“What’s going on, Baba Ji?” came the whisper. “Why are they not making any move? We have been in here for five days now, and have heard nothing. The entire state of Punjab has been in a state of emergency for months, no one has been able to enter or leave, and now the complex is surrounded by officers - even the Prakarmaa is flooded with men holding guns. What are they waiting for?”

“Remain calm, Jagjeet Singhaa, they will take action soon. They have waited long, very long, to rid themselves of what they deem as the plague of Sikhi, they will take this chance now. But we must remain quiet – the women and the elderly must not hear anything that may cause panic, and the children are already in tears. Keep faith in the Lord, Singha, He will not forsake us in this time of need. Accept His will as it is - you are a soldier of Guroo Jee. You must live up to this duty. Spread the word to the men tonight to stay alert, and prepared for anything.”

Jagjeet Singh Jee nodded his head, and disappeared through a door to make his way to the inner room. Walking through a dark hallway, he wondered in awe where this man got his strength. He knew it was the blessing of God, and that if he had true faith himself, he would be steadfast as well. However, having spent every day since the third of June inside the Guruduaaraa Saahib, completely cut off from the outside world - save for a small radio - he was a little disheartened.

All will be well, Jagjeet Singh. Do not doubt Vaahiguroo Jee – He is Savior of us all…would He forsake you? He scolded himself, shook his head violently, and disappeared around the corner.

In the main hall, the man who had addressed Jagjeet Singh Jee proceeded to the front of the room, and stood in front of the beautiful golden coloured frame, the majestic throne of Sri Guroo Granth Saahib Jee Maharaj. He folded long, slender hands together, closed his eyes, and bent his head forward, submitting himself to his Lord. In his heart was a prayer, a humble request that the Lord bless the Sikhs huddled together within the room, the armed men who answered to him, as well as himself, with the peace and strength to defend this House of God. He opened his eyes and looked at his Guru Jee, clothed in splendid silk, the color soothing his heart. He bent down and pressed his forehead upon the ground in front of His throne. Thinking of how much He owed this awesome Being in front of him, he remained there several minutes, breathing deeply.

He picked himself gracefully up off the ground, and walked around behind the throne, picking up a fly whisk from a low table that stood next to it. He began to wave this over His Guroo Jee, serving his Savoir, his soul trembling in awe of the Almighty. After some time, he replaced the Chaur Saahib upon its table, and seated himself behind the throne. Pulling back the silk respectfully, and with great care, he went forth to receive Hukam from Guroo Jee Maharaj.

He began to read, and as he read out in a clear, ringing voice, the Sangat that was imprisoned within its own dear Guruduaaraa Saahib raised their heads as one, and listened. They listened as their leader repeated the word of God, of Vaahiguroo Jee, his voice full of love, a voice aching with deep sorrow and longing for the Lord. They listened, enraptured, as Baba Bhindrawale sang the words of Sree Guroo Naanak Dev Jee Maharaj, “If you so desire to play this game of Love with Me, with your head upon your palm, step onto the Path…”

As is inevitable, the shades of night began to fall, and as the deep hues of evening began to colour the sky, the martyr of a century began to recite Sree Sodhar Rehraas Saahib – the evening Prayer - his voice the beacon of light guiding those souls lost out at sea. Slowly, one by one, the Sikhs inside the room began to chant with him, their many voices mingling, and becoming one voice of pure love, of devoted worship, of true reverence. This collective voice echoed throughout the night, sending shudders down the cowardly spines of the intruders standing guard outside, who at that very moment, were planning the demise of those singing so wholeheartedly within.

BANG

Baba Bhindrawale jumped to attention from his seat on the floor, where he had spent the night in meditation, the temptress sleep deserting his door at a restless hour. He listened intently, not sure if his ears had deceived him, but ready to accept that the moment was at hand. Jagjeet Singh Jee hurried in through the door, his turban tied halfway around his head, the rest bunched together in his hands. He wrapped it around his head as he came, and called out a greeting to his leader, “Vaahiguroo Jee Kaa Khaalsaa! Vaahiguroo Jee Kee Fateh!”

Baba Bhindrawale replied with the same, his hands folded together, and a smile slowly made its way across his glowing face. Jagjeet Singh Jee could hardly believe that his leader could smile at such a time.

“Surely you have heard it, Baba Ji?” he inquired of the rigid figure in front of him.

“Yes…I have heard, Singhaa.” He paused. “Call together your brothers.” Turning to look Jagjeet Singh Jee in the eyes, he said quietly, “...the time is come for war.”

The fear sparked in Jagjeet Singh Jee’s eyes, but seeing the calm face of Baba Bhindrawale, he took courage and nodded shakily, putting faith in the Lord who had blessed him throughout his life. Suddenly, he felt his heart soar as he realized what Maharaj had in store for him – Shaheedi, the blessed, long awaited martyrdom! He was a son of Dasam Paathshaah Guroo Gobind Singh Jee Maharaj; what had he to fear?

