Thanks to modern technology, we have access to what is happening across the world at our fingertips. With a few simple clicks and swipes, we can find out what is happening on the other side of the globe in a matter of seconds.

The 1990s were very different. There were no smartphones, no alerts, and no instant access to information on a topic which piqued one’s interest. Information trickled in through the TV, radio, newspapers and of course through good old-fashioned word of mouth. 

Many of us were really young at the time, but we recall some of the things we overheard our parents talking about in Punjab, particularly the abduction of young men at random by authorities without any proof of nefarious activity. 

In that era, there was a silent and almost foreboding atmosphere within the community. Young men were rounded up from fields, schools, bazaars and even their homes and were not heard from for days and months. When they returned, they did so with terrible stories of torture which left them scarred, both physically and mentally. 

Ironically enough, they were the lucky ones, because thousands never made it back home. 

Their families searched for years, never to find out what happened to them. An entire generation of young men simply disappeared and were never heard from again, and the lack of technology we enjoy now kept the rest of the world from ever hearing about it to the scale it would today.

It was during this time and under these circumstances that a man named Jaswant Singh Khalra scoured municipal records and discovered evidence that thousands of young Punjabi men had been killed by authorities, their remains disposed of via mass cremations across the state. He brought this information to light knowing full well that considering the climate, this decision would put him and his family in grave danger.

On September 6, 1995, Jaswant Singh Khalra was picked up by authorities outside his home while washing his car. He was brutally tortured for over a month and eventually murdered; his body was then thrown into a canal. Over a decade after his abduction and murder, five police officers were convicted of his abduction and murder and sentenced to life imprisonment. 

Like many of the thousands of youth for whom he advocated, his body was never found. Testimony at the trial of those involved in his abduction and assassination revealed his remains were thrown into the Harike Canal.

Jaswant Singh Khalra raised his voice in a dangerous time. Virtually everyone in tune with the situation in Punjab knew what was happening, but most chose to keep quiet out of fear of being subjected to the same fate as Mr. Khalra. Although many secretly agreed with him and supported him in thought and spirit, few were willing to add their voice to his in a public forum.

In a powerful speech, Mr. Khalra shared the following story (paraphrased):

When the sun was setting for the first time, Darkness began to spread across the land, bringing with it mass panic. As everyone continued to worry and fret, the last rays of the sun disappeared beyond the horizon. 

As Darkness enveloped everything and no one could see, in a far corner of the earth, in a small hut, one little lamp lifted its head. 

The lamp proclaimed, “I challenge the Darkness. If nothing else, then at least around myself, I will not let it settle. Around myself I will establish light.”

Watching that one lamp, other lamps arose in other huts across the land. Collectively, they stopped Darkness from spreading, so that people could see. 

I believe, today when Darkness is trying to overwhelm Truth with full strength, then if nothing else, self-respecting Punjab, like a lamp, is challenging this Darkness. And I pray to the Guru, who identifies with Truth to keep this light lit.

Although Mr. Khalra shared this beautiful metaphor over three decades ago, it still rings true. Darkness is trying to overwhelm Truth with full strength.

Amongst this Darkness, however, we are also witnessing lamps lifting their heads and spreading light, and thanks to technology, their message is resonating across the globe. 

Diljit Dosanjh, the renowned Punjabi singer and movie star, agreed to play the role of Jaswant Singh Khalra in a film designed to share his story with both a new generation of Punjabis, as well as the world. 

This much-anticipated film was slated to be released in 2023. Censors requested 127 cuts to grant it certification for release, which were refused by its director, Honey Trehan. 

Without any fanfare or promotion, the film was released uncut under the title Satluj on a streaming platform on July 03, 2026.

Diljit stated that he expected the film to be removed quite quickly, and as he predicted, in less than 48 hours, it was removed.

Diljit also predicted that it would be downloaded and spread, and true to his words, the movie has been spreading like wildfire, both in Punjab and across the globe, with villages across the state holding public screenings of Satluj. 

Those who were around in the ’90s are being reminded of what happened, and those who had no idea who Jaswant Singh Khalra was are now learning his story.

The Harike Canal, where Jaswant Singh’s body and the bodies of countless others were disposed of like they meant nothing, is being visited by Punjabis going to pay their respects to a man who gave up everything to help his community, and more importantly, to be a light as Darkness was spreading. 

Over three decades after his assassination, Mr. Khalra’s speech is making its way to ears who had never even heard his name before.

As the story continues to unravel, we are learning from the director that Diljit Dosanjh, a global superstar, did not ask for compensation to do this film – he did because he wanted to tell the story of Jaswant Singh Khalra. 

Darkness is forever at our community’s door, but despite all odds, our community continues to fight back. 

Despite all odds, lamps continue to be lit. 

Despite all odds, the spirit of Jaswant Singh Khalra’s sacrifice continues to remind us of our obligation to speak up and step up when needed most by doing our part.

And despite all odds, Punjab will continue to produce lamps which challenge Darkness at every turn, standing with Truth, just as Jaswant Singh Khalra had hoped.

If you’re looking for a place to start for yourself, watch the movie and spread the light.

June 21st marked the summer solstice, the longest day of the year. In the days and weeks leading up to it, I made a conscious effort to be more aware of the ever-so-slightly increasing daylight. From June 22 onwards, we will witness a gradual decrease in daylight each day, until we reach the winter solstice, which signifies the shortest day of the year.

This cycle continues year after year.

June is also my birth month, and 2026 marks my 45th year of life. This milestone has led to a lot of introspection and reflection over the last few weeks, because as the candles on the cake increase, the number of birthdays left naturally decreases.

In Canada, the average life expectancy of a male is just over 80 years. There are exceptions to this, of course. Many men live well past 80, and many have their lives cut short due to a multitude of reasons.

For me, simple math dictates I am most likely in the second half of my life, with more years behind me than ahead of me.

