The Lions of the Deccan: The History of the Sikh Police Force in the Nizam’s Dominion

[indichawla]

The Lions of the Deccan:

The History of the Sikh Police Force in the Nizam’s Dominion​

Introduction
The history of the Indian subcontinent is a tapestry woven with threads of migration, conquest, and cultural synthesis. However, few narratives are as remarkable or historically unique as the establishment of the Sikh Police Force under the dominion of the Nizam of Hyderabad. This extraordinary saga, spanning over a century, bridges the geographical and cultural divide between the fertile plains of the Punjab and the arid Deccan plateau. It tells the story of how an elite contingent of Sikh warriors, dispatched by the legendary Maharaja Ranjit Singh in 1832, travelled thousands of miles to serve a Muslim ruler, the Nizam, eventually transforming into peace guardians in one of India’s wealthiest and most complex princely states. This essay explores the multifaceted relationship between the Sikh community and the Asaf Jahi dynasty. It is a relationship born of political necessity but sustained by mutual respect, loyalty, and a surprising spiritual affinity. It traces the Sikhs’ journey from their initial deployment as revenue collectors and warriors against rebellious chieftains to their evolution into a sophisticated, hereditary police force known as the Jama’iat-i-Sikhan. We delve into the establishment of their settlements in Sikh Chawni and Feel Khana. We also explore their rigorous training at the Amberpet Police School, and the unique administrative ranks, such as Sardaras Sardar Amin, created to honour their distinct identity.
Beyond military and police history, this work examines the deep cultural integration that occurred. Punjabi martial traditions blended with Hyderabadi courtly culture, and the Urdu language mingled with Punjabi in the barracks and bazaars. A central theme is the profound spiritual bond forged through the Nizam’s patronage of the Sikh Takht Sri Hazur Sahib in Nanded. This is a gesture of secular benevolence that secured his Sikh troops’ unwavering loyalty. Finally, the narrative addresses the turbulent years of the late 1940s, examining the moral crises posed by the Razakar uprising, the collapse of the princely state during Operation Polo, and the eventual assimilation of the force into the Indian Union. Through this comprehensive analysis, the essay pays tribute to the “Lions of the Deccan,” a community whose legacy of discipline and service remains etched into Hyderabad’s history.


The history of the Sikh Police Force in the service of the Nizam of Hyderabad is a saga that transcends the typical boundaries of military history, deeply embedding itself into the socio-political fabric of pre-colonial and colonial India.[1] It is a narrative that spans from the frostbitten plains of the Punjab to the scorching, rocky Deccan plateau, covering a span of over a century that witnessed the rise and fall of empires, the consolidation of British power, and the tumultuous birth of a modern nation.[2] To understand the phenomenon of Sikh soldiers policing a Muslim princely state in the heart of southern India, one must peel back the layers of time and immerse oneself in the volatile geopolitical landscape of the early 19th century.[3] It was a time when the Mughal Empire was a mere shadow of its former self, a carcass being picked apart by vultures, while new powers were rising from the ashes to fill the vacuum. In the north, the charismatic Maharaja Ranjit Singh was forging the Sikh Empire, a formidable martial state centred on Lahore.[4] In the south, the Asaf Jahi dynasty, known as the Nizams of Hyderabad, ruled over a vast, wealthy, but administratively crumbling dominion that was struggled to maintain internal order against the backdrop of rising British hegemony.[5]

The story begins not with a police station, but with a desperate plea for help that traversed the subcontinent. In the 1820s and 1830s, Hyderabad was in a precarious position.[6] While the Nizam, Mir Akbar Ali Khan Sikandar Jah, was one of the wealthiest men in the world, his actual control over his territory was tenuous at best. The countryside was infested with bandits, rebellious chieftains known as Doras and Palegars refused to pay their taxes, and the law of the land was often determined by the sword rather than the writ of the state. The Nizam’s own military forces were in disarray. The regular infantry was poorly trained and demoralised, and the state relied heavily on mercenary forces, particularly Arabs referred to as Rohillas and Afghans, who were excellent fighters but notoriously undisciplined.[7] These mercenaries were known to turn on their paymasters, looting the very people they were supposed to protect, and their allegiance was fickle, swaying to the highest bidder.

It was against this backdrop of chaos that Maharaja Chandu Lal, the Prime Minister of Hyderabad, devised a bold and innovative solution. A man of exceptional administrative ability and shrewd political foresight, Chandu Lal realised that the Nizam needed a fighting force that was not only martially superior to the local rebels but also fundamentally distinct from the mercenary rabble that plagued the state. He needed a force that was disciplined, loyal, and, crucially, had no local political entanglements in the Deccan. His gaze turned north, toward Ranjit Singh’s kingdom. The Sikhs had earned a reputation as some of the fiercest and most disciplined warriors in India.[8] Their recent military successes against the Afghans and their ability to stand up to the British had not gone unnoticed in Hyderabad. Chandu Lal saw in the Sikhs the right instrument to restore Nizam’s authority.

In 1832, a historic agreement was finalised between the courts of Lahore and Hyderabad.[9] It was a diplomatic coup that brought two vastly different cultures together in a pact of mutual benefit. Maharaja Ranjit Singh, perhaps motivated by the desire to forge an alliance against the British East India Company or simply by the prospect of financial gain and extending his influence, agreed to dispatch a contingent of his elite soldiers to the Deccan.[10] This was no small undertaking. 1,200 handpicked Sikh soldiers were assembled. These were not raw recruits; they were seasoned veterans, many of whom had served in the Maharaja's own irregular cavalry and infantry.[11] They were men chosen for their imposing physical stature, unwavering loyalty, and mastery of arms.

The journey from Lahore to Hyderabad was an epic march in itself, covering over a thousand miles. Imagine the spectacle: a column of 1,200 Sikh warriors, their blue-and-gold turbans visible from a distance, riding their sturdy horses and camels, traversing the dusty roads of central India. They carried with them their distinctive weapons, matchlocks, swords, spears and their most sacred possession, the Guru Granth Sahib, the holy scripture of the Sikh faith. As they moved south, passing through the great cities and dense forests, they must have encountered landscapes and cultures entirely alien to them. The flat, fertile plains of the Punjab gave way to the undulating, arid red earth of the Deccan. The language changed from Punjabi and Hindi to Urdu, Telugu, and Marathi. The climate shifted from the cold northern winters to the relentless, searing heat of the south. Yet, they marched on, a cohesive unit bound by their faith and military code.

