1737 CE-When Bhai Mani Singh Was Tortured To Death For Celebrating Deepavali

I

The year was 1737 CE. Zakaria Khan, the Mughal governor of Lahore and Supreme Commander (SC) of Mughal forces stationed in Punjab looked out through the darkening night of early November. The lights were slowly coming out. Occasionally, he could even see a flare coming out.

Oh! The Mughal SC could not stand that particular time of the year in any part of this country of infidels.

The nights had started glittering with lamps and how he wished he could allow his army to descend and ravage the households as they used to do in good old times. How things had changed in three decades after the death of the great Aurangazeb!

The infidels had been growing steadily in strength. The Sikhs were organising themselves in a systematic manner and in the south the Marathas were defying the Empire.

Soon, they might even run the Empire by proxy. But how could he, the SC, stand this infidel festival of light right under his nose! How he wished he could stop all their festivities. In good old days, it was just a firman from the emperor or even a local Maulavi and then the army could do the job. Now he had to invent a secular reason.

The approach of footsteps stopped his train of thoughts. The man who arrived was Diwan Lakpath Rai. Zakaria Khan had nothing but contempt for the guy. He was a veritable worm, a man who had betrayed his own people.

But nevertheless, he was a useful worm. He was still a Hindu and Sikhs trusted him. He could pass for even a Shiv Bhakt if the need arose and they would believe him and spill out their secrets to him.

Lakhpath Rai’s dull eyes did glow like those of a wolf in that fire lit in the torch at the entrance to governor’s camp. He surely had some news and it was a week before the actual Deepavali.

‘Salaam Alaikum’ said Lakpath with a grin which he thought was a smile and his body three quarters prostrating as he made the traditional Salaam. ‘Immm’ said Zakaria dismissively, ‘What’s the news?’. He hated it when Dhimmis and Kafirs tried to imitate the true believers.

Lakpath slowly straightened himself and in a whispering tone started talking, ‘Hazur! The Sikhs are planning to have a massive assemblage at Harmandir Sahib this Deepavali. If they succeeded it could mean trouble.’

He paused to see his master’s response. ‘Who is organizing this event Lakpath? I heard the Sikhs like all Kafirs whose mind Allah scatters, have already started quarreling for power after we got the last Guru assassinated?’

‘That was before Hazur! Now the Guru Mata had brought in Bhai Mani Singh and he had achieved Sanghathan of Sikhs. And it was he who had asked all Sikhs from every village to assemble at Harmandri Sahib for Deepavali and they are going to celebrate it as the day of liberation.’

‘Bhai Mani Singh?’

Zakaria Khan fell silent. If it was Bhai Mani Singh, he knew he had a formidable enemy. He had lost his children in protecting the Guru. He was both a scholar and a warrior and now if what Lakpath said was true, then he also seemed to be a great organiser.

But then this was also a crucial juncture. If Zakaria Khan could prove that the powers of the Mughal State could stop the plans for Deepavali celebrations in Harmandir Sahib, he could also make the Sikhs realize that Bhai Mani Singh was a failure as an organiser and which in turn could divide the Sikhs again. And he could also have the religious sense of victory in turning their celebrations into a silent day of failure.

Lakpath realized the current of thoughts in his master’s mind and volunteered, “Hazur! As you are the Supreme Commander of Mughal army in Punjab and the Lahore governor, he will have to come to you for permission.”

Then they both exchanged smiles - that of Zakaria, a smile of contempt and religious victory while the smile of Lakpath was filled with secular expectations of at least a gold chain.

II

‘Just permission to celebrate Deepavali. Is it?’ Zakaria Khan looked at Bhai Mani Singh who was standing right at the centre of the court.

‘Yes’, said Bhai Mani Singh, ‘At Harmandir Sahib’.

‘Sure. The Mughal State is secular towards Dhimmis and even Kafirs, Oh Sikh. So we will allow that. But...’ he looked straight into the eyes of Bhai Mani Singh.