My personal summer solstice has most likely come and gone.

When I meditate on the last 45 years, I can’t help but wonder where the time went. I’ve got a lot of great memories up to this point, but life seems to have just flown by.

High school seems like it was just a few months ago. Starting a career, getting married, having kids – all these big life events seem like they only happened a few weeks ago.

When I slow down to give these memories time to float around inside my head, the first thought that comes to my mind is one we have all had and embraced to be an ultimate truth:

Life is short.

Over the last few days, I’ve come to realize this is a lie.

The truth is, for most of us, life is long.

Using my own life as an example, 45 years is:

540 months.

2,348 weeks.

16,436 days.

394,464 hours.

23,667,840 minutes.

The numbers don’t lie – 45 years is a long time.

So where has the time gone?

Years ago, I read Seneca’s On the Shortness of Life. I understood it at a very superficial level, but it never resonated with me. Recently, I stumbled upon Seneca’s writings again, and the following quote made me dive deep into thought:

“It is not that we have a short time to live, but that we waste a lot of it.”

For me, coming across Seneca again so close to my birthday felt oddly timely, as though it was a sign to nudge me to take a deeper look at what he was trying to convey.

I have found myself deeply moved by Guru Nanak’s teachings in recent years, and when I feel a need for guidance, I look to see if I can find it in his work.

With Seneca’s words about life embedded in my head, I felt an urge to explore what Guru Nanak had to say about the topic.

I recently shared my thoughts about cherry blossoms, and in that article, I used some of Guru Nanak’s words to describe what I was feeling. The full passage is:

“The nights are lost to sleep, the days are lost to consumption.

Life is as precious as a diamond, but it is traded away for nothing.”

So what have I traded the last 45 years away for?

Distractions.

Smartphones, social media, mind-numbing television, and gossip— days upon days traded away for mindless consumption. I’ve been awake physically, but mentally asleep to the world, blindly feasting on the distractions thrown at me, hungry for more and completely unaware of how they were harming me.

Negativity.

Anger, worry, regret, resentment, fear, arrogance, stress, envy, guilt— these feelings, along with countless others just as harmful, have stolen a lot of time from me. Using Guru Nanak’s words, I’ve traded so much of this precious and limited life for the worthless thoughts these emotions gave birth to.

When I reflect on this, I can’t help but experience a deep uneasiness inside me, especially when I try to tally up the time I’ve wasted on things such as these which shouldn’t matter.

It’s tempting to be miserable about it. I was in a sour mood for a few days, until I realized how ironic it all was. I was doing exactly what I was stressing about – focussing on things that were worthless, and only creating further feelings of emptiness inside my head.

As they say, no mud – no lotus.

A lotus rises from murky water, and this human existence brings about the murkiest waters of all by virtue of everyday life.

In that same vein:

No selfishness – no gratitude.

No arrogance – no humility.

No resistance – no acceptance of Hukam, the divine order of the Universe.

Everything I have fretted about over the last 45 years has led me to this moment:

The awareness of the things we waste our time on is the catalyst for waking up.

Distractions and negativity are the mud.

Awareness is the lotus.

With the daylight now decreasing, we can let the mud overwhelm us and fret about the shortening days, or we can take a moment to appreciate the sunshine, the laughs, the moments the summer always brings, knowing they, just like everything else, are temporary.

We can trade away the precious time we have left on this beautiful planet for things we know are poison for our souls and dive deeper into the muck, or we can use that time to try to be good human beings, and like the lotus, reach for the sky with hope and love.

We can choose to accept that life is not short, and that we have the power to not trade our precious time for worthless and self-harming pursuits we are so inclined to entertain.

45 years are now behind me; 45 summer solstices are in the books.

I hope I have a lot more birthdays and solstices ahead of me, but accept whatever the Universe has decided to bless me with, and commit to enjoying the daylight I have left in a meaningful way.

Life is as precious as a diamond, and I would be a fool to continue trading it away for nothing.

Last spring, I began to notice cherry blossoms.

I had always been aware of them, but never truly AWARE of them.

For what felt like the first time, I noticed their intricacy, their delicacy and of course, their beauty. I began to appreciate their existence and as the days passed, I also began to feel a sense of sadness for their inevitable decline.

For the past year, I’ve been thinking about cherry blossoms a lot.

Why did I not notice them before?

Why did I feel the aforementioned sense of sadness when they began to fall?

Why did cherry blossoms, of all things, keep popping up in my head?

A few months ago, I came across the Japanese concept of “mono no aware”, which, if translated and interpreted into its simplest form, means to have an appreciation for the impermanence of life.

It entails acknowledgment that everything is temporary, that life is fleeting, and although this initially stirs a sense of internal sadness and perhaps even despair, it is the stimulus for awareness to awaken, and through that awareness, a deep sense of gratitude emerges.

Interestingly enough, cherry blossoms are one of the best examples of mono no aware. Every year, they bloom, sharing their brilliance with anyone who is willing to appreciate it, and then they fade away. They are present for just a few short weeks, but in those few weeks, they give us an opportunity to bask in their beauty and take in the message that the universe is trying to convey to us through them.

As a believer in the concept of Oneness, I know that despite all divides society creates and we internalize, we have more in common with each other than we think. There is a connectedness which binds all humans, and zooming out further, everything in this world and beyond. We are all linked, and excellent proof of this is our mortality.

Guru Nanak says, “Jo din aavai so din jaasi,”which translates to “each day that comes will also go.”

Just like the day begins and ends, each of us was born, and one day, each of each of us will die.

Like the cycle of day and night, life is a cycle of birth and death.

In a sense, we’re all cherry blossoms and like cherry blossoms, all of us will one day complete our cycle.

We don’t have to delve deep into scripture to find reminders of this, it’s embedded in our everyday language.

Countless times, I’ve heard the term “oh poora hogiya”, meaning “he is complete”, when referring to the passing of someone.

