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

“They’ve reached Delhi!” one of the women shouted with great joy.

For weeks, the residents of Delhi’s Widow Colony had been following the news as farmers from Punjab made their way across the country, en route to the capital to protest the recently announced farming bills.

Preeto had solemnly watched as images of the fierce Nihang warriors marching on horseback like they had during the times of the Gurus blazed across every news channel. While others were excited and eager to discuss what would happen next, Preeto remained silent, something she had become accustomed to. Many years ago, she had come to the conclusion that keeping quiet made what her life had become seem less painful.

As the chatter around her grew, Preeto closed her eyes and let herself drift back in time, back to when things were much different – back to when she used to be happy.

She thought back to her cozy home above her husband’s small shop, in a suburb of the bustling metropolis and sea of humanity that Delhi was and still remains. Her husband would open up the shop every day at 8:00 am, six days a week. He would begin his day by waking up every morning before dawn. Soon thereafter, the house would fill with the sound of his voice reciting morning prayers, along with the comforting smell of incense. Slowly, the sweet aroma would make its way through their modest home and into Preeto’s nostrils, serving as her alarm clock to rise and join her husband in prayer. The couple had a five year-old son, as bright as could be, and the apple of his parents’ eyes.

They weren’t rich by any means, but by the grace of God, they were content. Unfortunately, all of that changed in a matter of hours.

Preeto listened in horror as the radio broadcaster announced that the Prime Minister had been assassinated. News quickly spread that her assassins were her Sikh bodyguards, and not soon thereafter, mayhem erupted.

Her husband rushed upstairs and told her to lock all of the windows and doors. His usual calm demeanor was replaced by one of fear and panic, something that filled Preeto with dread.

Over the next eight hours, they huddled in front of their radio, listening to the scarce news of what was happening across the city without uttering a word. Those hours were a blur after all these years, but Preeto did recall the occasional slogan of “The revenge for blood is blood!” being chanted in the streets outside their home.

A sense that something extremely bad was about to happen overwhelmed Preeto; she tried to calm her mind with silent prayers

“Why is no one coming to help us?” thought Preeto desperately as she took a deep breath to steady her nerves.

A few times, people tried breaking into their shop, but the metal shutters proved to be too much work. Frustrated, they would move on, looking for easier prey.

Just as the thought that they might be safe entered Preeto’s mind, she heard something that made her heart feel as though it was pierced by an arrow of ice.

“This is a Sikh’s tea shop – I come here all the time! He lives upstairs with his wife and kid! I bet they are hiding up there!

Preeto recognized the voice immediately – it belonged to a man who lived a few blocks away, the one who stopped by every morning to buy tea from her husband, greeting her with a big smile and calling her “sister” out of respect every time they crossed paths.

Whereas the previous hours were a blur, no matter how hard she tried and no matter how quiet she stayed, Preeto could never forget what happened next.

It was as vivid as if it had just happened yesterday.

She heard the shutters of the shop being ripped open, the sickening sound of metal twisting and creaking making her heart jump out of her chest. Next, she heard excited shouts and hurried footsteps as people rushed up the stairs. Finally the deafening sound of the doors separating their home from the shop shattering as they were kicked open with violent force filled her ears.

In an instant, four of them leapt onto her husband, beating him mercilessly, while the other two took hold of her. She fought back with the ferocity of a lioness, but just as the mightiest lioness can be overpowered by a pack of rabid hyenas, she was pinned to the ground in a matter of seconds.

They didn’t stand a chance.

As one of them held her down, the one who had called her sister so many times ripped away her clothing. She begged him to stop, reminding him that he was like a brother to her, but all she saw in his eyes was an animalistic rage, as a manic smile spread across his face. She screamed for her husband to help her, but as she turned to look at him, she saw his face was a bloody pulp. The turban he wore like a crown lay on the floor under the foot of one of the men holding him down, and his hair was scattered across his disfigured face.

They took turns, each of them forcing her to look into his eyes. The others held her husband down, forcing him to watch his wife being assaulted. Preeto closed her eyes shut as tight as she could, praying that this was just a terrible nightmare, waiting for the familiar smell of incense to wake her from her slumber so she could join her husband for morning prayers.

Instead, Preeto’s nostrils were assaulted with vile smells that reminded that what was happening wasn’t a bad dream, but a very gruesome reality.

Alcohol.

Tobacco.

Sweat.

As she lay motionless while being attacked, Preeto again repeatedly thought with sadness, “Why is no one coming to help us?”

Still praying for that comforting smell of incense, Preeto smelled yet another odour, one that made her open her eyes in horror to frantically look for its source.

It was kerosene.