As Jagjeet Singh Jee turned to leave, Baba Bhindrawale again moved to take his place behind the Paalkee Saahib, Guroo Jee’s beautiful throne, and once more began to pull away the robes that adorned his Perfect Satguru. He knew he had little time, but the soul-bride made it necessary for him to physically communicate with his beloved Guroo Jee one last time. He took a few moments to read the first Shabad on the Ang he had opened to, and as he adjusted the silken robes afterward, his lips formed a small smile. He was now completely ready; he had received the answer he was looking for - he had the blessing of his Lord.

The inner room was filled with the startled rustling of those abruptly shaken from an already restless slumber. The whispering among the armed men, who were under the command of Baba Bhindrawale, had stirred a curiosity within the Sangat, but the startled cries of the children awakened from an innocent sleep distracted them again. The devotees began to move about and put away the blankets and sheets upon which they had spent the past several nights, and attempted to quiet the children.

BOOM

Screams rippled across the room as if a wave of fear was passing over each person in turn, threatening to engulf them, drown them, wash them away, never to be seen again. The sound was much closer this time than before, and everyone had heard it. The children, who had only settled down seconds before, now began to cry again, this time with an urgency that was reflected in the eyes of their mothers, and the clenched fists of their fathers. The old men and women began to pray, pray fervently, pray as they had never before prayed in their lives.

BOOM

This time the screams were unheard – they were drowned out by the sound of the shattering heavens, the debris raining down upon the souls that populate the earth. A great metal monstrosity was visible through the wall it had broken, a wall that had guarded a precious sanctuary mere seconds before – a wall which had already been destroyed and rebuilt many times, a fate that it seemed to be doomed to repeat.

A single, solitary bullet whistled through the air, a messenger of death, and pierced the forehead of the Granthee who had come out earlier on to see to the removal of Guroo Jee Maharaj. A single, thin line of deep, dark red flowed richly from the hole, leaked down his forehead, along the left side of his nose, and then disappeared from view as he fell face forward onto the carpeted floor.

The split second of complete silence erupted into bloodcurdling shrieks, and all the Sangat was thrown into a state of great panic, their worst fears realized. For days they had been trapped in this room, wondering what on earth could be going on outside, due to which they could not return home. In four days, no one had gone outside of the walls of the temple, and no one had come in. The speculations they had been hearing on the radio for the past few evenings were now forming into the truth.

Suddenly, there appeared Baba Bhindrawale with a chain of ammunition draped around his torso, a sten gun in his hand. The eyes of some of the men lit up as they saw him across the room. His own eyes full of the thronging passion of a blood red sea, a passion born of outrage on his Guroo Jee’s behalf, he was followed by many clad in flowing gowns of white and blue, and a Gaathraa around each of their torsos, with the crown of a Sikh upon their heads, and each face adorned with the gift of God – beards that flowed down past their chests.

There was a boy among these men, his Dastaar lopsided, his beard just beginning to grow in. He shook from head to toe, but held firmly in his right hand, a sword, with the grip of a true warrior. He rushed over to a pile of ammunition, and digging through it quickly, pulled out a gun from beneath the black and gray mass which had produced death for so many decades past. He passed this to one of the men who stood unarmed by his family, who accepted it without a moment of hesitation. The rest of the unarmed men moved forward to take a weapon with which to defend their Anandgarh, their faith - their Guroo Jee.

As these men entered the main hall of the temple, they met with a barrage of bullets, and in the lead, soul glowing with Chardeekalaa, his heart singing the praises of the Lord, Baba Jarnail Singh Jee Khalsa Bhindrawale thrust his gun into the air and roared thus his God-filled battle cry,

“BOLE SO NIHAAAAAAAAL!” “SAT SRI AKAAAAAAAAAL”

The voices of the many Singhs ready to defend the abode of their beloved Guroo Jee Maharaj filled the hall, and seemed for a moment to overpower any force on earth. The Khalsa surged forward, and began to fire, shooting at those who had dared to desecrate this holy temple, and the Beloved Being Who resided within.

As bullet met with brother bullet in the air, and men fell left and right, it seemed as though the earth would break apart under the burden of such a heavy sin. Who would ever have imagined such horrors would take place? Yet, here they were, trapped in a place of worship, of Satsangat and Naam, being ruthlessly murdered by the very people who had guaranteed them freedom and happiness, people they had considered to be their brothers during their time of need.

As the Indian army ventured forth onto the premises of the inner hall, more men sporting semi-automatics emerged from the room within the temple, ready to fight until their last breaths fled their sacrificial bodies. Outside, generals of the army surrounded the pathways, making sure no one could enter or leave.

The young boy, his Kirpaan now in the kamarkasaa about his waist, struggled to gain a steady grip upon the firearm in his hands. Awed by the raging battle before him, and the rush of adrenaline through his veins, he lifted it up and began to fire, watching his bullets hit everything from walls to other bullets, but not a single Indian army officer. He began to lose faith, and as he turned dejectedly to reach for more ammo, he saw a little girl standing at the entrance to the inner room. He gasped, realizing that she was in danger from the bullets, which had already pierced the walls of the room in several places. He wanted to get her inside the next room, but couldn’t see a way to reach her – the only visible path went right in front of the firing men.