Upon their arrival in Hyderabad, the contingent was greeted with a mixture of awe and relief by the Nizam’s administration.[12] The sight of these tall, bearded soldiers, dressed in their traditional martial attire, must have been reassuring for a government that felt besieged on all sides. The Nizam’s officials immediately accommodated their new allies. They understood that to keep Sikh soldiers effective, they needed to preserve their way of life. Consequently, the administration allocated a tract of land to the west of the city, near the massive Mir Alam Tank, for the settlement of the troops.[13] This area was named “Sikh Chawni,” or cantonment. It was here, amidst the rocky outcrops and near the shimmering water of the tank, that the Sikhs built their new home. They constructed barracks, stables for their horses, and most importantly, a Gurdwara. The sound of the Gurbani (hymns) being recited in the mornings and evenings soon became a part of the auditory landscape of that part of Hyderabad.

The immediate task assigned to the Sikh contingent was the restoration of the Nizam’s authority in the revenue-rich but restive districts.[14] The primary challenge facing the Hyderabad state was the collection of maal (revenue). Local chieftains, fortified in their hill forts, acted as virtual kings, refusing to remit taxes to the capital and raiding neighbouring territories. The Nizam’s previous attempts to subdue them failed miserably, defeated by the difficult terrain and guerrilla tactics of the rebels.[15] The Sikhs, however, brought a different approach to warfare. They were accustomed to the Maharaja’s rigorous discipline and were highly mobile. They utilised their superior horsemanship and marksmanship to devastating effect. They did not shy away from the difficult, rocky terrain of the Telangana region. They pursued the rebels into their lairs, besieged their forts, and engaged them in close combat. Their skill with the sword gave them the upper hand.

The impact of the Sikh contingent was immediate and profound.[16] The rebellious chieftains, who had previously mocked the Nizam’s authority, now found themselves facing a foe they could not easily defeat. News of the Sikhs’ prowess spread quickly, and one by one, the chieftains surrendered, agreeing to pay revenue dues. The return of stability to these districts was a boon for the Nizam’s treasury, which had suffered due to the unrest. Maharaja Chandu Lal’s gamble paid off spectacularly. The Sikhs had proven their worth not just as mercenaries, but as a stabilising force for the entire state.

As the years passed, the relationship between the Sikhs and the Hyderabad state deepened. What began as a temporary military deployment slowly evolved into a permanent feature of the state’s security apparatus. The initial contingent of 1,200 men was eventually joined by their families. Wives, children, and elders travelled from Punjab to join them in the Sikh Chawni. The settlement transformed from a military camp into a thriving village, a small piece of Punjab transplanted into Deccan. The community became known as Jama’iat-i-Sikhan, or the Community of Sikhs. They developed their own micro-economy within Hyderabad, with shops, trades, and services catering to the community. Yet, their primary identity remained rooted in their role as soldiers and guardians of the state.

By the mid-19th century, the nature of warfare and policing in India was beginning to change.[17] The British, who were now the paramount power in the subcontinent, were introducing modern policing methods based on the Irish constabulary model. The princely states, including Hyderabad, were under pressure to modernise their own forces to keep pace.[18] The Nizam’s administration began to transition the Sikh contingent from a purely military role to a more hybrid role that encompassed civil policing. The need for a standing army to fight large-scale battles had diminished, replaced by the need for a disciplined police force to maintain law and order in a rapidly growing urban centre. Hyderabad was expanding, becoming a cosmopolitan hub of trade and culture. The bustling streets, crowded markets, and diverse population required a different kind of oversight than what a traditional army provided.

The Sikhs were ideally suited to this transition.[19] Their inherent discipline, imposing physical presence, and reputation for impartiality made them the ideal candidates for the police force. In the previous era, law enforcement in Hyderabad was a disorganised affair, often handled by local watchmen who were easily bribed or intimidated. The introduction of Sikh policemen changed the dynamic. A Sikh constable, standing tall in his uniform with a rifle slung over his shoulder, became a symbol of state authority. He was someone to be respected and feared if the law was broken. The administration recognized the value of the Sikhs and integrated them formally into the city's police structure, known as the Kotwali system.

Records from the latter half of the 19th century provide a fascinating window into this organisation.[20] The City Police, under the command of Kotwal (the Commissioner of Police), was a diverse force. It comprised Arabs, Rohillas, Bharkandazes (Central Asian recruits), Harkaras (intelligence scouts and messengers), and Sikhs. However, the Sikhs occupied a privileged position within this hierarchy. They were often entrusted with the most sensitive and difficult postings. They guarded the Treasury, protected the royal palaces, and patrolled the most volatile areas of the city. The administration adapted the ranks to suit the Sikhs. The standard officer rank of Amin was elevated to Sardar Amin for Sikh officers. This was a title that acknowledged their leadership qualities and status within their own community.

A key aspect of the Sikhs’ integration into the police force was the establishment of specialised training facilities.[21] The Nizam’s government was keen to ensure that the next generation of Sikhs would continue to serve the state with the same loyalty and skill as their fathers. To this end, a Police Training School was established at Amberpet, on the outskirts of Hyderabad.[22] This was not just a training ground; it was an institution designed to secure the future of the Jama’iat-i-Sikhan. The school was opened specifically for Sikh soldiers’ sons. Young boys would enrol, often in their early teens, and undergo rigorous training that combined physical education with academic instruction. They were taught drills, weapon handling, horsemanship, and criminal law and procedure. The curriculum was designed to mould them into effective state officers.

The establishment of the Amberpet school was a masterstroke of statecraft. It created a hereditary class of policemen who were deeply indebted to the Nizam for their livelihood and status. For Sikh families, this school offered social mobility and a secure future. It allowed them to preserve their martial traditions while integrating into the Hyderabadi system. The boys who graduated from Amberpet were not just policemen; they were products of an extraordinary cultural synthesis. They spoke fluent Urdu alongside Punjabi; they were familiar with Hyderabad’s courtly etiquette as well as the religious traditions of the Gurdwara. They were, in every sense, the “Lions of Deccan.”

