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.

In Herman Hesse’s classic book “Siddhartha”, we follow the man who the work is named after through his journey in life, travelling with him in his search for truth and enlightenment. Siddhartha transitions through numerous stages, transforming from the son of a Brahmin into a starving ascetic, and then into a rich man who enjoys the material things in life to the extreme. Unfortunately, Siddhartha is unable to find peace, and even a meeting with Buddha himself doesn’t give him the answers he seeks with such passion.

Eventually, Siddhartha ends up by a river. By studying it, he comes to learn and truly understand the many things he had spent a lifetime searching for.

Siddhartha realizes the water within the river was flowing continuously, with new water replacing that which had been there moments prior. It was constantly moving, yet always present.

It was always the same river, yet it was always changing.

The river also teaches Siddhartha that there is no such thing as time. For the river, only the present matters. The water in it exists in multiple places: its source, waterfalls, oceans, currents and waves. It is both everywhere and in everything, but when Siddhartha views it, it is a river.

Siddhartha comes to understand that the answers he’s been seeking all his life are hidden within this very fact. He stops viewing his life in segments, lamenting about the past and worrying about the future, realizing they’re both connected and a part of what matters most – the present.

As per tradition, I brought my mom’s ashes to Punjab to place them into the waters of the Sutlej River at Kiratpur Sahib. As I took in the beautiful serenity of Gurdwara Pataalpuri Sahib, what I had read about Siddhartha’s lessons from the river came into mind.

Time has made us all prisoners. We long for the past, especially when we lose someone. We let it torment us and take over our lives. We let ourselves become overwhelmed with emotion, and ache for those departed. In essence, we drown in the river of life, allowing the anchor of grief to drag us to the bottom.

I miss my mom terribly, but by visiting this spot and letting her go, I realize that much like the river, she is now everywhere. Her presence flows not only in the waters of her homeland of Punjab, but also in the waters of everyone’s life she has touched. There’s no use in pining away for the water that has flown past, because the water that remains is no different.

Siddhartha also comes to realize that the river contains the voices of everyone he has ever known, coming to grasp that the river is in fact an allegory for life. My comprehension of this is that our lives hold within them pieces of everyone who has ever mattered to us, including all those who are no longer here. For me of course, that means my mom, something that brings me comfort and peace.

As I stood on the land of my ancestors and looked at the bright sky above, preparing myself to walk down the blue steps to the river to bid farewell to my mom, I thought about Siddhartha and also the following words of Guru Nanak:

“The sky is our teacher, water our mother and earth our mighty father.”

I wrote this post because the reality of life is that everyone who will take the time to read it either has or will one day have to say goodbye to a parent.

One day, many of you will make the same trip I made, carrying your parent’s ashes thousands of miles to a place you’ve only visited a handful of times.

One day, you too will make the drive from your ancestral village to Kiratpur Sahib and stand in front of Gurdwara Pataalpuri, knowing what you must do, no matter how hard it may be.

One day, you too will walk over that bridge and down the blue steps to the banks of the Sutlej River, and one day you too will place your parent’s ashes into the beautiful green waters and let them be carried away by the fast flowing current.

It is my sincerest wish that when that day comes, you too will understand that although the water into which you placed the ashes of your parent has moved on, the river remains the same. I hope that when you start to make your way back up those blue stairs, thinking about how things will be very different, you will understand that they will also be the same.

The present is all that matters, and just like my mom, whoever you will one day bid farewell to will remain with you, flowing through the currents of the river that is your life, forever connected, united with the sky – our wise teacher; the earth -our mighty father; and of course, water – our loving mother.

Gone, but still here in a way more powerful than ever.

I had the opportunity to visit an amazing organization called “Manukhta Di Sewa,” which translates to “The Service of Humankind” during this trip. To put it simply, I was blown away by what I witnessed.

When we walked in, we were greeted by a cheerful older gentleman with a wide smile. He shook all of our hands and had a glow about him that made my soul feel at ease. A diminutive man who stands just 4 feet 5 inches tall, he reminded me of Pappa Smurf, and I couldn’t help match his smile with one just as big.

We learned that this man had been abandoned by his family in an orphanage at age 15, and through a series of unfortunate circumstances, had been forced into slavery, working backbreaking labour and enduring heartless beatings and torture for over forty years. In looking at him smiling at me while I heard his story, it was hard to fathom what this pure soul had been through.

