A month or so after the last AK-47 wielded by the last Khalistani terrorist had fallen silent in Punjab in the autumn of 1993, I had travelled through the State to see for myself the return of peace in the land of perpetual happiness. In those days there wasn’t much of a choice when it came to travelling by road — it was either an Ambassador or a Fiat; I opted for the former. As we sped along highways, stopping at randomly selected villages and towns for chai and food, I recall marvelling at the calm that prevailed.

It was a different calm that I had encountered during my visits to Punjab in the late-1980s — the mood would be sullen, the tension palpable, the air heavy with distrust and disquiet: You could almost cut through it with a knife. True, even in those dark days of fear and senseless killing, when death could strike anybody at any moment, the Sikhs of Punjab — Sardarjis, as we Bengalis fondly refer to them — had not lost their sense of hospitality for which they are famous. One could settle down for a meal in the home of a recently-met person with amazing ease.