When the ‘President of Khalistan’ rustled up a quick meal for me
The jury is still out on diplomatic hits and misses of Canadian premier Justin Trudeau’s weeklong India outing that was marked more by snafus than statesmanship. But an unintended consequence was loud and clear: A resurrection of the ghost of ‘Khalistan’, long exorcised from the collective memory of Punjab.
A spotlight on the K-word (not the usual suspect Kashmir) unwittingly pressed the rewind button on a meeting 22 years ago with the original and chief protagonist of ‘Khalistan’, Dr Jagjit Singh Chauhan, in his lair in London.
As a hard-nosed hack in the thick of action in the border state, one had grown up hearing and reading stories about Chauhan, the self-proclaimed ‘President of Khalistan’, an imaginary government-in-exile headquartered in the British capital.
A medical practitioner from Tanda in Hoshiarpur, Chauhan dabbled in Punjab politics and rose to be minister and deputy speaker in the state assembly in the late ’70s. That was before he embraced the cause of separatism and migrated to England.
By 1984, he had emerged as the most recognisable face of a virulent anti-India propaganda that also espoused the cause of Sikh secessionism. Chauhan had mastered the art of pulling off incredulously inventive stunts that grabbed international headlines. At one time, he even issued ‘Khalistan’ passports, dollars and nominated a council of ministers!
His propaganda riled then prime minister Indira Gandhi to the extent that she, as the now declassified British archives reveal, shot off a missive to her counterpart, Margaret Thatcher, to rein in Chauhan. He relished all that cast him in a largerthan-life persona before the outside world, more so back home in Punjab.
LONELY CRUSADER
Post-1992, the firestorm of terrorism that had swept and singed Punjab for a decadeand-a-half ebbed rather unexpectedly. A tenuous peace was in the offing. But that journalistic curiosity to catch up with Chauhan, one of the surviving leading lights of the so-called ‘Khalistan’ never faded away.
A window opened in the spring of 1996 when I got a four-month media fellowship in Britain. Armed with contacts from a Punjab cop who had had a stint in London, my first port of call was his successor in the Indian high commission, an Intelligence Bureau sleuth in diplomatic guise. Alongside a lowdown on Britain-based ‘Khalistan’ sympathisers, by then nothing more than a rump, he shared Chauhan’s contact.
The next day when I placed a call from London, introducing myself as a journalist from Chandigarh, seeking an appointment with Dr Chauhan, a gruff voice intoned in monosyllables. Then after a pause, he asked pointedly, in clipped British accent: “Do you know Mr Parwana and Mr Khullar?” The reference was to two veteran journalists in the Punjab capital and the question was meant to check my antecedents.
Once the validation was completed, he broke in chaste Punjabi: “Mein Chauhan hi bol rehan. Aa jao jadon marji (I’m Chauhan speaking; come whenever you feel like).” It was hard not to feel a bit overwhelmed at getting such a quick appointment with the ‘President of Khalistan’!
TWIST IN THE TALE
At the appointed hour, I caught up with Chauhan, then residing in a high-rise plush apartment with a breathtaking view of London. His demeanour bore no evidence to the propaganda power he once wielded. With his wiry frame attired in spotless milky white robes and turban and grey cascades, the 60-something came across as a suave but lonely man wallowing in a make-believe fantasy of a lost cause.
But Chauhan had lost none of his PR skills. “Let’s first have lunch,” he said with an air of informality that comes so naturally to Punjabis. Before I could mutter my hesitation, he chaperoned me to his upscale kitchen and pulled out a bowl and some breads from the refrigerator. For the next few minutes, he heated the frozen ‘daal’, while I shuffled the readymade chapattis on a hot plate. The ‘President of Khalistan’ was rustling up a meal for me!
But the delicious irony followed soon. We had just finished lunch when his landline buzzed. “Hello, ... sahib,” Chauhan said, prefacing the caller’s name in a loud voice of familiarity. For the next few minutes, he talked about the situation in Punjab, little knowing that the man he was talking to was the intelligence sleuth who had given me his contact.
Before parting ways, I asked him about his last wish. For once, the voluble old man turned silent. “Bas Punjab jaake marna chahuna (I want to die in Punjab),” he said wistfully, tears welled up in his piercing eyes. In 2001, his wish was granted, courtesy some backchannel talks with the Government of India, which held up his return as yet another proof of the death of the ‘Khalistan’ dream.
Years later, I had yet another encounter – an accidental one – with Chauhan. This time, at the Golden Temple in Amritsar. He was not even a pale shadow of the high-profile ideologue of the past whom I had met. He wanted to call a press conference at the SGPC office at the main entrance of the shrine. But a junior SGPC staffer would have none of it, and curtly told him: “Mattha teko te ethon jao (Offer prayers and go away).” That, perhaps, was the anti-climax for a once-ubiquitous star propagandist of ‘Khalistan’ before he died unsung in 2007.
By the way, the IB official who shared Chauhan’s number with me was Ajit Doval, now India’s National Security Adviser!
HIS DEMEANOUR BORE NO EVIDENCE TO THE POWER HE ONCE WIELDED. WITH HIS WIRY FRAME ATTIRED IN SPOTLESS WHITE ROBES, HE CAME ACROSS AS A SUAVE BUT LONELY MAN WALLOWING IN A MAKEBELIEVE FANTASY OF A LOST CAUSE