Fortunately for Bapu Gopal Singh, he was freed from slavery by Manukhta Di Sewa, and now spends his days happily greeting visitors to the complex and listening to his radio.

Next, we met a beautiful little baby named Sukhmani. We learned that her mentally-ill mother was abandoned while pregnant by her family and as a result, she was taken in by Manukhta Di Sewa, where this lovely little angel was born and has spent her entire life to date.

We then met Aarti, a bright-eyed little girl with a heartwarming smile. It was hard to believe that when Manukhta Di Sewa rescued her, she had severe and untreated burns on her back, and was being used as a prop by her father to solicit empathy and alms as he begged for money.

As we toured the facility’s medical wing, we met an elderly woman having lunch on her hospital bed. We were told that she was abused severely by her son, but despite this, she continuously calls out for him.

Finally, we saw a man with a black turban and glasses surrounded by children who were hugging him and holding his hands as he moved through the courtyard. He introduced himself as Gurpreet Singh, and we learned that he was the founder of the organization. Despite what I assume must be a very busy schedule, Gurpreet took the time to speak with us, something I could tell this wasn’t done out of any sort of formality or as a show, but rather out of genuine appreciation and gratitude.

I share this story here for two reasons. The first is selfish, because as I’ve shared before, writing makes me make sense of all that is going on in my head. What I experienced walking through the complex and seeing Bapu Gopal Singh, baby Sukhmani, little Aarti and countless others is best described as a mixed bag of emotions. I’m happy that Manukhta Di Sewa was able to rescue them and turn their lives around, but I’m also saddened because I know there are thousands of men, women and children just like them out there who need help as well. During my time in Punjab on this trip, I’ve been reminded all too well of how bad a lot of people have it here. Every time I go somewhere, I witness extreme poverty and people who need assistance, and feel helpless because I feel as though there is nothing I can do, or overwhelmed because I don’t know how to help.

This leads directly into my second reason for sharing this experience with all of you. Many of you have been to Punjab, so you’ve seen the poverty and dire straits I’m talking about first hand. It’s likely you too have felt a sense of despair, because despite wanting to help, you don’t know where to start.

Manukhta Di Sewa does not accept monetary donations. Instead, they ask you to take care of medical expenses or help pay another one of their bills. I was fortunate enough to be able to be able to use the modest amount of money collected from close family and friends back home to purchase cement for a new building being constructed.

As I’ve mentioned before, we live lives of privilege in Canada. We have more than what we need, yet many of us still want more. Meanwhile, people like those who Manukhta Di Sewa takes in are in desperate need of the most basic of life’s necessities. I’ve seen so many men, women and children on the side of the road, with not just extreme poverty as a foe to battle with, but also severe physical and mental impairment. No matter how much we like to feel sorry for ourselves at times, none of us is even close to suffering as much as any of these people are.

If you are anything like me, you’re very wary of where your money goes, and if you know anything about India, you know there are a lot of scams designed to tug at your heartstrings to get to your wallet. After meeting with Gurpreet and seeing and hearing everything I have, I know for a fact that this organization is different, and one which is truly made to help people in need.

Donations from abroad are difficult to make at this time, but I am here right now. After sharing my experience with a few people, I’ve been asked to make a donation on their behalf. I share this here with everyone who reads it with the help that more people will donate and help those in need. The Canadian dollar goes a long way here, so even the smallest of amounts can make a massive difference.

If you would like to assist, please send me a message or an e-transfer at ghara23@gmail.com by March 08. I will head back to Manukhta Di Sewa’s headquarters and find out where all money collected is needed most and donate accordingly.

This is a wonderful opportunity for us all to help our fellow humans, and no words better sum up why we should do so than those of author Leo Buscaglia:

“It is not enough to have lived. We should be determined to live for something. May I suggest it be for creating joy for others, sharing what we have for the betterment of personkind, bringing love to the lost and lonely.”

If you have ever travelled to India, you’ll agree that the drive from Delhi to Punjab is a tough one. After flying halfway across the world on long flights (14 hours in my case this time), we make our way to our villages, tired, weary and eager to get home. Depending on where in Punjab you are headed, the drive is at least seven hours or more.