We don’t say he died, we say he’s complete. Woven into the use of this term is a reminder of mono no aware, the impermanence of life, and also the acknowledgement and that life is a cycle we are all participants in, no matter how unaware we are.

“Rain gavaai soye kai, divas gavaaya khaae.”

These words of Guru Nanak translate to “The night gets spent sleeping, and the day in consumption.”

Unawareness is what blinds us, and each of us is guilty of this in our own way.

I’ve been blessed with countless moments where I’ve had the opportunity to appreciate life through a magnificent sunrise or breathtaking sunset, yet I’ve been too distracted to notice.

I’ve been surrounded by people who are important to me and are a big part of my life, but instead of appreciating that the moment is a gift which will never be replicated and will one day be one I look back at with fondness and nostalgia, I’ve been absent. Although present physically, my mind has been elsewhere, lost in a thought about something completely irrelevant, yet something I’ve let take control of my mind.

I’ve taken a lot of things for granted, instead devoting precious time to worrying about things I can’t control.

I’ve walked or driven past cherry blossoms for decades and acknowledged their existence by virtue of what I saw, having been too consumed by my own thoughts to truly acknowledge them for what they truly were and that which they symbolized.

Reflecting more broadly, I haven’t always appreciated the cherry blossoms I have surrounding me in day to day life.

Something as simple as cherry blossoms is a message from the universe to shift:

From unawareness to awareness.

From distraction to presence.

From worry to gratitude.

Perhaps above all, they serve as a reminder of the concept of “hukam”, or the divine order of the universe.

The cherry blossoms, like us and all those we care for, are here temporarily, and like them, when our time comes, we will depart.

Although I am by no means a master of this and like any human being, getting lost in the distractions and chaos of the world, reminding myself to appreciate the cherry blossoms in my life, both literal and figurative, serves as an opportunity to reset and focus on the things that truly matter.

This year, when cherry blossom season came, I was ready. Each time I saw them, I took a moment to take a breath, be in their presence and accept their reminder of the impermanence of life as per mono no aware, and of embracing hukam with love and surrender.

When we accept everything is temporary, everything becomes that much more special, and we truly become aware.

“If only we could see that the cherry blossoms are beautiful because they fall.”

— Motoori Norinaga

Almost every Punjabi family has or has had what is commonly referred to as a “money plant” in their home. The plant’s actual name is “Golden Pothos”, and it is widely considered to attract wealth, prosperity and positive energy.

My Mom’s money plant was one of her most prized possessions, one which she had for years. It spread majestically across the bannister of our stairs when we lived in Surrey, its rich green leaves sprawling across it like a blanket. Taking care of it was part of her routine; she was constantly ensuring it was watered, dead leaves were carefully removed, and when the time came, that it was transferred into a new pot so it could continue to thrive.

When we moved to Langley, my Mom carefully unwound her plant from the bannister and placed it in a corner of our new home. Once a week, she would delicately make her way to it with some water and pour it into the base of the pot so her beloved money plant could continue to grow.

My Mom was a strong woman. Until she was absolutely unable to do so, she made walking a part of her daily routine. Medically, it was a way to control her blood sugar, but mentally, I believe it was a form of meditation for her – a way to calm her mind and unwind. I remember her walking to the Scott Road Gurdwara almost daily when the weather permitted when we lived in Strawberry Hill. As the years passed and we moved homes, she would go to a nearby park or do laps around the block. When her mobility became reduced and she was forced to begin using a walker, she started walking around the house as much as possible.

Part of her route on these rounds within the house was past her money plant, where she would often pause to look at it for a moment. As her health deteriorated, she wasn’t able to care for it as much as she had in the past, and eventually the time came when she was completely unable to do so herself. When this happened, she made it a point to ensure she reminded someone to make sure her plant was watered or moved to an area where it could get more sunlight.

My Mom was a deeply religious woman – she prayed regularly, and despite the hardships she experienced in life, her faith was unshakable. I have found myself drawn to scripture in recent years, not in the religious sense, but rather a philosophical one. About a year ago, I came across the following passage by Guru Arjun Dev:

“Within every leaf the Almighty resides; reflecting on this and remembering it brings contentment and peace.”

Looking back, I believe taking care of her plant was another form of meditation for my Mom. Seeing it thrive brought her great joy. I believe it was one of the many ways she connected with God, and seeing it grow reminded her of the connectedness of all things living.

If I am to be honest, I didn’t care for that plant at all. There were times I found it an eyesore, and wanted to get rid of it. If she asked me to water it, I’d roll my eyes and do so begrudgingly.

As my Mom’s health continued to decline, care of her plant was the last thing on anyone’s mind. Without her prompting, the plant received very little attention and the occasional watering. After her passing, it sat in its spot, slowly wilting away.

Almost seven months after my Mom left us, we moved into a new home, and her plant came with us. It wasn’t in the state that it used to be in, but it was still alive. I again didn’t think much of it, but my wife wanted to keep it. It was trimmed, repotted and placed just outside our bedroom door.

As I settled into the routine of being in a new home, I began to notice the plant more. Every morning, when I would come out of the bedroom, there it was. I still wasn’t very actively involved in its care, but every time I would look at it, my Mom would come to mind.

As the days turned to weeks and the weeks to months, I started to feel a sense of attachment to the plant. I took over its care, removing dead leaves and vines, and ensuring it was watered. When it became a bit unruly, I started trimming it back and even found myself looking up proper care of a Golden Pothos on the internet more than once.

It was one one of these deep dives on the web that I learned that the Golden Pothos is an easy plant to propagate. With this in mind, instead of throwing the parts of the plant I had trimmed into the compost, I took out a few mason jars, filled them with water and put them in. To my surprise, within a few days, they began to sprout roots. I found myself checking these cuttings regularly to ensure they were doing well, and was extremely delighted when they were.

