cries of injured and wounded people. Blood and bodies littered the parikrama.

  “By the afternoon of June sixth, the gunfire and explosions ended. The army made an announcement that we should all come outside. We were afraid to, of course. We feared we would be shot the moment we stepped out of our home. We had no choice but to do as we were told. We came out.

  “The air was filled with the stench of smoke and
gunpowder and death.”

  Harbir reached over and rested her hand atop her mother’s. Quinn wanted to wrap the tiny woman in a hug but didn’t want to breach etiquette. Instead, she bowed her head, stared at the blades of grass in front of her crossed legs, and blinked back the tears.

  After a long moment, Mrs. Kaur resumed.

  “We came out of our home,” Harbir said. “My father was ordered to put his hands up. When he refused, one of the soldiers called him a terrorist and smashed him in the face with the butt of his rifle. He collapsed on the parikrama.”

  Harbir looked away from her mother and said to Quinn, “I remember the face of the soldier who hit my father. Not only because of his brutality, but because he was smoking a cigarette. I had never seen anyone smoke inside the Harmandir Sahib compound before. Tobacco is strictly forbidden.” Her lips twitched with a wistful smile. “Who could have known what the lasting memories of a ten-year-old child would be.”

  Harbir returned her attention to her mother. When the older woman spoke again, her voice had tightened. She swiped at the tears that trickled down her cheeks with a wrinkled hand. Her agony was barely restrained.

  “The man who struck my father and another soldier picked him up by the arms and dragged him away. My mother cried out for them to let him stay with us, but they did not listen to her.” Harbir swallowed hard and said barely above a whisper, “That was the last time we saw him. We were told later he died in the custody of the army.”

  The air whooshed from Quinn’s lungs like she’d been kicked in the gut. She covered her mouth with her hand. “You don’t have to tell me any more if it’s too painful,” Quinn said when she’d regained her composure.

  After Harbir told her mother what Quinn had said, the older woman responded and shook her head.

  “She said if she only spoke when she felt no pain, she would be forever silent.”

  Quinn’s throat constricted as tears filled her eyes. Unable to speak, she could only nod her understanding.