The training regimen at Amberpet was rigorous, designed to break down the individual ego and forge a collective spirit that prioritised duty above all else.[23] The young recruits were woken up before dawn, their day beginning with physical exercises that tested their endurance. They ran the rocky tracks around the campus, performed calisthenics, and engaged in Gatka, the traditional martial art of the Sikhs. This taught them how to wield weapons with fluid grace and lethal precision.[24] As the sun rose, the focus shifted to weaponry. They learned to handle the broadsword, the lance, and the chakram, but they were also trained in modern firearms. The Hyderabad state, conscious of its image and defensive capabilities, equipped its forces with the finest rifles available.[25] The Sikh marksmen became renowned for their accuracy, a skill honed through hours of practice at the shooting ranges. The academic curriculum was equally demanding. They were taught to read and write in Urdu, the language of the court and administration, and instructed in the penal codes of the state.[26] They learned the intricacies of criminal investigation, the art of maintaining a roznamcha (daily diary), and the protocols of court procedure. By the time they graduated, these young men were not just soldiers; they were professional law enforcement officers, ready to take their place in Hyderabad's thanas (police station).

Sikh policemen in Hyderabad lived by a strict code of conduct.[27] They patrolled the city in pairs or small squads, their distinctive uniforms setting them apart from the rest of the populace. While the exact cut of the uniform evolved over the decades, it invariably featured elements that reflected their Sikh identity. These elements included the turban, worn with pride and precision. Their beat took them through the labyrinthine streets of the old city. They passed past the majestic Charminar, through the bustling Laad Bazaar with its glittering bangles, and into the quiet, affluent neighbourhoods of the nobility. Their presence served as a powerful deterrent to crime. In an era where law enforcement was often synonymous with corruption and extortion, the Sikh police developed a reputation for incorruptibility.[28] This was partly due to their religious upbringing, which emphasised honesty and righteous living, and partly due to the high standards set by their command structure. They were often called upon to settle disputes that were too volatile for local watchmen. Their imposing stature and air of impartiality commanded respect from the warring factions. This allowed them to de-escalate situations that might otherwise have descended into violence.

One of the most significant postings for the Sikh police was the Mounted Police unit. Hyderabad was large, and the surrounding areas were rugged and difficult to navigate on foot.[29] Mounted police provided mobility to cover these vast distances. The Sikhs, with their equestrian heritage, were the backbone of this unit. They were stationed at various strategic points, but the most famous of them was the Feel Khana. The name Feel Khana translates to “Elephant House,” and historically, it was the stable for the Nizam’s royal elephants, the beasts of burden and state ceremonies that were symbols of the ruler's power. Over time, Feel Khana grew into a major cantonment and logistics hub. It housed stables for hundreds of horses, fodder storage, and armouries for the mounted police. For the Sikh sawars (cavalrymen), the Feel Khana was home. It was a place where leather, hay, and horses mingled with oil and gunpowder. The mounted police played a crucial role in patrolling the outskirts of the city, pursuing dacoits who fled into the wilderness, and providing a rapid response force during riots or civil disturbances. The sight of a Sikh sawar charging down a chaotic street, turban streaming in the wind, lance held aloft, was a sight that could quell a riot instantly.

The relationship between the Sikh police force and the Nizam himself was one of deep mutual respect. The Nizams, particularly Mir Osman Ali Khan Asaf Jah VII, who ruled from 1911 to 1948, were known for their cautious nature and focus on security. The Nizam trusted the Sikhs implicitly. They were the only community allowed to serve as his personal bodyguards within the inner sanctum of the palace. This is a zone usually restricted to the closest members of the royal family.[30] This trust was not misplaced. There are numerous recorded instances where Sikh constables and officers risked their lives to protect the Nizam and his family. One famous anecdote recounts an assassination attempt on the Nizam in his motorcade. The attackers were swiftly neutralized by the Sikh escorts, who threw themselves in front of the vehicle, shielding their ruler with their own bodies.[31] This act of bravery reinforced the bond between the ruler and his Sikh protectors, solidifying their status as the “Lions of Hyderabad.”

Beyond their official duties, the Sikh community in Hyderabad weaved itself into the cultural tapestry of the city. The settlement at Sikh Chawni evolved into a vibrant, self-sustaining neighbourhood. The streets were lined with houses built in a distinctive style that blended Punjabi vernacular architecture with Hyderabadi elements. High walls enclosed the courtyards, and the rooftops were dotted with chhajjas (overhangs) to shield against the fierce Deccan sun. At the heart of the settlement stood the Gurdwara. It was not just a place of worship but the social nucleus of the community. It was where festivals were celebrated, marriages solemnised, and the community gathered to discuss important matters. The langar, the community kitchen, was always open, serving hot meals to anyone who walked through its doors, be they Sikh soldiers, Hindu travellers, or Muslim passersby.[32] This spirit of seva (selfless service) was a core tenet of their faith and endeared them to the local population.

Cultural exchange was inevitable and enriched both the Sikh community and Hyderabad. While the older generation clung fiercely to their Punjabi mother tongue, their children born in the Deccan began to speak Urdu with a distinct Hyderabadi accent.[33] Over the dinner table in Sikh Chawni, one could hear a linguistic blend where Punjabi terms for food and family mixed effortlessly with Urdu words for everyday objects. The cuisine also fusioned. The traditional Dal Makhani and Makki di Roti remained staples. However, they were soon joined by the fragrant Hyderabadi Biryani, the spicy Mirchi ka Salan, and the rich Keema. The Sikhs developed a particular fondness for Deccani cuisine, and in turn, their own culinary traditions influenced the local food culture. The sweet shops of Sikh Chawni became famous throughout the city for their Gajar ka Halwa and Pinni, delicacies that were previously rare in the south.

However, the most profound and enduring aspect of the relationship between the Sikhs and the Nizam was rooted not in policing or politics, but in spirituality. The Nizam of Hyderabad was the ruler of a Muslim state, but he governed over a vast population of Hindus, Sikhs, Christians, and others. His administration, while undeniably feudal, was characterised by pragmatic secularism that recognised the importance of protecting his subjects’ religious sentiments. This was nowhere more evident than in his relationship with the Sikhs’ Takht Sri Hazur Sahib in Nanded.[34] Located on the banks of the Godavari River in the Marathwada region of Hyderabad State, Nanded is one of the five Takhts, the seats of temporal authority in Sikhism. It is the site where Guru Gobind Singh, the tenth Guru, breathed his last in 1708. For Sikhs worldwide, Nanded is a place of immense sanctity, second only to the Harmandir Sahib in Amritsar.