As friends and family visited, many noticed the cuttings perched above the window in the kitchen. As quick as I could propagate them, someone would ask for one and they would make their way to a new home. Today, plants grown from my Mom’s money plant are in homes across the Lower Mainland, in Alberta, and even in Punjab.

In a few months, it will have been three years since my Mom left us. I think of her every day, and reflect on her legacy a lot, especially as I see my kids growing up. She was a woman who was the epitome of resilience. Whereas hardship and heartbreak often destroy people or make them focussed solely on self-preservation, she used the tough lessons she learned to spread more kindness and love to those around her, something the world sorely needs even more right now.

It warms my heart to know a part of her is now in so many homes, and I can’t help but smile when I visit someone’s home and see the plant which has grown from a cutting taken from hers. I hope when people look at their own plant which came from hers, they realize how lucky they are to have a piece of something loved so much by a person so special, and that each heart shaped leaf serves as a reminder of a woman who’s own heart was much bigger than the tiny body it occupied.

Each of these plants is more than just a plant – it is a reminder of our connectedness and a tribute to a magnificent woman who touched and through her beloved money plant, continues to touch so many lives.

“𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘥 𝘪𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘪𝘴 𝘦𝘯𝘨𝘳𝘢𝘷𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘯 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘮𝘰𝘯𝘶𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘴, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘪𝘴 𝘸𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘭𝘪𝘷𝘦𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘴.”

— Pericles

“I think we were always meant to be nomads.”

These are the words of a friend who I met up with for dinner a few weeks ago, shared when we were discussing the current state of affairs of our community.

This sentence has stuck in my head ever since.

Looking back at our history, it begins with the founder of our way of life, Guru Nanak. In the 1500’s he left his home and family in Punjab with his trusted companion Mardana not once, not twice, but five different times, travelling far and wide. He visited countless places, sharing his message of Oneness with all those who were willing to listen, all while winning hearts and minds along the way.

He spent decades doing this, and when he returned home for the final time, he settled not in his hometown, but in a new location, continuing to spread his message to his growing congregation until his final breath.

Generations after Guru Nanak, in the early 1700’s, Guru Gobind Singh too left Punjab, albeit for different reasons. Having to make the decision to leave Anandpur after an extended siege and several heartbreaking incidents which followed, Guru Gobind Singh spent his final days in Maharashtra, over 900 kilometres from Punjab on today’s modern roads.

After Guru Gobind Singh, Sikhs were hunted relentlessly by Mughal forces for decades, being forced to leave their homes and take up abode in forests, mounting a resistance first against the aforementioned Mughals hellbent on destroying them, and later against invaders from Afghanistan.

In the 1800’s, when the British imposed their rule in Punjab, many began to leave their ancestral lands for places such as Britain, Canada, and the United States.

In 1947, Punjab was recklessly butchered into two based on outdated maps by a man who had no knowledge of the land or its people. As a result, places of supreme importance to Sikhs ended up on different sides of a newly formed border, and families who had lived in places for generations were now forced to make the perilous journey to a new town, city or village.

For a multitude of reasons, the decades that followed witnessed exodus from Punjab, one which continues to this day. Countless men, women and children have left their homes in search of new beginnings, and the overwhelming majority of these people have been and continue to be Sikhs. Each had their own reasons, and each of those reasons carried within not only the hope of a better life, but also the pain of leaving the land of one’s ancestors.

Coincidentally, many of those who will read this are the children and grandchildren of these people.

How does all this relate back to my friend’s statement about us being meant to be nomads?

The answer to that goes back to Guru Nanak’s travels. He once entered a village and was treated with great hostility by its inhabitants. They were cold rude, unwelcoming and self centred, treating Guru Nanak and Mardana with great disrespect. Despite his mistreatment at their hands, Guru Nanak blessed them by saying, “vasde raho”, translating to “stay put and prosper” as he left.

Guru Nanak and Mardana then travelled to another village close by, and received a warm welcome. This village’s inhabitants were selfless, full of love, and eager to ensure the weary travellers were comfortable. To Mardana’s great surprise, Guru Nanak appeared to curse the villagers when he departed, stating “ujhar jao”, meaning “may you be uprooted and dispersed.”

When asked why he blessed the people who treated him with such distain and used words which could only be interpreted as a curse on those who showed him the utmost hospitality, it is said he explained it as follows:

The world is already full of people with bad intentions. They care for nobody but themselves, and when the opportunity to help their fellow humans presents itself, they look at it not as a blessing, but as a burden and a task they would rather avoid. The toxicity these people carry within is contagious, and the only way to prevent it from spreading is to contain it. In other words, it was best for them to stay put.

On the other hand, the world also has people in it who are selfless, kind and always willing to do the right thing. These people will put the needs of others before their own, and see the opportunity to help their fellow humans as an opportunity to serve the highest of powers, be it God, the Universe, or whatever name they decide to give it. There are very few of these people in the world, which is why they need to spread far and wide. Like the decay the selfish carry, the humanity they carry is also contagious, and humanity needs that love to spread and flourish in all corners of the earth.

The philosophy of Sikhi is a beautiful gift to the world. When one peels back the layers we as a society have buried its true essence under, it is a light as bright as the sun. It teaches love and acceptance while embracing courage and resilience. Both the pen and sword hold significance, but most significant of all is the concept of equality and connectedness.

As our people have been dispersed from Punjab for various reasons, they have taken with them these core teachings and shared them with the world. Despite our collective and individual shortcomings, our community always rises to the occasion when people need help, from organizations based on Guru Nanak’s teachings feeding the downtrodden to coming together to help the victims of natural disasters, accidents and other twists and turns life throws in people’s ways. Our community is always wanting, willing and readily jumping in to help in any way possible.

Despite how much we have complicated, politicized and misinterpreted what Guru Nanak’s message was, when the opportunity presents itself, we let his teachings shine through our actions.

