Gurcharan Singh Tohra was born in 1924, the son of a farmer with a small holding in Tohra village (hence the surname) in Patiala district. He was a Tiwana Jat. And like most Jat Sikhs, he was tall, strapping with an imposing presence. He was a man of modest learning but with command over Punjabi and the holy scriptures. He spoke Hindustani with a Punjabi accent. He understood English but could not speak it. He made his debut in Sikh politics while he was in his mid-twenties. It was after the Partition, when the Sikhs migrated en masse from Pakistan and scattered all over India, that political power passed out of the hands of leaders from West Punjab to those of Malwa and Doaba. Tohra’s role in the partition massacres cast a blemish on his character. He confessed to having taken part in it and killing an innocent Muslim. If he had saved Muslims from the wrath of Sikh and Hindu mobs thirsting for Muslim blood, I would have saluted him as a true leader.

Tohra was elected member of the SGPC (Shiromani Gurdwara Prabandhak Committee) in 1960. In 1973, he was elected its President for the first time. But for four or five years, he remained its head being re-elected 26 times till the day he died. He could have used the vast resources of money (well) over Rs 400 crore a year) and control of innumerable schools, colleges and hospitals managed by the SGPC; he could well have wiped out illiteracy and educated unemployment from the richest and the most forward-looking agricultural community of India. He did not have the vision to do so. However, it has to be conceded that Tohra was scrupulously honest in money matters and unlike the politicians did not add a rupee to his personal wealth nor indulged in nepotism. Also, unlike other politicians, he was a puritan; he did not drink, didn’t stay in Five-star hotels, did not own a car or a bungalow.

His years as head of the SGPC left another big black mark on his career. He failed to preserve the sanctity of the Golden Temple and allowed Bhindranwale to turn it into an armed fortress, which in turn forced the Central Government to order the Army to enter its sacred precincts. The Army not only killed Bhindranwale and hundreds of his armed followers but also thousands of innocent pilgrims. He tamely surrendered to the Army and lost much of the respect he had earned. Later an attempt was made on his life.

Tohra was elected to the Rajya Sabha six times and the Lok Sabha once. No other Indian had so long a run as he in Parliament. But he rarely took part in the proceedings. His contribution to debates in Parliament could be written behind a postage stamp.

Tohra had a sneaking sympathy for Khalistan. I recall confronting him once directly on the subject. I told him that over 20 per cent of the Sikh population lived and prospered outside Punjab. Most of them were refugees from Pakistan. Did he want them to be uprooted once again? Didn’t he realise that Khalistan would spell disaster for the Khalsa Panth? His reply was a chilling assertion: "Qauman noon qurbani deynee paundee hai" (communities have to make sacrifices to achieve their goals).

Tohra was a wily politician who could out-fox anyone who stood in his way. Here was indeed a man who could have become the Betaaj Badshah of the Panth, but his vision remained limited to launching morchas and going to jail. He did not have the qualities of a far-seeing statesman who could have led a vibrant and progressive community to greater heights of prosperity and find an honoured place in the annals of history.

The last I saw of him was again on TV — of the state funeral given to him in his village. There was an enormous crowd of mourners. In the background one could hear the most beautiful dirge: Saajan maindey rangley jaee suttey jeevaan (My handsome friend has gone to sleep among the dead). My eyes filled with tears. What great things this man could have accomplished if he had the vision and the will to do so.

Asked how he had enjoyed a day’s trip with some neighbours, my young nephew replied that it was fine but that his friend’s father knew a lot of long stories. "He told one story that was 60 kilometres long," marvelled the youngster.

"How did you know? I asked.

"Because, " he replied, " I checked it on the speedometer."

A very talkative British MP called on famous writer Nirad C. Chaudhri at his Oxford residence. After a lengthy lecture on different problems of England, he paused and finally said, "I am a self-made man."

"That, Sir," replied Choudhury," relieved the Almighty from a terrible responsibility."