The Nizam was acutely aware of Nande’s religious significance.[35] He understood that his Sikh troops regarded the Gurdwara with the same reverence that Muslims regard Mecca. To honour this faith and to secure the loyalty of his Sikh subjects, the Nizam issued a royal firman (decree) granting a Jagir of twenty-one villages to the Gurdwara.[36] A Jagir is a land grant where the revenue from the land is used to support a specific cause. In this case, the revenue generated from these twenty-one villages was dedicated entirely to the maintenance of the Gurdwara complex, the running of the langar, and the welfare of the pilgrims. This was an extraordinary act of generosity. A Muslim monarch, from a dynasty that traced its lineage to the Viziers of the Mughals, funded the operations of a major Sikh shrine.[37] This gesture transcended political opportunism; it was a statement of respect. It created a spiritual debt in the Sikh hearts. They felt that by serving the Nizam, they were serving the memory of their Guru, for the Nizam was the protector of the Guru’s final resting place.

The Jagir administration was handled efficiently, and the funds ensured that the Gurdwara was well-maintained even during times of famine or economic hardship.[38] The Sarbrah (manager) of the Gurdwara was often a respected Sikh appointed by the community, but he operated with the blessings of Nizam’s administration. Every year, during the Gurus’ birth anniversaries, vast fairs would be held in Nanded. The Nizam’s officials would cooperate with the Gurdwara management to ensure the safety of pilgrims, often deploying Sikh police contingents specifically to manage the crowds. This synergy between the state and the shrine created an atmosphere of harmony. It became a living example of how secularism functions in a traditional society. The Sikhs of Hyderabad looked upon the Nizam not just as an employer, but as a benefactor of their faith. This spiritual bond was the bedrock of their loyalty, endured long after the initial military utility of the contingent evolved into other forms of service.

As the 20th century progressed, the world changed at a rapid pace. The two World Wars brought Hyderabad into global conflict. During the First World War, the Nizam, as a British ally, contributed resources and manpower to the British war effort.[39] While the state’s own regular army was largely kept within the borders, many of the Sikh soldiers, eager for adventure and combat, volunteered for service in the British Indian Army. They fought with distinction in Europe’s trenches and the deserts of Mesopotamia. Their gallantry earned them medals and commendations, further enhancing the reputation of the Hyderabadi Sikhs as warriors.[40] When they returned to Hyderabad, they brought back with them stories of the wider world and updated perspectives on military organisation. These veterans played a crucial role in modernising the police force, introducing effective drills, marksmanship techniques, and a more structured approach to logistics.

The inter-war years saw Hyderabad State reach its zenith of wealth and infrastructure development. Hyderabad expanded with new railways, universities, and government buildings. The police force had to evolve to police this modern city. The Sikh police adapted to changing times. They moved from horses to motorcycles and eventually to motor vehicles. They learned to use wireless radios for communication. They were trained in modern forensic techniques, such as fingerprinting and photography. The Kotwal-e-Baldiyat (City Police Commissionerate) became a model for other princely states, and Sikh officers were often at the forefront of these innovations. They served as trainers in the Amberpet school, passing on their knowledge to the next generation of recruits.

Yet, despite modernisation, the force’s core values remained the same. The turbans remained, though the wrapping style might have changed slightly. The beards were left uncut, according to their faith. The Guru Granth Sahib continued to be installed in the Gurdwaras of Sikh Chawni and Feel Khana. The sound of Kirtan (devotional singing) continued to be the soundtrack to their lives. The Sikhs of Hyderabad successfully navigated the transition from a 19th-century irregular army to a 20th-century modern police force, all while retaining their unique identity. They had become a permanent, respected, and integral part of the Hyderabadi demographic. Their loyalty to the Nizam was as steadfast as a century ago. But unbeknownst to them, on the horizon, dark clouds were gathering. India’s political winds were shifting, bringing with them a storm that would test their loyalty to the breaking point. This storm would bring an end to the world they know. The year was 1947, and the partition of India was about to redraw the subcontinent map, throwing the princely state of Hyderabad into a crisis from which it would never recover.

The year 1947 dawned with the promise of a new dawn for the Indian subcontinent, but for the princely state of Hyderabad, it heralded the beginning of a twilight that would eventually consume the unique order that had flourished there.[41] As the British Raj prepared to dismantle its centuries-long rule, the independence of India and Pakistan was announced, yet the fate of over five hundred princely states hung in the balance. The Nizam of Hyderabad, Mir Osman Ali Khan, found himself in a precarious and isolating position. Ruling a state the size of Italy and vastly wealthy, he harboured ambitions of maintaining Hyderabad as an independent, sovereign entity within the British Commonwealth, or perhaps as a completely sovereign nation. This aspiration, however, ran counter to the geographical reality of Hyderabad, which was entirely landlocked within the territory of soon-to-be-independent India. The Indian leadership, particularly Sardar Vallabhbhai Patel and V.P. Menon, was determined to integrate the princely states into the Union, arguing that a fragmented India would be unstable and vulnerable.

In the initial months following the transfer of power in August 1947, a tense “Standstill Agreement” was in place, allowing Hyderabad to maintain its status quo while negotiations continued.[42] However, beneath this veneer of diplomacy, a storm was brewing within the state. The Nizam’s government was increasingly dominated by the Majlis-e-Ittehadul Muslimeen (Ittehad), a political organisation dedicated to preserving Muslim rule and opposing integration with India.[43] The leader of the Ittehad, Qasim Razvi, was a fiery orator and a lawyer who possessed a magnetic hold over a section of the Muslim populace. Razvi’s solution to Indian integration was the creation of a volunteer paramilitary force known as the Razakars.[44] Initially intended to assist the state in maintaining internal order, the Razakars quickly morphed into a private army that operated outside the bounds of the law.

The rise of the Razakars marked the beginning of a dark and violent chapter in the Deccan's history. What started as a political movement soon degenerated into communal terror. Razakars, often clad in green shirts and armed with sticks, swords, and illicit firearms, began a campaign of intimidation against the Hindu majority population of the state, particularly in the rural areas of Telangana.[45] Villages were raided, crops were burned, and atrocities were committed against those suspected of sympathising with the Indian Union or with the communist peasant insurgency that was simultaneously flaring up in the region. The violence was not limited to the countryside; it seeped into the streets of Hyderabad City, creating an atmosphere of palpable fear.