For as long as I can remember, I recall looking out the window of the car waiting to see a sign which would signal that we are close to home. When my eyes would come across a massive red structure in the middle of wheat fields next to a stunning gurdwara, my heart would skip a beat because I knew home was not too far away. As a child, I always thought this gigantic building was an old castle, and each time I saw it, my mind would fill with thoughts of kings, queens and magnificent banquets and feasts. As I grew older, I learned it was from the Mughal era and based on my limited knowledge of the era and lack of initiative to look into it further, I assumed it was a fort.

I’ve been to Punjab three times prior to this trip as an adult, but I’ve never made the time to visit this landmark. As I’ve shared before, this trip to Punjab is both different and significant. Life is short and unpredictable, therefore if one has questions on their mind or something they’re curious about, they should endeavour to find the answers and satisfy said curiosity. With this in mind, I decided I would make the time to visit the fort I’ve admired from afar for so many years.

As we left home, I felt feelings of anxiety and dread in the pit of my stomach. My experience with the Lodhi Fort a few days earlier was fresh on my mind, so I didn’t know what to expect. I had heard that this place was in bad shape as well, so I prepared myself for the worst as we approached it.

To my surprise, we pulled up to a bustle of activity in and around the building. In speaking with the security guard posted outside the towering medieval gate, we learned that the government had commissioned a full restoration of the complex. After I studied the sign posted outside the entrance, I learned that this structure that had made my heart skip a beat each time I saw it wasn’t a fort, but rather a rest stop – a “serai” in Punjabi.

Built in the 16th century and named after the Mughal general who oversaw its completion, Serai Lashkari Khan served as a place for weary armies to rest as they travelled across Northern India. Built in the 16th century and strategically situated on the main trading route of the Grand Trunk Road (GT Road), Serai Lashkari Khan has stood for centuries, and now serves as a reminder of an era long gone.

The guard allowed us to walk around inside, where an eager labourer became our impromptu tour guide, pointing out the three wells that quenched the thirst of the exhausted travellers that stopped to rest in the serai. He also showed us the now abandoned mosque where travellers could offer a prayer of thanks for making it that far, and ask for blessings as they continued forward to their final destination. We stopped inside the various rooms and were told how the labourers were given temporary residence in the quarters – living and sleeping in the same place that once gave shelter to fierce generals and soldiers.

In walking around the serai and thinking about its significance, I pictured armies marching down an ancient GT Road, the same road I take to get home from Delhi, and imagined them breathing a sigh of relief when the serai was in sight, much like I did each time I saw it en route to our village.

As I explored and let the serai share its story with me, my thoughts turned to its creator. Lashkari Khan is long gone, but his serai still stands. Although it doesn’t house armies anymore, it still gives hope to weary travellers like me when it comes into sight.

Lashkari Khan had no idea the mosque he prayed in would one day be abandoned.

He had no idea the wells that provided the refreshing water that soothed his parched throat after a long journey would one day be dry.

He had no idea his creation would one day be in a terrible state and on the brink of oblivion, only to be saved and restored to its former glory.

He did, however, know that his serai would give those tired from their travels a feeling of relief and hope when their eyes caught sight of it. I pray wherever his soul is now, it knows that what he built continues to do that which it was meant to do, albeit in a different way – hundreds of years after he breathed his last.

I had some time to myself this evening, so I decided to visit an old fort a short drive from our village here in Punjab. Although I knew from some online research that the fort was in bad shape due to neglect, what I saw when I got there was something I wasn’t prepared for.

The Lodhi Fort (also known as Purana Qila – The Old Fort) was built by a powerful ruler named Sikander Lodhi. Approximately 500 years old, the fort was strategically erected on the banks of the Sutlej River to defend against incursions into the Lodhi Dynasty’s territory. A few hundred years later, Maharaja Ranjit Singh recognized its tactical value and took it under his control.

A few hundred years later still, the fort now sits abandoned in the middle of the city, surrounded by what can best be described in one word – poverty.

The path leading up to the fort was undoubtedly heavily guarded by soldiers in the times of the Lodhis and Maharaja Ranjit Singh, and civilians like us would have been stopped before we even got close. Now, the path was manned by a handful of children playing cricket who stopped to look at us with curiosity as we walked past them.

Entering the fort, one immediately sees it is in bad shape. The walls are covered in graffiti and falling apart, and debris is strewn everywhere. Unmanaged vegetation is rampant, with the roots of trees starting to make the roof collapse in multiple areas. As we explored the various rooms that once housed the soldiers who were tasked with defending the citadel, we came across men and young boys either high or in the process of getting high, all staring at us with bloodshot eyes.