The Punjab Guru Nanak shared this philosophy with is long gone. The land he travelled so freely across sits divided into two nations which, as recent events have reminded us, have great animosity for each other. The Punjab of our ancestors, our grandparents, and even our parents has changed and continues to change quite drastically, and not often for the best. The people of Guru Nanak’s land are now spread across the world, and many don’t recognize the new shape their homeland has taken, even if it has only been a few decades since they left.

The land of our forefathers has transformed, and there can be an endless debate as to whether the migration of our people was the product of choice or that of inevitability and circumstance. Perhaps both are true in their own right to a certain degree, but to debate that is a fruitless endeavour.

The bottom line is that it’s happened, and you and I and the lives we lead are the result of it.

Perhaps a more meaningful way of understanding it begins to appear when looking at the following words of Ocean Vuong:

“We are the embers no ocean could drown.”

No truer words could apply to the followers of Guru Nanak. We have been persecuted, ridiculed, ostracized and even vilified at times, but the ocean which has carried us so far from our homeland and its unforgiving waves have never been able to fully extinguish our flame. Perhaps it is a coincidence that this quote came to mind on the 111th anniversary of the arrival of the Komagata Maru on the shores of Vancouver.

As ordained by Guru Nanak centuries ago, those who deeply believe in his teachings are blessed, and this blessing comes in the form of being destined to leave the place where we originated. Like the seeds of a magnificent plant, we were meant to be spread across the globe, taking his message with us and helping our fellow humans as best we can along the way.

We were always meant to be nomads.

“We are the children of Guru Nanak – no land is foreign to us, yet no land can claim us fully.”

– Pashaura Singh Dhillon

Photo – Sikh Gurdwara Kitsalano, 1908 (SFU Library, via CBC)

Every April, the Sikh community comes together to commemorate the creation of the Khalsa by Guru Gobind Singh in 1699. It is a joyous occasion, celebrated with prayer and in North America, parades. 

Today, April 19, is the date for the Vaisakhi Parade in Surrey, the biggest Vaisakhi celebration outside of Punjab. Hundreds of thousands will gather to celebrate our faith and our community in a spectacular showcase.

Although today is a day of great joy and elation for our people, it also is the anniversary of a very sombre and tragic event in our collective history. On April 19, 1854, Maharaja Duleep Singh, the youngest and sole surviving son of Maharaja Ranjit Singh was taken from the land of his forefathers and sent to England.

His story is a tragic one – the heir to one of the mightiest kingdoms the world over was separated from his mother, raised a Christian and slowly made to forget his rich heritage, even despise it. At age 15, he was sent to England and given the moniker “The Black Prince”. Despite being raised as a “proper” British gentleman, he never quite fit in.

One can only imagine the pain and confusion he must have felt. His life was a series of contradictions rolled into an enormous tragedy. He was never truly British, and yet he never truly understood his own people and culture. Despite a series of events and revelations later in his life, he never returned to Punjab or came close to regaining the kingdom which was rightfully his.

A child of immigrants will be able to relate to this. Growing up in Canada, we’ve straddled two cultures our entire lives. As children, we never truly fit in with our western counterparts, and often found ourselves struggling to relate to the culture and customs of our parents. We’ve all been “Black Princes” and “Black Princesses”, the butt of jokes due to our culture and uniqueness, and often even the ones who encouraged them for want of acceptance and belonging.

Like Maharaja Duleep Singh, we have gone through cycles of shame and embarrassment for things we should have been extremely proud of.

Many who will read this grew up on or around 124 and 128 streets in Surrey. Never would any of us have imagined, even in our wildest dreams that one day our community would be celebrating with enthusiasm and pride on the same streets we walked and played on.

Whereas we tried so desperately to fit in quietly and unassumingly, today we will stand out proudly and unapologetically.

171 years after he departed the land of his ancestors to a land foreign and unaccepting, people of Maharaja Duleep Singh’s community will gather to showcase our commitment to our faith and way of life. There will be prayer, there will be music, there will be speeches, and of course, there will be food at every corner.

A lot was taken from Maharaja Duleep Singh, and a lot has been taken from our community as a collective.

Despite this, we have endured.

“Tradition is not the worship of ashes, but the preservation of fire.”

It’s easy to lament about what was or what could have been, but the key is to rise from the ashes of the past and tackle the present head on, paving the way for future generations.

I am certain that could our ancestors, Maharaja Duleep Singh and all those whose collective stories intertwine with our own be able to see today, they would swell with pride at what we have accomplished.

In the hustle and bustle of what promises to be an exciting day for everyone, let there be some reflection on the story of Maharaja Duleep Singh, as well as gratitude for no longer having to hide or be ashamed of who we are and where we come from.

Finally, let there be recognition that it is our birthright to let our flame burn brighter than ever.

Happy Vaisakhi!

Most children of immigrant parents will tell you that much of their life has been trying to figure out who they are. On one hand, you have the values and beliefs of your parents, imported from a place thousands of miles away, and then on the other, you have the culture, beliefs and norms of the society in which you live. Often, these two clash, causing confusion, commotion and a massive questioning of identity.

It’s a never-ending balancing act.

Individuality is a magnificent thing, and as countless philosophers, prophets and wise persons have shared, life is a solo journey. What this means in this case is that there is no right way of dealing with this internal conflict. Each of us has to choose a path, and each of us has to walk that path as best we can. Some of us let the scales of past and present tip to extreme imbalance, while others try their hardest to level them as best they can.

“A people without the knowledge of their past history, origin and culture is like a tree without roots.”

The words above belong to Marcus Garvey, and since I read them a few years ago, they have become ingrained in my head. I think of them often, and in recent weeks, more than I ever have before, for reasons both intimate and also quite public.

