After three days of rioting in New Delhi, the government finally put an end to the chaos and got everything under control. The Sardarji and his partners from the taxi stand came to us, each with both hands pressed together, palms touching, in front of them and thanked us over and over. The Sikh boy joined them, and our lives slowly returned to normal. However, it took several months for their taxi business to return to normal. Many Hindus expressed hatred toward the Sikhs by refusing to use their taxis.
Chapter 22
A few months after settling in New Delhi, I convinced my parents to visit with us. They agreed and came to stay for about two months, but they were anxious to go back to Malaudh. I didn’t understand why they were so eager to leave and would argue with them.
“We have come back to India,” I said, “and the reason we are here is partially so you can stay with us and live a comfortable life rather than live in Malaudh with my brother, who shows you no respect, and his children, who give you a hard time. It hurts me to know how they treat you, and yet you always want to go back.”
Many times during that visit I raised my voice, in a way, taking all my frustrations out on them. The hospital project was not going as planned, and now I was unsuccessful in keeping my parents with me. After returning to their home, they came to stay with us a second time for several months, but the story was the same. They still wanted to return to Malaudh.
In November 1984, my youngest sister, Sita, informed me that my father was not doing well. He was having heart problems and was in Ludhiana with her. Disheartened by the news, I told Sita I would come right away, feeling that I should be with my father while he was sick.
My driver and I left first thing in the morning. It normally took six hours to drive the two hundred miles from Delhi to Ludhiana because of the many different types of traffic on the road—bullock carts, tractors, bicycles, water buffalo, cows, and goats all traveled on the same single lane road. Plus we faced congestion in all the small towns and cities we passed through on the way. No one followed any traffic rules.
We started driving at 5:00 a.m. We had barely left the city when my driver got stuck behind a small herd of water buffalo meandering in front of us. Why don’t I drive? I thought. I will be able to drive faster and better than my driver, and we will reach Ludhiana in five hours rather than six.
“Why don’t I drive, Keshyp?” I said. “We will get there faster.”
My driver just shrugged his shoulders. “If you say so, Bedi Saheb,” he said, stopping the car and getting out.
A thick fog blanketed the early morning air, so one could see no more than thirty yards ahead. Once in the driver’s seat, I maneuvered around the water buffalo and began driving fifty-five miles per hour. After covering seventy miles in an hour and a half, a tractor trolley sitting in the middle of the road suddenly appeared out of the fog. I thought to go around the trolley, but another car was coming in my direction. Holding the steering wheel tightly, I slammed on the brakes, but I had been driving fast and did not see the trolley soon enough. The car skidded and crashed into the back of the trolley. My driver flew forward, hitting his head on the dashboard. I hit my chin on the steering wheel and felt a sharp pain from the ring of the wheel cutting my chin.
Thinking the car might catch on fire, I stumbled out, hurried to the passenger side, and pulled my driver out by the shoulders.
“Keshyp, are you okay?” I asked.
He rubbed his forehead for a moment and looked at me. “Yes, I think so.”
The front of the car was smashed up, the hood had popped open, and the radiator was spewing water on the road. The car behind us honked, and as traffic backed up, several people yelled at us from their windows. I opened the passenger door on the driver’s side and took out my shoulder bag, which held my .22 caliber revolver. While it made me feel more secure, owning a handgun was also a status symbol in India.
Keshyp and I stood on the side of the road. I could feel blood dripping from my chin, and I pressed the front of my shirt against the wound to stop the blood flow. No one stopped to help us or to see if we were injured. I stuck my thumb out, trying to hitchhike as it was done in the States. No one hitchhiked in India, but I thought I’d give it a try. The cars and buses simply passed, seeing we obviously got in an accident with the trolley. While disheartening, it came as no surprise. People simply sped around our car and the trolley, and the traffic pandemonium continued on as before.
I was shaken up, my adrenaline still rushing as I realized we might both be dead if I hadn’t hit the brakes hard enough. I kicked myself for making the decision to move to India. Nothing seemed to be working out, and here I was bleeding on the side of the road. In the US, I thought, the ambulance, police, and first responders would quickly arrive at the scene