For the Sikh Police Force, this period presented a moral and professional crisis of unprecedented magnitude. For over a century, their identity had been rooted in their loyalty to the Nizam and their role as impartial guardians of the peace. They were the “Lions of the Deccan,” respected by the populace for their discipline and fairness. Now, however, they were caught in a clash of loyalties. On the one hand, they were sworn servants of the Nizam, the constitutional head of the state who was their ultimate benefactor. On the other hand, they were soldiers with a strong code of honour and a deep religious commitment to protecting the innocent. The activities of the Razakars were an affront to everything the Sikh police stood for. The Razakars were unruly, ill-disciplined, and driven by religious fanaticism, a stark contrast to the professional, secular martial ethos of the Sikh Jamaiat-I-Sikhan. Tensions between the Sikh police and the Razakars were inevitable and frequently flared into open confrontation. In police stations across the city and the districts, Sikh officers found themselves resisting attempts by the Razakars to take over law enforcement functions. There were numerous documented instances where Razakars, brazen in their perceived immunity, attempted to storm police thanas to seize weapons or free detained comrades. In many cases, the Sikh constables and Sardar Amins stood their ground, barricading the entrances and refusing entry to the militias.[46] These were tense standoffs, where the Sikhs’ discipline prevented a bloodbath. The Razakars viewed the Sikhs with suspicion, branding them as obstacles to the Islamic state they envisioned. The Sikhs, in turn, viewed the Razakars as anarchists who destroyed the peace the Nizam had tasked them with upholding.

The situation became even more tragic when the violence turned against the Sikh community itself. As the Razakars grew more powerful, they began to target minorities, including Sikhs, who they viewed as outsiders or potential allies of the Hindu majority. There were reports of Sikh policemen being ambushed and killed while on patrol in remote areas. The Sikh Chawni and the area around Feel Khana became fortified outposts of anxiety. The families living there, who had called Hyderabad home for generations, suddenly felt like strangers in a land they had helped build. The spiritual bond that had linked the Sikhs to the Nizam, the shared respect for the Nanded Gurdwara, was being strained to the breaking point by the actions of the Razakar leadership, who the Nizam, in his weakening state, seemed unable or unwilling to control.

As the violence in the state escalated and reports of massacres reached the Indian capital, the patience of the Indian government ran out.[47] In September 1948, the Indian government authorized “Operation Polo,” a euphemistically named “police action” designed to bring an end to the crisis in Hyderabad. The operation was launched on September 13th.[48] The Indian Armed Forces, consisting of elements of the Indian Army and the Indian Air Force, launched a multi-pronged invasion of the state from all directions. The Hyderabad State Forces, comprising regular troops and irregular units, including Sikh contingents, were mobilised to defend the borders.

The war that followed was brief but intense. The Hyderabad State Forces were outnumbered and outgunned. The regular army, though brave, lacked the heavy armour and air support of the invading Indians. Irregular units, including the Sikhs, were deployed to hold defensive positions in key sectors. For the Sikh soldiers, this was a moment of agonising duality. They were fighting against the Indian Army, the military of the nation that was home to their spiritual homeland in the Punjab.[49] Yet, they were fighting in the service of the salt they had eaten, under the banner of the Nizam. Military discipline dictated that they hold their ground, and they did. There were engagements where Sikh units fought with tenacity, delaying Indian advances and inflicting casualties. Their knowledge of the terrain and defence tenacity were noted even by the opposing commanders.[50] However, the disparity in firepower was insurmountable. Indian tanks and armoured cars rolled through the defences, and the Indian Air Force controlled the skies, bombing strategic targets and disrupting supply lines.

While the border battles raged, the situation inside the city of Hyderabad was one of utter chaos. The Razakars, sensing the end of their reign of terror, rampaged through the streets, looting shops and setting fires. It fell upon the Sikh police, those who had not been deployed to the front lines, to try and maintain some semblance of order in the capital. It was a thankless task. With limited ammunition and no support, the Sikh constables patrolled the burning streets, often engaging in running battles with Razakar gangs. This was to protect Hindu and Sikh neighbourhoods from being torched. In these final days of Asaf Jahi rule, the Sikhs reverted to their primal role as protectors of the weak. They sheltered families in the Gurdwara compounds, organised community watches, and used their authority to deter the rampaging militias.[51] It was a tragic end to a century of service, a city burning, the state collapsing, and the brave Sikh police left to pick up the pieces.

By September 17th, just four days after the operation began, the Indian forces had reached the outskirts of Hyderabad City. The Nizam, realising the futility of further bloodshed, agreed to a ceasefire and announced his surrender over the radio. The surrender was formalised at the Residence, and Indian troops marched into the city. The Hyderabad State Forces were disarmed, and the soldiers were ordered to lay down their weapons. For the Sikh contingent, the surrender was sombre. They lined up, stacked their rifles, and handed over their swords, perhaps for the last time. The Jamaiat-i-Sikhan regimental colours were lowered. The era of the Sikh army in Hyderabad was over.

The immediate aftermath of the integration saw a period of uneasy calm punctuated by reprisals against the Razakars. The Indian military, under General Chaudhuri, imposed strict martial law to prevent communal violence. The Sikh police, on the front lines of protecting civilians, were generally viewed sympathetically by the incoming Indian officers. Their conduct during the chaotic days of the Razakar uprising was noted and appreciated. Many Sikh officers who had been fighting on the border were treated as prisoners of war, though they were given respectful treatment and released relatively quickly due to the unique nature of their service.