The warrior-scholar was old. His beard was spotless white and surely the long hair tied inside the turban too should be shining silver. The old age had added a majestic effect on his steely frame rather than show any weakness. A small shiver ran down the spine. Why all these Sikhs had in them the same disturbing gaze that Tegh Bhadur had when he was beheaded, he wondered.

Bhai Mani Singh was silent and that disturbed him even more.

"...See this Dee...Dee... whatever the festival, is actually a nasty one. There are feasts and fire works and stuff. It all creates a lot of work for the government. We have to make arrangements and things. So what you have to do is just give the State 5000 rupees and then you can celebrate that festival of yours, at that pond place of your religion. Oh and make sure you give the five thousand rupees within a week.”

Sikhs would be arriving from all villages and a few coins from each could easily translate into Rs 5000. But within a week? That would be impossible. This was clear persecution but then right now Sikhs were just reorganizing and they could not afford another violent confrontation with the State. Yet he felt within him a force. This was going to be a different game.

Bhai Mani Singh felt the Gurus speak through him. “Yes that shall be done.”

“If not...Oh Sikh...”, Zakaria Khan roared as Bhai Mani Singh reached the gates, “You will be punished ... by our court.”

Then Zakaria looked at Lakpath standing in the left corner and smiled. From the left corner Lakpath showed a sign to the armed commander. They would make sure that no Sikh would reach Har Mandir Sahib from the villages. They would stop them and chase them and if need be kill them. All communications would be blocked.

So the Mughal SC along with the Diwan to his left would thus make sure that the pilgrimage to the shrine would be ruined and Deepavali celebration thwarted.

III

The execution ground was damp with the previous night’s drizzle. The Mughal SC stood before the prisoner. Bhai Mani Singh sat there.

All their previous night’s torture showed on his body and yet his steely gaze remained and there was also the smile. “This is your last opportunity.”, the SC said to him, “Just relinquish your Dharma and embrace the Deen. Why lose your life over the right to celebrate a stupid festival.”

Bhai Mani Singh looked at the SC and said, “You will never understand Mughal. This is the nation of Dharma. This is the land of freedom. Deepavali is for us the day of liberation. This is the celebration of many colours and you doomed with a closed mind, can never understand. But you too have now become the instrument of Dharma. So go ahead!”

SC looked at the cleric and the cleric signaled the executioner. The executioner knelt before the saint. He remembered. Was he not the saint to whom he had taken his sick daughter and did he not heal her... and now he had to kill him by slowly cutting him into pieces.

The least he could do the executioner thought would be to lessen the pain of this real Mahatma. Let him straight away cut his throat.

Bhai Mani Singh immersed in the meditation of ‘Ek Omkar’ suddenly opened his eyes and looked at the executioner with love. He pointed to his fingers and told him, “Do not worry. Start with the fingers and chop them all. You kill the body and not the one who resides within.

Lest you be tortured for flaunting the rules of tortured. My brother, after all this yagna will not go in waste. This Mughal SC may even be succeeded by a worse form of SC but surely a day will dawn in this land when we shall celebrate our festivals without fear and in all glory.”

And even as the verse ‘cut off the tip of the fingers’ was getting recited in the background, he immersed himself into the bliss of Ek Omkar as he mixed with the Truth, Beauty and the Eternal - Sat Sri Akal - Satyam Sundaram and Nirantharam.

Blood from his body parts started making the soil wet, red and sacred, as Deepavali neared the land.

Epilogue

“And thus Bhai Mani Singh became the martyr of Deepavali”, the mother said as she shoved the last piece of roti into the mouth of the child. “When shall we celebrate our festivals fearlessly in our own land Ma?” the one-eyed boy asked as he munched the roti.

Pensively, the mother said looking at the small-pox scarred face of the boy. Despite the scars she could see in that face a spirit that shone through the boy’s one eye, “Soon my son Ranjit... soon... Make sure you learn your sword fight right!”