Oh, Vaahiguroo Jee! he thought. Please get me to that innocent child. She is Your daughter - she has done nothing, help me to save her, Guroo Jee!

Suddenly he saw that the pile of ammunition had no one in front of it, and if he could climb over it, or even through it, he’d be able to reach the girl.

“Thank you, Guroo Jee, thank you!” he breathed.

He hurried back through the men, and reached the mound of firepower. Looking for the place where it was least crowded, he stepped onto the mix of guns and bullets, and had taken barely a step when a grenade came whizzing through the air, flew right past his waist, and landed in the pile.

The explosion reverberated around the walls, blood and remnants of flesh everywhere. Although the men led by Baba Bhindrawale were surprised, they could do nothing more than keep shooting and wonder somewhere in the back of their minds how much damage had been caused by this. The reality that these murderers were coming into the Guruduaaraa Saahib, the abode of Guroo Jee Maharaj, and destroying it, was fuel to the fury that ravaged their Naam-thirsty souls, and they began to fight a battle that had been written in their destiny before the beginning of time. They fought harder and faster than ever they had thought they could, and every so often, a battle cry would rent the electric air, and the replies of their Khalsa brethren would spur them on to greater strength.

However, this battle had lasted hours, and once again the darkness began to close in around the one place on earth that was, and will forever remain, the greatest source of light for Sikhs – Darbaar Saahib.

The little girl, now spattered with blood, cried terribly, her wails heart-rending, but with no one to hear them but the One who sees all – only Vaahiguroo Jee knows why such a thing occurred in these days in such a holy place. Only He knows His way, and only He knows why so many innocents lost their lives. This is a child who would later be labelled as a terrorist by the government – a five-year-old terrorist. The child stood there and cried, cried for she knew not what else to do. She cried because the noise and the flashes of light scared her, and she cried because her mother was not nearby. She cried like any child would cry, whether Hindu or Sikh is irrelevant. She cried because that is what her mind told her to do, and somewhere deep down in her soul was a voice that wailed with her, a voice which lamented the loss of innocence, the loss of purity, and the invasion of darkness upon a place which was made to be clean and bright, always. She cried merely because that is how children have acted since children were created by Vaahiguroo Jee, and with no one to witness her sorrow, her fear, she cried, and she cried, until her mother, herself sobbing, dared to rush outside in search of her child. Such is the wonder of Guroo Jee Maharaj, that He blessed this mother with the sweet relief of reunion with her child. The woman, uttering countless words of thanks to her Lord, grabbed her child, wrapped her arms about her, and rushed back inside. She could not have known that upon rising early the next morning, the sun would colour the skies with her blood, and that of her child’s – and the blood of many others would remain in this place for what would seem to be an eternity to come.

And still the battle raged on. There was no mercy in the heart of the government, and so, in turn, its soldiers showed no mercy upon this fauj of Akaal Purakh Maharaj. Surely they will tire soon, thought the woman in charge of this country, a country which would be marked by this heinous crime for years to come. She was pleased with herself, Indira Gandhi, as she sat comfortably in her home, the mastermind of Operation Bluestar, the butcher of the Sikhs.

The Lord’s splendour lay in ruins. His own House of Worship, by His very own Hand, was being savaged by hatred, by bullets. He was taking the lives of His very own children, the lives He himself had blessed them with. Who was to argue with Him? Accepting it as His own sweet will, His disciples fought on, fatigue in every single bone of their bodies, Guroo Jee’s Word still flowing strongly through their souls. They pushed, and battled, with every single nerve, pore, hair, and atom. The Kes Vaahiguroo Jee had blessed them with seemed to be charged with an electricity that no mortal could possibly fathom.

As the moon made its way across that terrible and beautiful night, the stars lit a path to the earth upon which a lay the blessed body of Baba Bhindrawale, mangled and scarred, covered in blood. A body which, when it had contained a soul, had fought bravely in the Name of the Lord, in awe of His creation, for the very moon and stars which now lit the battlefield his men would leave their souls upon forever, and the sun which would next morning shine upon their still bodies riddled with bullets. They fought for the Word of Guroo Jee, which would be bodily burnt to ashes before the night was through They fought for the people who they had vowed to protect, whose souls would remain not a day longer upon the than their own.

The blessed ambrosial hours of the next morning found Vaahiguroo Jee’s sweet, sweet will to be done. Religious manuscripts and records of Sikh history had been ripped to pieces, burnt to ashes. Women had been raped, and shot along with their children and elderly parents, one by one in the Prakarmaa of the Gurughar, right in front of one another. The bodies of Guroo Jee’s saintly warriors filled the Darbaar, Guroo Jee Himself, upon His majestic throne, the limbs of His sacred form razed and completely devastated. The heavens shuddered in fury, and the Sikh nation mourned - lamented and mourned the desecration of the Kartaa Nirankaar Himself.