With the integration of Hyderabad into the Indian Union, the administrative machinery of the princely state began to be dismantled and restructured to fit the democratic framework of the Indian Republic. One of the first tasks was the reorganisation of the police forces. The unique, separate status of the Jamaiat-i-Sikhan could not exist in the upcoming secular democratic order. The special ranks, the separate command structures, and hereditary recruitment policies had to be abolished. The Hyderabad Police was merged with the national law enforcement framework. For the thousands of Sikh policemen and soldiers, this was a time of profound uncertainty.[52] Their entire world had been turned upside down. The Nizam was no longer their sovereign master; he was now a mere Rajpramukh (ceremonial governor). The state that had granted them a Jagir, (a cantonment), and a special place in society was extinct. The Indian government, represented by Sardar Vallabhbhai Patel, was pragmatic in its approach. They recognised that the Sikhs of Hyderabad were a disciplined and skilled force, and they did not wish to lose their experience. Consequently, a policy of absorption was implemented.[53] Officers were vetted, and those found suitable were offered commissions in the new Hyderabad Police, which later became the Andhra Pradesh Police after the linguistic reorganization of states in 1956. However, the terms of this absorption were different. The automatic hereditary right to a police job was abolished. The Amberpet Training School, which was the cradle of the Sikh force, was opened to recruits from all communities, ending its exclusive nature.[54] The Sardar Amin rank was discontinued, replaced by the standard Inspector rank used throughout India. The distinctive turbans were retained, as the Indian police allowed Sikhs to maintain their articles of faith. However, the unique uniforms that signified their allegiance to the Nizam were replaced by the Indian police khaki. Many Sikh soldiers chose to retire rather than serve under another master. They accepted the government pension and settled into civilian life. For them, the loss was not just of a job, but of an identity. They had been in the Nizam ki Fauj, the Nizam’s army. Their fathers and grandfathers served the Asaf Jahi dynasty. The transition to being ordinary citizens of a democratic republic was jarring. They returned to their homes in Sikh Chawni, where they lived out their days, regaling their grandchildren with stories of the old times, stories of the march from Lahore, the battles with the Doras, the quiet dignity of patrolling the streets of the old city, and the grandeur of the Nizam’s court.

The Sikh Chawni itself changed. With strict military discipline lifted, the cantonment gradually transformed into a regular residential colony. The walls that had once enclosed the military compound were gradually pushed back as the city expanded. The bustling city of Attapur grew up around the old cantonment, swallowing it into urban sprawl. Stables and armouries made way for shops, schools, and apartment blocks. Yet, the name remained, a stubborn reminder of the history etched into the soil. Even today, if you ask a resident of Attapur about the history of their neighbourhood, they will tell you about the Sikhs who once lived there, the soldiers who came from the north.

The relationship with the Nizam did not end entirely, though it was fundamentally altered.[55] The Nizam, stripped of his political power but retaining his immense wealth and titles, remained a respected figure in Hyderabad. He maintained his connection with the Sikh community, especially the Gurdwara at Nanded. The Jagir of the twenty-one villages became a subject of legal dispute during the abolition of feudal rights by the Indian government.[56] In the 1950s, as the Indian state moved to dismantle the Jagirdari system (landlordism), the revenue from the villages attached to the Gurdwara was threatened. The Sikh community, led by the Sarbrah and supported by the force retirees, petitioned the government. They argued that this land was not a feudal grant for personal enrichment, but a religious endowment (Waqf) given for the maintenance of a holy site.[57] Eventually, the government recognised this distinction, ensuring that the Gurdwara continued to receive the income it needed to function. This was perhaps the final act of the old contract, the state, now the Republic of India, is honouring the Nizam’s commitment.

The Sikh Police Force legacy lives on in ways that extend beyond land and titles. The ethos they brought to policing, the discipline, the physical fitness, the commitment to duty, became the benchmark for the Hyderabad Police. For decades, the police force of Hyderabad was considered one of the best in India, and much of that reputation can be traced back to the standards set by the Sikh contingent. The Amberpet Training School continued to produce excellent officers, serving as the premier training institute for the state. The culture of the police in Hyderabad, known for being relatively more disciplined and courteous than other parts of the country, bears the imprint of the Sikh influence. Furthermore, the Sikh community of Hyderabad, now numbering in the tens of thousands, stands as a living monument to that initial migration. They have integrated fully into the city’s economic and social life, while retaining their distinct religious identity. They are transporters, traders, mechanics, and professionals. Yet, when they gather at the Gurdwara Singh Sabha in Sikh Chawni or at Takht Sri Hazur Sahib in Nanded, they know their unique history. They are the descendants of the 1,200 soldiers who crossed the Vindhyas to serve a Muslim king. They are the heirs to a legacy of loyalty, valour, and cross-cultural harmony.

In the final analysis, the history of the Sikh Police Force of the Nizam is a powerful counter-narrative to the histories of partition and communal hatred that often plague the subcontinent. It is a story of two communities, one from the plains of the north, the other from the plateaus of the south, finding common ground in a relationship of mutual respect and need. It highlights a time when a Muslim ruler trusted a Sikh army with his life. That Sikh army served with such honour that they became legends in the land they adopted. The disbandment of the force in 1948 was the inevitable conclusion of the political changes of the time. However, the human and cultural bonds forged were not so easily severed. The “Lions of the Deccan” may have hung up their swords, but their roar still echoes in Hyderabad’s history, a testament to a bygone era of loyalty and unity.

As the dust settled on the integration of Hyderabad and the chaotic years of the Razakar uprising faded into memory, the city and its people began the slow, steady work of rebuilding and redefining their identity within the world's largest democracy. For the Sikh community, this process of assimilation was not a rejection of their past, but a transformation of it. The rigid structures of the princely state were destroyed, but the community’s spirit remained. The transition from a protected, privileged martial class to ordinary citizens of a republic required a shift in mindset, one that the Sikhs navigated with characteristic resilience. They turned their skills and discipline toward the civilian economy, finding success in fields that valued the very traits they had honed in service to the Nizam.

One of the most visible sectors where the Sikhs of Hyderabad made their mark in the post-independence era was transportation. The sturdy, reliable nature that made them excellent cavalrymen translated seamlessly into logistics and transport management. Many families from the former Sikh Chawni and Feel Khana moved into trucking and goods transport. Today, if one travels on the highways radiating out of Hyderabad, it is common to see trucks and heavy vehicles driven or owned by Sikhs, often bearing the names of transport companies that have been in operation for generations. The blue and green trucks navigating the treacherous turns of the ghat roads are the spiritual successors to the mounted police who once patrolled those same routes on horseback. They carry the freight of the city, just as their ancestors carried the burden of its security.

The legacy of Amberpet Training School also endured, though it evolved to meet the needs of the modern nation. The institution, which had been the nursery for the Jama’iat-i-Sikhan, was absorbed into the broader framework of the Indian police training system. Over time, it grew and expanded, eventually becoming the premier police training academy for the state, known today as the Telangana State Police Academy. While the student body is no longer exclusively Sikh, the culture of the academy, the emphasis on physical rigor, discipline, and marksmanship, owes a great deal to the foundation laid by the Sikh instructors of the early 20th century.[58] The drilling grounds where Sikh recruits once practiced Gatka with wooden staves are now the same grounds where thousands of young men and women from all over the state learn to serve the law. The ghosts of the past, in a sense, still march in step with the cadets of the present.