My history, my origin and my roots are from Punjab, and by virtue of their genesis, are deeply entwined with the Sikh faith. While I’ve let the scales of identity tip to ridiculous imbalance growing up, I’ve made a concerted effort over the last few years to balance them by reconnecting with the land of my forefathers, and through this journey I’ve rediscovered and fallen in love with the story of my people and our land.

In recent weeks, I’ve been exploring a few different schools of thought. Interestingly, all of them have taken me back to my roots, including one which led me to the words of Guru Arjun the 5th Sikh Guru. The words in question are:

“Whatever you ask of your Master, that is what you get.”

Even if one doesn’t believe in God or a higher power, this is a concept that has become quite popular in recent times. In the west, we call it manifestation. Essentially, put what you want out into the Universe and you will get it.

I have come to appreciate that all we need, seek and desire is all around us, we just fail to see it. There are opportunities that make themselves available every day, but in our busyness, distraction and sometimes outright obliviousness, we miss them.

Lately, I’ve been desperately seeking a way to reconnect with my roots. I have felt that the scales balancing where I come from and where I am are precariously tilting one way again, and that feeling gets stronger when I look at my children.

As a parent who has immense appreciation for my heritage, I often fret I am not doing a good enough job passing it on to my son and daughter. In their veins flows the blood of poets, revolutionaries, warriors, saints and soldiers, yet they know very little about it. Although I try to explain this to them as best I can, I often come across as lecturing or preaching, and as we all know, there is no quicker way to lose a child’s attention.

Circling back to that idea of everything we want is there for us and we just don’t see it, I found the opportunity in the most unlikely of places – a hockey game.

On October 26, 2024, Arshdeep Bains, a local boy from Surrey, BC, scored his first NHL goal.

Arshdeep reached this milestone while wearing jersey number 13, a departure from the number 80 he wore on his back in previous outings.

As we all know, the number 13 is considered unlucky by the west. The fear of the number 13 is so deep that it even has a word to describe it:

“triskaidekaphobia.”

Interestingly, for people who adhere to the Sikh faith, the number 13 carries a very special meaning, one that traces back to Guru Nanak, the founder of our faith.

13 is pronounced “therran” in Punjabi. “Therran” also has another meaning – literally translating to “I am yours”.

Before delving into this further, it is also imperative to understand the concept of Oneness in relation to the Sikh faith. For the sake of brevity, let’s just say the foundation of the faith is the fact that all of us, the world, the Universe itself – we are all connected; everything and everyone is a part of the One.

This Oneness includes God as well – rather than seeking a connection with a God separate from us, God is a PART of us, residing within us and every person and thing that makes up our world.

As legend has it, while he was working as a shopkeeper at a granary, Guru Nanak was responsible for weighing and selling provisions. It is said that when his count reached 13, Guru Nanak became so immersed in meditation on the concept of his connection to One, he kept repeating the number.

“13.
13.
I am yours.
I am yours.”

Regardless of what the scales showed, he repeated the number, much to the chagrin of onlookers. When his perceived neglect was reported and an audit conducted, everything was miraculously found to be in order, and Guru Nanak was absolved of the allegation against him.

Fast forward to well over 500 years later, to a place thousands of miles from where Guru Nanak was weighing grain. Arshdeep Bains scores his first goal as a Vancouver Canuck, wearing that special number on his back. and through it all, reminds us of our powerful connection not just to our faith, but to each other.

We belong to the One.
We are a part of it.
It is a part of us.
All is 13.

The Universe, the One, God, – whatever you want to call it – it gives us all we need. There is abundance in front of us always, yet we fail to see it.

Going back to the words of Guru Arjun – “What we ask of the Master (who resides within us), we will get.”

Despite what we convince ourselves of sometimes, the Universe always gives us the opportunity to balance the scales.

With this in mind, Arshdeep scoring that goal wearing jersey number 13 wasn’t just a coincidence, as he himself put it:

“It almost felt like it was meant to be.”

Through his first goal, Arshdeep gave people like me the opportunity not only bask in a moment of pride for someone who shares our roots, he also gave us the chance to have a meaningful discussion with our children on the significance of his jersey number and what it means to our faith, along with how they can incorporate its essence into their lives.

It was a moment to reflect on the beautiful simplicity yet deep intricacy of our faith’s foundation – Oneness and our connection to it.

I take Arshdeep scoring that goal wearing that jersey as a sign…a statement from the Universe:

“13.
Therran.
I am yours.
I am you.”

Every day, there is an opportunity to balance the scales, and if we pay attention, it will present itself.

A week ago, I visited an organization called Manukhta Di Sewa Society (MDSS), which translates to “The Service of Mankind”. I shared my experience on Facebook and Instagram, and offered to serve as a conduit for those wishing to assist them by making a donation.

Before I share how much money we were able to collect and where it was used, I would like to share some more stories I heard about the people I met while there, so that all those who donated can understand how significant their contributions were, regardless of the amount.

First, I listened to the story of Sahibjot, who is in the first grade. I learned her father was addicted to narcotics, and ended up getting her mother addicted as well. Her father ended up in jail, and Sahibjot and her mother ended up leaving their village and on the streets.

As is the case with many addicts, Sahibjot’s mother was willing to do whatever it took to get her next fix. Sahibjot would accompany her when she went to purchase her drugs, and soon the dealers started inquiring about how much money it would take for her mother to sell her to them.

Despite her addiction, Sahibjot’s mother realized what was happening. Having heard about MDSS, she contacted them and took up residence in their facility with Sahibjot. Unfortunately, her mother decided she didn’t want to stay, but left Sahibjot in their care. MDSS is now taking care of Sahibjot’s education.

I shudder to think what would have happened if her mother had not contacted them.

Next, I met Simla Devi Mata. I was told she came from an extremely wealthy family, and was very educated. She did all of the accounting for her husband’s family business, and was called upon to assist with accounting by everyone within the village and surrounding areas.

