We sought miracle from ‘Prophet’ Baljinder Singh, who now gets life term for rape
Mike Sangma
The idea of Christian Miracles is treacherously perilous. No faith no miracle! So says the Bible in St. Mathew: If you have faith as tiny as a mustard seed you can move mountain. If not, nothing doing. As easy as that.
More than two years now, I was part of a fateful miracle seeking pilgrimage. A pilgrimage where we had desperately hoped for a miracle. But in the end that miracle never came and it doesn’t even really matter now. Had we witnessed one, my brother and closest childhood friend would have triumph over cancer, the greatest scourge mankind has ever face.
Trust me, it is in such journeys that one begins to question the fragility of our own faith and our desperation to repose faith in so called the modern-day miracle working ‘Prophets, Apostles and Pastors’.
Why am I sharing this painful journey and why now? It’s simply because, of the latest news clips where ‘so-called Prophet’ Bajinder Singh has been convicted of rape case in 2008. The news is a painful reminder of how desperation drives hundreds to seek solution where there are none and how many individuals like him exploit it to enrich themselves.
I don’t know the nitty gritty of the case and the other allegations, many of them are in the public domain but one thing I am convinced as a practicing Christian and on behalf of so many gullible miracle seekers, Bajinder Singh deserves to be behind the bars for the rest of his life.
Late into his cancer treatment, my brother Francis Sangma, a dashing police officer and his wife were desperate. They needed a miracle and they needed now. After many chemo sessions in Guwahati and Vellore, someone suggested Bajinder Singh as the man who had answer to their prayers. I had never heard of him before nor believe mere mortals have power to perform miracles. But since they were crossing over to Delhi from Vellore, I agreed to take him to the miracle man on the condition that we have second opinion from our well know family doctor in Delhi. I had seen Francis six months back before his diagnosis, but when I saw him again at the railway station, I just broke down and cried. Cancer just eats you alive.
It was hot afternoon in late March. We embarked on a trip that brought Francis and me closer again like we use to as childhood friends. I instinctively knew these would be our last days together. Normally, it would have taken 5 hours from Delhi to Kurali on the outskirts of Chandigarh in Punjab but since my brother was wreathing in pain, we were slow and stretched. After driving for almost 7 hours, our GPS landed us in some dusty deserted farm land in the middle of the night. Or so we thought. When we enquired for night stay, we were told only the able bodied were allowed inside the campus and those who were disabled, in need of medical assistant or rather on the last leg were supposed to stay off the miracle land. It’s a well-oiled standard operating procedure. They just don’t want the desperate to die on their campus. We were given hotel’s contact who came to fetch us and were given special discount as if we had stepped inside the new ‘Holy land’.
Early morning next day, I went out to check the site and the itinerary at the campus. While on the road, I saw few elderly sardarjis sitting on charpai under a neem tree. I stopped by to ask for direction. Little did I know that this was the first red flag of how the massive fraud is. The sardarji flatly told me to go back where we came from and seek medical help instead. I would put my bet on one elderly sardarji to tell me the truth in your face then thousands of followers of ‘prophet’ Bajinder Singh.
When we reached the venue, the place was already crawling with the sick, both mentally and physically. There were people from all nooks and corners of India and of all faiths. We met few from several North Eastern states including Manipur and Assam. There were people all over queuing up for something or the other. Somewhere buying ‘anointed oil’, others queuing up to buy special intercession prayers. My sister-in-law says that she had bought ‘lehans’. People with ‘Lehans’ were apparently given special access while the rest were just given mass blessing. While the ‘anointed oil’ can be bought for Rs 25, the ‘Lehans’ pass seekers were asked to shell out Rs 25,000. Yes, that’s right. I kept wondering what is the special ‘Lehans’ pass. As many Garos are, we are not really good with pronunciation, I can’t blame my sister-in-law. It was later on that I realised that it meant ‘Lay Hands’ prayer where the ‘prophet’ himself is supposed to ‘lay his hands’ on the sick and the crippled.
As a Catholic who is used to morning masses and not an early riser myself, I can understand Baljinder Singh. His hallelujahs only start late in the evening. As someone who has seen up and close evening Hindu Aarti at Prayagraj, evening prayers with the American Mormons in South Delhi and evening masses with the South Korean Missionaries who believe that Jesus was born in Korea, I can guarantee evening gigs are much more fun than morning ones.
By late afternoon, our anticipation of a miracle was are beginning to fade. Dealing with rude volunteers, messy and clueless procedure and hot afternoon is not really a recipe for miracle.
We were told that singing and dancing services will begin around 3 pm and its likely to go till 7.30 in the evening. So, I went back to the hotel. While on the way, I saw a car wash service that did not have many cars queuing up. As the boy washed the car, we did a small chit chat. I really did not know what came over; I wept in front of the washer boy narrating about my brother and how we had undertaken the journey in the hope of a miracle. Sometimes it is easier to breakdown in the company of strangers.
By 7.30 we were told that those who have paid for special passes, their intercessory prayer would begin by 11.30 at night. We stepped out of the hotel by 10 at night. As we reached the venue, the place was like a carnival. With crowds, buses, cars and two wheelers parked everywhere, only to be told by rude attendants that we can’t disembark near the entrance even with a terminal cancer patient.
At midnight we were told that ‘Lay Hand’ prayer has been scheduled for 3 am in the morning. Both of us drove back to the hotel while Francis’s wife and another attendant kept vigil. At 2 in the morning, we were called back saying the prophet is ready to see the people who have paid for special pass.
By now, the common prayer service of shouting Halleluia, dancing, screaming and fake healings were over. We were asked to go inside a secluded camp where there was a group of 30 desperate people who were willing to shell out money for Baljinder to lay his hands on you. Inside were also 10 Punjab Police Commandos and about two three-star Police officers. The whole jingbang looked like a carefully orchestrated state sponsored theatre rather than a religious one.
When our turn came, he muttered some prayers and tapped Francis’s forehead with something. The ceremony was so quick that Francis asked whether that was all. We checked with one of the Baljinder’s attendants whether that was it. She confirmed, that was it. We have always thought of miracles as something that happen in the blink of an eye. That never happened at Baljinder Singh’s miracle workshop. Sometimes even if we don’t believe, we want miracles to happen especially when you are so desperate.
None of us spoke anything about the fateful meeting with ‘prophet’ Baljinder Singh thereafter. As promised, I did show him to doctors in Delhi who were blunt enough to tell us that he did not have much time left. Few days later they flew back to Meghalaya. We said our goodbyes but I knew this would be our last meeting. One and half month later, Francis Megam Sangma passed away in pain. I was told his funeral was attended by hundreds and many of his friends from the Meghalaya Police Department gave him a befitting salute. He was a good man and a good friend.
As Christians, we have been preached about the Jesus raising Lazarus from dead, turning water into wine and beholding us to have faith as tiny as a mustard seed to move mountains. I don’t know about others but I haven’t seen any so far. Shortly, my dad Philip Sangma also left us, just three years shy of hitting 100. He had a long innings but Francis was just 43.
Of late, there is a rising phenomenon of Evangelist ‘prophets, apostle and pastors’ in our backyards. I know few Garo ‘apostles’ who are very active on social media. There are also thousands of followers who will to vouch for them. I hope my personal account with the rapist Baljinder Singh will remind us all that ‘self-appointed’ godmen are fake and you are not to be blamed if your lack of faith as tiny as a mustard seed does not bring miracles to our desperate and insecure personal lives.
(Mike Sangma is a Delhi based former journalist and media professional)