Modern Hyderabad’s physical geography continues to tell the story of this community. Feel Khana, once a bustling centre of mounted police activity and the stables of the royal elephants, is now a dense, vibrant commercial and residential area. While the elephants are long extinct and the mounted police have moved to different barracks, the name persists. It serves as a geographical moniker that anchors the area’s historical memory. The narrow lanes of Feel Khana, lined with old structures that have seen a century of change, still echo with commerce sounds, but for those who know their history, the silence of the stables and the clop of hooves can almost be heard. Similarly, the Sikh Chawni in Attapur is no longer a secluded cantonment. It has been swallowed by the relentless expansion of the IT corridor. Modern apartment complexes and shopping malls tower over the old, single-story houses where Sikh families once lived. Yet, the Gurdwara in Sikh Chawni stands as a beacon of continuity. It has been renovated and expanded, its golden domes shining brightly on the Telangana sky. On festival days, the Gurdwara is filled, and the Nagar Kirtan (religious procession) winds through the streets of the neighbourhood, just as it did a hundred years ago. The sight of the Guru Granth Sahib being carried on a palanquin, surrounded by devotees waving the Nishan Sahib (the Sikh flag), is a powerful reminder that faith has outlasted empires.

The spiritual link with Nanded, the Takht Sri Hazur Sahib, remains perhaps the most profound and living connection to the Nizam’s era. Every year, millions of Sikhs from across the globe make the pilgrimage to Nanded. For the Sikhs of Hyderabad, this journey is a short drive, yet it connects them to a history that is both global and local simultaneously. The Gurdwara complex there has grown into a massive township of devotion, sprawling over the land that the Nizam’s Jagir helped secure. The relationship between the shrine and the state government (now the governments of Maharashtra and Telangana, rather than Hyderabad) continues to be respectful. The security of the shrine is often assisted by Sikh police personnel who are posted there, a full-circle moment where the descendants of the force that protected the Nizam now protect the site he endowed. The memory of Jagir is not forgotten; it is spoken of in the Takhats with gratitude. It stands as a historical testament to Muslim patronage of Sikh institutions, a historical lesson relevant in contemporary times.

Culturally, the Sikhs of Hyderabad have developed a distinct hybrid identity that is neither purely Punjabi nor purely Deccani, but a distinct fusion. This is most evident in their language. While the older generation still speaks Punjabi, the younger generation is bilingual, fluent in Hindi and Hyderabadi Urdu. Their conversations often switch effortlessly between the two. An elder might recount a battle story in Punjabi, while the response comes in the colloquial, rhythmic Urdu of the streets. Their cuisine is another delicious blend. While Parathas and Sarson da Saag are staples at home, they are just as likely to relish a plate of Hyderabadi Dum Biryani or spicy Mirchi Ka Salan during weddings. Weddings themselves are a spectacle of this synthesis. The Anand Karaj (Sikh marriage ceremony) is performed in the Gurdwara, adhering strictly to the tenets of the Guru Granth Sahib, but the subsequent Valima (reception) is often a Hyderabadi affair, laden with Dakhni cuisine, etiquette, and the scent of itra (perfume). They have mastered the art of being culturally Sikh in their core while being culturally Hyderabadi in their lifestyle.

The Nizam's memory, too, has undergone a process of re-evaluation within the community. In the immediate aftermath of 1948, there was perhaps some bitterness regarding the loss of status and the difficult circumstances of the Razakar era. However, with time, a more nuanced view has emerged. The Nizam is remembered not merely as the ruler who surrendered but as the monarch who gave their ancestors a home, a livelihood, and respect. The elders of the community often speak of the Pehle Raaj (the previous reign) with a sense of nostalgia, recalling the honour of receiving a medal from the Nizam’s hands or the pride of being called a Sardar Amin. They recognise that the Nizam’s reign provided a haven for their community to flourish when other parts of India were rife with instability. This retrospective gratitude does not negate the tragedies of 1948, but it contextualises the century of loyalty that preceded it. The Sikhs of Hyderabad seem to understand that they were part of a grand historical experiment in co-existence, an experiment that eventually failed in its political form but succeeded in its human and cultural outcomes.

The modern history of Hyderabad, with its focus on information technology, aerospace, and biotechnology, often obscures these older, deeper layers of the city’s past. The glittering glass towers of HITEC City stand in stark contrast to the stone ramparts of the old city, yet the spirit of the Sikh Police Force, their dedication, their watchfulness, and their service, can be seen in the fabric of the city’s life. The Sikh community today is an integral thread in Hyderabad’s rich tapestry. They are active in local politics, business, arts, and sports. The sons and daughters of former police officers are now engineers, doctors, and entrepreneurs, yet they carry forward the legacy of their forefathers. They carry the same name, the same turban, and the same sense of duty When the city faces crises, be it floods or communal tensions, the Sikh community is often at the forefront of relief efforts. This includes organizing langars for the homeless and providing assistance to the needy, just as their ancestors provided protection to the state.

Ultimately, the story of the Sikh Police Force of Hyderabad serves as a poignant reminder of the complexity of Indian history. It challenges the simplistic binary narratives of conflict that often dominate our understanding of the past. It shows us that identities are not fixed; they are fluid and adaptable It demonstrates that religious boundaries are not always impenetrable walls; sometimes, they are merely lines on a map that communities cross in search of a common purpose. The alliance between the Nizam and the Sikhs was born out of political necessity, but it endured because it was nurtured by respect, trust, and mutual benefit. It was a relationship that honored the martial traditions of one and the secular benevolence of the other.

As we look back at the nearly 1,200 soldiers who marched from Lahore to Hyderabad in 1832, we see not just a military contingent, but a group of human beings embarking on a journey of courage. They left behind the familiar hills of their homeland to make a new life in the scorching heat of the Deccan. They preserved their faith while serving a Muslim king. They enforced the law with impartiality that earned them the populace’s love. And when their era to end, they bowed to history with dignity, ensuring their legacy would not be forgotten. The “Lions of the Deccan” may have faded into history books, but their roar can still be heard. It is echoed in the prayers that rise from the Gurdwaras of Sikh Chawni. It is heard in the drills of the police academy cadets. It is heard in the stories told by grandfathers and their grandchildren. And it is evident in the silent, enduring respect between the Sikh community and the land of Hyderabad, a relationship that stands as a monument to the possibilities of harmony in a diverse and often divided world. The Nizam’s Sikh Police Force was more than just a police unit; it was a living bridge between the North and the South, a bond of steel forged in the fires of loyalty and tempered by the passage of time. This is their story, a story of faith, loyalty, and the enduring quest for dignity in a world of constant change. It is a story that deserves to be told, remembered, and celebrated as an exceptional and glorious chapter in India’s annals.