Simla Devi Mata and her husband had no children. After his death and the death of her in-laws, she was left alone, and soon developed a mental illness. She locked all of the doors to her home except one, from which she would be able to monitor who came to see her.

She placed herself on a bed, where she remained for 13-14 years. When they rescued her, she was surrounded by her own excrement and not having showered for over a decade, was covered in filth. Her land and property had been seized by her family, and she had been left with nothing.

Simla Devi Mata spends her days within the MDSS complex. Although she is doing much better, she still thinks her husband is away at one of their farms and will return home soon.

Next, I met a little boy with a mischievous smile named Raj Kumar. After the death of his parents, he and his brother were left to fend for themselves. Raj Kumar is a kind and trusting soul, and this was taken advantage of by people. They would use him to play pranks on others (letting air out of tires, damaging property), and the eager to please little boy would do as instructed.

When he got caught, he would be beaten badly.

When MDSS found him, he had a severe head wound which was infected with maggots, and his brother had a damaged eye. Both are now with MDSS and being treated for their wounds, and also attend the school on site.

Last but certainly not least, I had another opportunity to meet Babu Gopal Singh and hear his story from his own mouth. He asked me what I was writing (I was taking notes as we spoke), and when I told him I was going to write about him, his already beaming smile grew even brighter

When I told him it would be in English and people in Canada would read it, he beamed with joy. When I showed him the previous picture I had posted of him and all the comments and likes he received, he couldn’t stop staring at it and grinning, tapping the screen to see it again when it would black out.

Now, to your contributions. In total, $5575 CAD was received, which, when converted using today’s exchange rate, equates to just over 330,000 Indian Rupees (INR). We asked the staff at MDSS where this was best used, and were asked to pay some outstanding hospital bills.

I would like to thank each and every one of you who donated and shared what I wrote. Your contributions have made a significant impact on people like those I’ve mentioned above. I consider myself blessed to have had the privilege to visit this wonderful organization twice during this trip, and that was made possible by you.

From the bottom of my heart – thank you.

As I left, I ran into Bapu Gopal Singh again, and he eagerly asked me if I had written about him yet. I promised him I would do it as soon as I got home, and he smiled, shook my hand and gave me a big hug.

If any of you travel to Punjab anytime soon, I highly suggest visiting Manukhta Di Sewa Society so you too can experience what I did. I also ask that if you happen to run into Bapu Gopal Singh when you visit, you show him this post so he knows I fulfilled my promise to him.

Years ago, my Chacha told me about a place that had records of our family history, going back generations. At the time, I found it intriguing, but I wasn’t interested enough to want to know more.

As I’ve grown older, I’ve come to appreciate how valuable the knowledge of where you come from is.

This trip to Punjab has been one on which I’ve done a lot of soul-searching, absorbing the history of this beautiful land. As my time here is winding down, I felt a strong urge to know more about my own personal history, so I decided to pay the place my Chacha had mentioned a visit.

As we made the 2.5 hour drive into the neighbouring state of Haryana (which was a part of Punjab until 1966), I reflected on why it had taken me so long to seek out this information, despite being aware of it on my last trip to Punjab.

Being honest with myself, I realized that one of the things which had held me back was the fact that the record-keepers of this information were Hindu priests. Being a proud Sikh, I was unwilling to accept that my ancestors also visited Hindu places of worship. At the time, I considered this a type of blasphemy, but since I’ve begun learning and reading about the history of Punjab, I’ve come to realize that religion doesn’t operate in a silo here. Like the rivers from which it derives its name, faith is fluid in Punjab, and Sikhs, Hindus and Muslims don’t necessarily abide by the strict divisions we’ve created in the west. There is no doubt that these are separate faiths with separate ways of life, but there is also an overlap in some aspects – something I’ve come to understand the beauty of, especially as I delve further into Guru Nanak’s teachings and his message of Oneness.

Upon reaching our destination, I entered the stall which I was directed to after being asked my surname, village and caste. A few moments later, two priests entered and began to pull out massive ledgers which were clearly very old.

When the priests learned I was from Canada, they were thrilled. They asked if I was there to perform a ritual, and I informed them I was not. Apparently, this was what a lot of people travelled here for, either wishing for the priests to conduct a ceremony to ensure the soul of a departed loved one would be at peace, or to find a solution for a course of bad luck. Instead, I shared that I had made the journey from Punjab to visit them to learn about my ancestors – something that made them even happier. With great eagerness, they delved into their ledgers and scoured the entries.

After about an hour, I had learned the names of my forefathers going back nine generations, making me the tenth. The earliest entry was made by my great-grandfather’s great-grandfather’s great-grandfather, approximately 250 years ago, in or around 1773.

As I sat there, listening to the names of the people whose blood runs through my veins for the very first time in my life, I thought about how important they were. Without even one of them, I would not exist. I also thought about how monumental making the journey to this place must have been. I travelled by car and it took me well over two hours; they didn’t have such a luxury, so what took me a few hours probably took them at least a full day, if not more.

Clearly, coming here was important to them.

Realizing the significance of this place to my ancestors, I made the decision to honour them by asking the priests to update the ledgers. They asked my son’s name, which I provided (only male names were recorded, as per tradition). I then added my own twist, asking them to record my daughter’s name as well. I then proceeded to sign the ledger, just like every one of my ancestors before me who had made the same journey had done.

Marcus Garvey once said,

“A person without knowledge of their past history, origin and culture is like a tree without roots.”

Over the last few years and especially on this trip, I have come to understand how important information such as this is, as well as the value of preserving it for future generations.

Although I’ve written down all the names I’ve learned and will share them with my children, there is always the chance that they may get lost with time. My dad tells me my grandfather had kept meticulous records of our genealogy, but over the years, they’ve been misplaced and are now deemed gone forever. Reflecting on this, the following thoughts came to mind:

Perhaps one day in the future, another Hara will one day feel the urge to find out where he or she comes from.