As I stood on the roof while looking out across the fort, I pictured Sikander Lodhi and Maharaja Ranjit Singh standing in the same spot.

Whereas my eyes took in slums and garbage, they must have seen lush greenery and a beautifully flowing river.

Whereas the grounds within the fort would have likely served as a place for military drills and training, it now serves as a place for local youth to shoot TikTok videos to the latest Punjabi and Hindi songs, while street dogs fight over scraps of food they have managed to scavenge.

Whereas they must have been filled with pride and joy at what their fort was, I was filled with sadness and despair at what it had become.

Built and fought over by kings, it now sits abandoned and in ruins.

Although I am still very angry at the lack of care for this historical place, after having a few hours to reflect on it, I see that despite its condition, it still has something to teach anyone who visits it.

Sikander Lodhi is gone, and so is Maharaja Ranjit Singh.

Yet the fort remains; despite its condition, it still stands, refusing to fade away just yet, for it has something to share with the world.

Mehmet Murat Ildan once said “Ancient moments are full of wisdom, for they have been filled with what they have been filled with what they have seen and heard for hundreds of years.”

The Lodhi Fort has heard the conversations of mighty kings and powerful generals. Its walls contain stories of the rise and fall of empires.

I realize now that those thoughts of Sikander Lodhi and Maharaja Ranjit Singh weren’t just thoughts, they were the fort speaking to me, sharing its story.

Based on its present condition, it’s safe to say the Lodhi Fort will be gone soon, taking with it forever the stories it contains, therefore I consider myself blessed for having had the opportunity to visit and listen to that which it considered me worthy enough to share.

Every December, the world celebrates Christmas. Regardless of our faith, the vast majority of the people on earth come together to be with friends and family. It is a time of hope, goodwill, humanity and love.

We listen to and tell countless stories and sing carols extolling the virtues of leading a meaningful and purposeful life. We hear of how Scrooge changed his ways, how the Three Wise Men made their journey to see the newborn baby Jesus, and how a truce broke out in the trenches of WWI on Christmas Eve, with men from both sides putting their differences aside to come together in peace.

There is however, another story that took place in December that doesn’t receive as much attention, even from the people who should know it intimately.

This story involves a mighty leader, one who was kind, generous and righteous. He empowered peasants and the downtrodden to speak up for their rights and fight injustice in a time where it was running rampant. It includes his elderly mother and his four sons, with the eldest only 18 and the youngest just 6 years old.

It involves an extended siege of this great leader’s fort, led by forces intimidated by his influence and empowerment of the people they wished to forever keep under foot.

It involves an oath made to allow this great leader, his family and his followers safe passage in exchange for leaving the fort, sworn upon the holy books of the besieging army.

It involves the breaking of this sacred promise made on not one, but two holy scriptures, resulting in an attack on the leader and those he led on the banks of a river swollen by heavy rains- in the middle of a cold North Indian winter.

It involves his family and followers being separated in the ensuing chaos of attempting to cross this river, not knowing how or if they would ever reunite.

It involves this great leader, his two elder sons and a handful of his followers taking shelter in a mud fort, extremely outnumbered but inspired by the fact that they were on the side of truth.

It involves his two elder sons and almost all his followers perishing fighting a battle that to this day, inspires each person that hears about it.

It involves his two younger sons losing their lives after refusing to betray their father, and their grandmother following soon thereafter.

It involves this great leader sleeping in forests, losing all of his family and closest followers, yet still remaining steadfast in his belief, for he knew he was fighting a battle against tyranny and oppression.

It involves many other stories intertwined with those mentioned above, all which took place in late December, 1704. These are stories of courage and sacrifice, of selflessness and righteousness, of love and unity.

Come to think of it, these aren’t stories; they are our history. They made us who we are, instilling the sense of justice and selflessness we feel to this day. Each time we speak out against a wrong, help someone in need, do our part to make the world better, we are honouring those brave souls who perished over 300 years ago. Their spirit, their essence and their will live on through us via our actions and deeds.

So, as you partake in this holiday season, don’t forget to include the events of December 1704 in your thoughts. Share what happened with your children.

Discuss it with your family.

Remember the sacrifices.

Admire their courage.

Pay your respects and above all, keep the memory alive.

Artwork: MS Saluja