Vineyards for Khoonbaha: The Tale of the Sikh Family of Badaber
Written by Komal Salman
Amidst the arid stretches that lay adjacent to the bustling city of Peshawar, there existed a somber region known as Badaber, famed far and wide for its succulent grapes. This land, though seemingly parched by nature, bore witness to the prosperity of an extremely influential Sikh family in one of the many villages that dotted the area. Renowned fruit traders, they bartered grapes as far as Jalalabad and Kabul in Afghanistan, earning both wealth and respect.
Life took a merciless turn one fateful day, shattering the tranquillity that enveloped the household. Tragedy descended like an uninvited tempest upon their abode, leaving none alive who dwelled within. The pillars of the family crumbled, and a gruesome demise befell everyone present, sparing no one. Hacked to death, the family including their women, were left beheaded. It was the unending wails of a toddler that echoed eerily, a chilling lamentation of loss and despair, that divulged the tragedy to the villagers. They discovered the child, weeping pitifully, clinging to the lifeless form of his mother, forever imprinted in his memory.
Five members of the Sikh family, who happened to be away from home at that ill-fated moment, were left as the lone survivors, burdened with unimaginable grief. Such a heinous act of violence struck the hearts of the locals, and their spirits were forever scarred. But even amidst the horrors of death, life struggled to endure. Such news, which spread like wildfire through the village, painted the land with shades of sorrow and indignation. The once celebrated grape traders, who brought prosperity to Badaber, were now lost to eternity, and their souls cried out for justice.
Amid the tragedy that befell the Sikh family, another legend emerged. A faqeer, who had sought solace and sustenance at the doorstep of the Sikh family's neighbors on that very same ill-omened day, was turned away. As the faqeer humbly requested succor and sustenance, the neighbors turned him away, denying him hospitality and food. The mystic, bearing no grudge but perhaps foreseeing the doom that awaited the village, uttered a seemingly innocent but prophetic decree before departing, "I shall leave, and I shall take your grapes with me."
Little did the neighbors realize the gravity of the mystic's words, nor did they perceive the haunting truth that lay within. For the very essence of their prosperity, embodied in the bountiful vines that adorned their lands, would soon wither away, mirroring the fate of their unfortunate acquaintances. The years passed, and Badaber's once-lush vineyards became barren, mirroring the anguish that had consumed the hearts of its people.
The villagers, in hushed voices and tear-streaked faces, spoke of the tragedy, using a phrase that sent shivers down the spine - "khoon-baha" - blood money. It was believed that the land, once abundant with grapes due to the Sikh family's endeavors, was now tainted by the blood of their innocent kin and that no vine would bear fruit in this desolate place ever again.
The Sikh family then migrated to India. However, the tragedy had cast a dark shadow upon the land, and as time flowed on, it seemed that even nature itself mourned their loss. The villagers, haunted by memories of the gruesome event and the faqeer's haunting words, came to believe that their prosperity was sacrificed to appease the malevolent forces that had taken the lives of innocent people.
Such is the way of human memory, where tales intertwine with reality and weave an intricate tapestry of beliefs and fears. In the depth of night, the winds whispered stories of the Sikh family, and the mournful cries of that young child still echoed in the hearts of the villagers. And so, the tale of Badaber, painted in shades of sorrow and loss, etched itself into the souls of those who dared to remember, lest history forgets the blood that once soaked the land in a crimson tide.
In the year 2002, a chapter of the past unfolded when one of the surviving members of the Sikh family, now a middle-aged man who had been in his twenties at the time of the tragedy of the slaughter, decided to return to his village in Badaber. Despite the bitter memories that clung to the land like lingering shadows, he carried within him a resolve to confront the ghosts of his past. There was a poignant yearning to revisit the village that once belonged to his family, and he wished to show his children the place that held both haunting sorrow and boundless love.
As he trod upon the soil that still bore the echoes of grief, he felt a familiar heaviness engulfing his heart. The scars of the past seemed fresh, but the passage of time had also allowed the wounds to heal, albeit leaving behind indelible marks. Memories cascaded forth like a tumultuous river, and with each step, he revisited moments that were etched in the annals of his soul.
Accompanied by his children, the man's presence in the village did not go unnoticed. News of the Sikh family's return spread, and the villagers, who had once shared joyous camaraderie with them, were now eager to welcome the remnants of their once-cherished companionship. Hearts were stirred by both curiosity and empathy, and the people of Badaber prepared to receive their long-lost kin with open arms.
As the man and his children stepped into the heart of the village, they were greeted with a warmth that transcended time. The villagers, who had suffered together during those dark days and had witnessed the cruelty of fate, embraced the returning family as if to express their unspoken sorrow and solidarity. The scars of the past were acknowledged, but it was love that took precedence over pain.
The village had transformed over the years, yet the essence of its people remained unchanged. The children roamed the same alleys and fields that once reverberated with laughter and cheer. The villagers shared anecdotes of the past, painting vivid portraits of the family's indomitable spirit and their endeavors as traders of succulent grapes. In the company of those who remembered the family fondly, the man found a semblance of healing. The burden he had carried within him, the weight of the past that had anchored him down for so long, now felt lighter. It was as if the village itself embraced him with its unspoken understanding and acceptance.
Amidst the reminiscing and the stories exchanged, the realization that the blood-soaked memories of the village were only one facet of its reality, resurfaced in a way that actively hits the heart. The village was far from having lost its capacity to give and receive love, and the bond forged between the family and its neighbors had transcended the horrors of that tragic day.
As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting a golden glow upon the village, the man and his children prepared to bid farewell to Badaber once again. They departed with hearts enriched by the love they had received, leaving behind a village that would forever be a part of their story. In the years that followed, the memories of that poignant visit remained etched in their minds, reminding them that even amidst the darkest chapters of life, the light of compassion and kinship could illuminate the path towards healing. The Sikh family's legacy endured, not only in the tragic tales whispered by the wind but also in the love and warmth that Badaber had shown them when they returned to embrace their past.
Context
This story lives on in the collective memory of the residents of Badaber and was narrated to me by a friend, whose mother is from the region. While this story does not take place in the wake of the partition of 1947, I believe that narratives like these hold significant importance. Even though the motivations behind the murder of the family were most likely economic, history has taught us time and again, that powerful minority families or communities, perceived to wield considerable influence, have often become the targets of hate crimes. This story is testimony to post-Partition violence and the subsequent migration of minorities. Other examples range from the persecution of Jews in Nazi Germany to the Bahá'ís in Iraq to the Tutsi Genocide in Rwanda.
About the author
Komal, 24, is based in Islamabad and is the Founder of Folkloristan—a captivating digital storytelling platform aimed at preserving Pakistan's rich oral heritage. Her literary repertoire resonates with enthralling narratives rooted in history, culture, and folklore, reflecting her profound fascination with these themes. Beyond fiction, Komal's diverse non-fiction portfolio delves into art, art history, and the emerging realm of Web 3.0. A creative professional, with a well-rounded set of creative skills, including writing, illustration, and video editing, she believes in weaving stories that bridge tradition and modernity while championing the essence of everything she finds identifiable.