Perhaps they’ll make the journey I made and talk to a priest who will pull out the same old ledgers I saw.

Perhaps they’ll realize that I made the same journey so many years prior, and when they look at my signature , perhaps they’ll feel the same sense of gratitude I felt that these priceless pieces of our family’s history were recorded for them to appreciate.

After the horrific execution of Guru Gobind Singh’s two youngest sons in December of 1705 on the orders of the Mughal ruler of Sirhind, a man named Todar Mal took possession of the bodies of the six and nine year old children, along with that of their grandmother.

It is said that landowners of Sirhind refused to allow him space to cremate their bodies, perhaps out of fear of retribution from the authorities. If they were willing to brick two young children alive after torturing them and their elderly grandmother, it was clear they were capable of anything.

Finally, a landowner agreed to sell Todar Mal the land for the cremation. The seller declared the final selling price would be the amount of coins it took to cover the land Todar Mal needed to perform the cremation. It is said that 7800 coins were required to complete the transaction.

It remains to date, one of the most expensive land purchases in history.

Todar Mal agreed to pay this ridiculously high amount without hesitation, and purchased the land after stacking gold coins vertically (rather than flat, which would have used less), as per the conditions which had been laid out by the seller out of a combination of sheer greed and lack of compassion.

Today, a beautiful Gurdwara called Jyoti Saroop has been erected at the location of the cremation, marking this very sombre moment in both Sikh and Punjabi history.

Todar Mal was a wealthy businessman. He lived in a magnificent haveli (mansion), one with a massive courtyard and even a swimming pool. Although he was well-off, the price he paid for the land was crippling. He was left in financial ruin, and perhaps worse, he now faced the wrath of Wazir Khan, the ruler of Sirhind, who was furious when he found out that the bodies had been cremated. Wazir Khan and his advisors had wanted to set an example for anyone who dared to even consider speaking up against the barbarity of the Mughal rulers at the time.

What happened to Todar Mal is unknown, but what we do know is that he was forced to leave Sirhind with his family, leaving his beautiful haveli abandoned.

Wazir Khan and his administrators were brought to justice in 1710 by Banda Singh Bahadur and his army. In a bloody battle, Sirhind was captured by the Sikh forces, and in their anger at what had happened to the children of Guru Gobind Singh and his mother, they razed the town to the ground. While many buildings were destroyed during the siege, the haveli of Todar Mal was left untouched, out of respect for the kindness and humanity he displayed towards the children and mother of the tenth Guru.

Unfortunately time and neglect have done what Banda Singh Bahadur’s army did not. The once awe-inspiring haveli is now in ruins. Although there were clearly some sort of restoration efforts underway, there was no work happening when I visited. A lone security guard was posted at the site, along with signs warning visitors not to damage the ruins, but both did little to prevent people from touching things and moving about as they pleased. During my time there, at least three vehicles drove straight into the courtyard, where Todar Mal once greeted important guests.

I am fully aware that perhaps I am being overly critical of what is happening in terms of conservation of this site and others I’ve seen. Some may argue that I have no right, as I am a Canadian and don’t know what it’s like here. I counter that by saying that I have every right to do so because as a Sikh and as someone who traces his ancestors back to Punjab, this is a part of my history as much as it is that of any Indian or native-born Punjabi’s.

Todar Mal gave up everything to do what was right. His sacrifice and selflessness sets an example of what the definition of humanity is, not just for Sikhs, but the entire world. What he did reminds me of the following words of Kahlil Gibran:

“You give but little when you give of your possessions. It is when you give of yourself that you truly give.”

In walking through the ruins of Todar Mal’s haveli, I realized he went even further than what Gibran has said, for he gave not only of himself by risking his own safety by carrying out the cremation, but also of his possessions, by leveraging his wealth to purchase the land. He gave completely and freely from the heart, and that is what pure giving is all about.

As I’ve shared before, visiting places with a rich history is like travelling back in time. If you go to these places and free yourself of distraction and let them tell you their stories, you will be amazed at what you will experience. As I walked around Todar Mal’s haveli and inside it, I asked it to tell me its story, and it did so without hesitation.

I watched Todar Mal returning to his haveli after the cremation, knowing he was broke. I pictured him knowing he would incur the wrath of Wazir Khan, and telling his family they would need to leave. I watched as they packed their belongings and loaded their carts, and finally I bore witness to Todar Mal standing in the entrance to his courtyard, looking back at the haveli he had worked so hard to build, knowing he would never see it again.

We as a community have done a grave disservice to this selfless man by letting his home fall into the state that it is now in. Todar Mal didn’t do what he did for recognition or fame – it cost him everything. He did it because he knew what he was doing was the right thing to do.

I challenge each and every person who has read this far to examine how freely they give. Before I give to a cause, I think about how much I can “afford”, because I have “other expenses”. Activities for my kids, bills, and the day-to-day costs that come with the lifestyle I live.

I give where I can, but if I am to be completely honest with myself and those who read this, I know I can probably give more, not just in dollars, but also in time. I have no hesitation spending time on social media and money on a night out, but when it comes to giving to a good cause, I hesitate and think about what I can “afford” to spare.

As I walked out of where the once splendid gates of Todar Mal’s haveli once greeted visitors, I found myself comparing my giving to that of Todar Mal’s. He too had “other expenses”, and he too was a busy man, yet he gave it all up without a second thought. I don’t have the ability to be as selfless as Todar Mal – none of us do, but we do have the ability to appreciate his sacrifice and draw inspiration from it.

I know buildings are just that – buildings, but as previously mentioned, they contain stories. The emotions we experience when we visit such places are unparalleled. I don’t think Todar Mal would care about what happened to his haveli, but I think for people like you and I who need physical reminders of what true giving and humanity are, we need to ramp up our efforts to save it from disappearing forever, taking along with it the story of sacrifice it contains within its walls.