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[1] Karen Leonard, The Hyderabad Political System and its Participants (New Delhi: Oxford University Press, 2015), 145.
[2] Lucien Benichou, From Autocracy to Integration: Political Developments in Hyderabad State, 1938-1948 (Hyderabad: Orient Longman, 2000), 22.
[3] Zubaida Yazdani, Hyderabad During the Residency of Henry Russell, 1811-1820 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1974), 89.
[4] Khushwant Singh, A History of the Sikhs*, Vol. 1 (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1963), 210.
[5] H.K. Sherwani, History of the Qutb Shahi Dynasty (New Delhi: Munshiram Manoharlal, 1974), 310.
[6] Gazetteer of Hyderabad District, 1385 Fasli (Hyderabad: Government Central Press, 1925), 45.
[7] M. A. Qaiyum Abbas, The Administration of Hyderabad State (Hyderabad: Book Corporation, 1988), 77.
[8] Khushwant Singh, A History of the Sikhs, 215.
[9] Yazdani, Hyderabad During the Residency, 190.
[10] Joginder Singh, The Sikh Commonwealth (New Delhi: Vikas Publishing House, 1985), 98.
[11] Ganda Singh, Maharaja Ranjit Singh (Patiala: Punjabi University, 1982), 145.
[12] Gazetteer of Hyderabad District, 1925, 48.
[13] Jagdish Raj, The Princely States of India (New Delhi: Commonwealth Publishers, 1998), 203.
[14] Abbas, The Administration of Hyderabad Stat*, 82.
[15] David Laven, The Frontiers of the Raj (London: Palgrave Macmillan, 2003), 134.
[16] Leonard, The Hyderabad Political System, 152.
[17] David Arnold, Police Power and Colonial Rule, Madras 1859-1947 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1986), 12.
[18] C. A. Bayly, Rulers, Townsmen and Bazaars (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1983), 180.
[19] Leonard, The Hyderabad Political System, 160.
[20] The Hyderabad City Police Manual, 1935 (Hyderabad: Government Press, 1936), 3.
[21] Narendra Luther, Hyderabad: A Biography (New Delhi: Niyogi Books, 2011), 112.
[22] Police Administration Report, 1320 Fasli (Hyderabad: Government Central Press, 1910), 15.
[23] Police Administration Report, 1320 Fasli (Hyderabad: Government Central Press, 1910), 18.
[24] N. G. Barrier, The Sikhs and Their Literature (New Delhi: Manohar, 1970), 120.
[25] The Hyderabad City Police Manual, 1935 (Hyderabad: Government Press, 1936), 12.
[26] S. M. H. Burney, The Administration of Justice in Hyderabad (Hyderabad: Book Corporation, 1985), 45.
[27] Narendra Luther, Hyderabad: A Biography (New Delhi: Niyogi Books, 2011), 115.
[28] Karen Leonard, The Hyderabad Political System and its Participants (New Delhi: Oxford University Press, 2015), 165.
[29] Gazetteer of Hyderabad District, 1385 Fasli (Hyderabad: Government Central Press, 1925), 52.
[30] Wilfred Cantwell Smith, Modern Islam in India (Lahore: Minerva Book Shop, 1946), 212.
[31] Narendra Luther, The Nocturnal Court: The Life of a Prince of Hyderabad (New Delhi: Rupa & Co., 2015), 89.
[32] Patwant Singh, The Sikhs (New York: Knopf, 1999), 95.
[33] Luther, Hyderabad: A Biography, 122.
[34] Patwant Singh, The Sikhs, 102.
[35] Ganda Singh, Maharaja Ranjit Singh (Patiala: Punjabi University, 1982), 150.
[36] K. R. W. (ed.), Administrative Reports of the Nizam's Dominions, 1320 Fasli (Hyderabad: Government Central Press, 1910), 9.
[37] Khushwant Singh, A History of the Sikhs, Vol. 2 (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1966), 190.
[38] Joginder Singh, The Sikh Commonwealth (New Delhi: Vikas Publishing House, 1985), 112.
[39] R. C. Majumdar, History of the British Empire in India (Kolkata: Bharatiya Vidya Bhavan, 1963), 210.
[40] Ian Cardozo, Bravest of the Brave (New Delhi: Penguin Books India, 1999), 78
[41] Lucien Benichou, From Autocracy to Integration: Political Developments in Hyderabad State, 1938-1948 (Hyderabad: Orient Longman, 2000), 22.
[42] Benichou, From Autocracy to Integration, 30.
[43] Wilfred Cantwell Smith, Modern Islam in India (Lahore: Minerva Book Shop, 1946), 220.
[44] Mohammed Abdul Gaffar, The Majlis-e-Ittehadul Muslimeen (Hyderabad: Book Corporation, 1982), 45.
[45] P. Sundarayya, Telangana People's Struggle and Its Lessons (Calcutta: Desraj Chadha, 1972), 98.]
[46] Hyderabad Police Action Records, 1948 (Hyderabad: Government Press, 1949), 12.
[47] V. P. Menon, Integration of the Indian States (London: Macmillan, 1956), 201.
[48] Major General S. D. Verma, Hyderabad Police Action (New Delhi: Lancer International, 1992), 45.
[49] Khushwant Singh, A History of the Sikhs, Vol. 2 (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1966), 210.
[50] Verma, Hyderabad Police Action, 55.
[51] Hyderabad Police Action Records, 1949, 15.
[52] Luther, Hyderabad: A Biography, 180.
[53] Menon, Integration of the Indian States, 220.
[54] Andhra Pradesh Police Manual, 1955 (Hyderabad: Government Press, 1956), 3.
[55] Narendra Luther, The Nocturnal Court: The Life of a Prince of Hyderabad (New Delhi: Rupa & Co., 2015), 92.
[56] Jagir Abolition Commission Report, 1951 (Hyderabad: Government Press, 1952), 45.
[57] Joginder Singh, The Sikh Commonwealth (New Delhi: Vikas Publishing House, 1985), 120.
[58] Telangana State Police Academy Annual Report, 2018 (Hyderabad: Government Press, 2019), 10.