Operation Blue Star

"Write a story that starts with two characters saying goodbye."

"Goodbye, son."

Little did I know, this would not be the last time I saw my father. The thundering of the helicopter's rotors grew louder and louder as us kids were rushed to safety. Through the mass of bodies, I turned and managed to catch a glimpse of my father grabbing a weapon before rushing off to defend our sacred and holy land, the Golden Temple. Later, I would find out that I had been caught in the middle of a covert military operation, nicknamed Operation Blue Star.

That day had been perfectly normal. My father and I made our weekly trip to Harimandir Sahib, the Golden Temple, one of the most sacred temples of all for Sikhs. We had just given thanks to God for the good week we had had, when there was an inexplicable sound of a helicopter that could be heard over the blaring of horns on the streets. Before long, word had gotten around. The government was attacking our temple. No one knew why at the time, but later we found out it was an attempt to stop the Khalistan movement.

My father, having learnt the ancient Sikh art of defence, Gatka, decided to help those who had learnt it too, to defend our holy grounds, as the women and children were herded to safety. And now, here I was, familyless. With my mother having died giving birth to me, my father was the one who raised me and took care of me. He provided for both of us, and ensured I had a good education. He also made sure I had fun and we though we fought sometimes, we were very close. I could not bear the thought of being an orphan. I could not bear the though of losing my father. 

I knew I could not just stay there, too. Being 15 years old, I had started to learn Gatka, but was not deemed ready to defend, though I showed great promise. 

"I can handle them," I thought to myself. I would be helping defend Harimandir Sahib, though deep down, in my heart of hearts, I knew that the only reason I was sneaking out to fight was because if my father died, I could not stand to live alone, having known that I could have helped. 

Due to the amount of time I spent here, I knew every single secret passageway and hidden tunnel, so when no one was looking, I slipped past the black and yellow caution tape. I knew these tunnels like the back of my own hand, so I knew that I exactly how turn up at the weapons room. Luckily, I was tall and lanky like my father, so I could easily pass as an adult. 

A few minutes later, I arrived at the site of the weapons room. I did a hasty prayer to ask for strength in battle, before grabbing the Kirpan, a curved sword, before rushing out. Outside of the weapons room was total chaos. Soldiers slid down from ropes dangling from helicopters. Generals were on the ground issuing orders, and troops of soldiers marched about. There were bodies on the ground, Sikh and soldier alike. The only difference was a soldier's body would have a sword wound but the Sikh's would have... a bullet wound?

I began to second guess myself. I did not think that the military would actually use bullets. Such violence on these holy grounds had not been witnessed since the 17th century! It was obvious that the military had no regard for our religious rules and did not care about whether the place they were raiding was a farm or a temple! Hatred of the ignorance of the soldiers and government rose in my chest. Surely this cannot be legal! 

Soldiers fired on those who stood in their way, attempting to protect the holy and sacred grounds on which our great religious leaders once lived. On which our religion grew and thrived. On which we as a people had united and the Khalsa had been started. Once again, the injustice of it all welled up within me. If our own government and soldiers had turned against us, who would we turn to? All around me, our own justice system clashed with my people, who were defending their religious rights and morals. 

It was then that I saw him. In the thick of battle stood my father. Standing stoic and proud, he and his comrade blocked protected the doors to the hall in which our holy book, Guru Granth Sahib was kept. It was forbidden to bring weapons in there, but seeing the blatant uncaringness exhibited by the soldiers for our sacred rules, they would not care. My father's eyes widened as he saw me rushing towards him. First he was focusing on me, a proud smile on his face seeing his son turning into a man, but then his gaze shifted to something behind me. I turned around to come face to a gun barrel. A soldier stood at the other end, smirking. I saw his finger twitch at the trigger. He was relishing the fear in my eyes. All of a sudden, I felt a shove, milliseconds before the bang. A sword went through the soldier's stomach and he doubled over. I turned around to see... my father staggering as a stain of red bloomed around his ceremonial clothes. 

My father had sacrificed himself for me. He had taken the bullet for me. And all I could do was stand there in shock, with my eyes wide and my mouth agape. He dropped to his knees, and so did I. Suddenly, i remembered that I had to keep pressure on my father's wound, as I did so, even as his face turned white. My father whispered his last words as his grip went limp and his eyes remained open. Despairing tears dripped down my face as I clung on to his body, all the while repeating his last words in my head. 

"Goodbye, son."