As the last of her attackers finished doing as he pleased to her, she turned her head to see her husband being doused with the gas. They dragged him downstairs and into the street as he begged for his life to be spared. Continuing to beat him and ignoring his cries, they placed a tire around his neck and poured more kerosene over him. Helplessly, she watched from her window as one of them flung a lit match at her husband, his screams of agony and the stench of his burning flesh filling the street.

“Why is no one coming to help us?” the voice screamed inside her head.

As she turned her back to the window and let out a deafening wail of anguish, she felt a tap on her shoulder. Her son, who had been hiding behind a cabinet, came out and covered his mother’s naked body with her bloody blouse.

Although he never said a word, she was certain he had witnessed it all.

“Why is no one coming to help us?” thought Preeto over and over as she hugged her son tight and cried until she had no more tears.

The next morning, a group of men came to her home and took Preeto to a hospital for treatment. The doctors were shocked at how horrifically she had been abused, and told her it was a miracle she hadn’t died from the amount of blood she had lost. With no other relatives in the city, her son stayed by his mother’s bedside for the entire time she recovered.

Preeto gave a statement about what had happened, ensuring she communicated everything she knew about the man who had called her “sister” so many times, including where he lived. She was told she would be contacted for more information in the coming days, but no one ever came to speak with her again. She tried following up multiple times over the days, weeks and years to come, but never received an answer as to whether those who had done this to her and her family had ever been punished for their deeds.

When she saw the man out shopping with this family at a local bazaar fifteen years later, she stopped trying to seek justice.

Once she was deemed fit enough to be released from the hospital, she asked that she and her son be taken home, to which she was informed that her home and shop had been burned to the ground. Dumbfounded, she asked that the ashes of her husband be returned to her so that she and her son could perform his last rites as per their faith. To her shock, she was told that her husband’s ashes had already been disposed of; she was reassured that he was given a proper funeral.

Despite exhausting every avenue, she never found out what happened to her husband’s remains, and consoled herself with prayer and hymn anytime the thought of his final moments ever crossed her mind.

Preeto and her son were placed in what became to be known as “The Widow Colony”, a place for women such as her to try to put what remained of their lives back together. Preeto was able to find a job to support them, but her earnings were only enough to make ends meet. With barely enough money for food, she had to make the difficult decision as to whether to feed her son or pay for his school fees. She convinced herself that she would be able to homeschool him.

Every morning, Preeto would set off for work, leaving her son with an elderly widow whom she paid a small amount to watch him for the day. The ancient babysitter, with failing eyesight and hearing, was unable to pay the little boy much attention. He was left to his own devices and ended up roaming the streets with other children whose families had suffered a similar fate.

By age ten, he was addicted to drugs.

Preeto tried her best to keep him in line, but to no avail. He would steal whatever money she had hidden around the house to feed his habit. A day before his fifteenth birthday, Preeto came home from work to find his lifeless body on the floor of their shack.

As she stared at the cold corpse that was once her beautiful little boy, Preeto thought again with extreme sadness, “Why is no one coming to help us?”

“PREETO! This is no time for a nap! Open your eyes! The farmers are on the streets of Delhi! The entire world is watching! This is what we have all been praying for!”

Preeto slowly opened her eyes, a solitary tear rolling down her cheek. She was almost seventy years old now, and the medication she had been taking for so many years to combat the diseases her attackers had passed onto almost four decades earlier had taken an immense toll on her. As she forced herself out of her chair and began to make her way back to her flat, she turned back and looked at her friend with a sad smile of defeat and resignation, uttering slowly under her breath…

“They’re too late.”

Artwork: “Vidva II” – Anoop Caur

In a few days, Britain’s longest-reigning Monarch’s earthly remains will be laid to rest on the grounds of Windsor Castle, in an elaborate ceremony befitting her royal status. As many across the world mourn, my thoughts turned to another royal whose final resting place is in the same country, but one whom not many may know about.

Duleep Singh was the youngest of Maharaja Ranjit Singh’s sons. Ranjit Singh ruled over the mighty kingdom of Punjab, one of the richest and most powerful states in India. He was a brilliant and powerful leader, so much so that the ever ambitious East India Company didn’t dare to attempt to quarrel with them in their quest for expansion in the resource-rich Indian subcontinent.

In 1839, the great king died, and not soon thereafter, mayhem ensued. After after a series of assassinations and betrayals, all of his heirs lost their lives.

All but one, that is: Prince Duleep Singh, his youngest son.

In 1843, he was crowned the Maharaja of Punjab, with his mother ruling as Queen Regent on his behalf.

He was 5 years old.

Seeing opportunity in the instability of Punjab, the British fought two successful wars against the young Maharaja, the eventual outcome of which was the annexation of the kingdom and the removal of Maharaja Duleep Singh as its sovereign. Separated from his mother, who was exiled to Nepal, the young king became a prisoner of the British. Eventually, Duleep Singh was put into the care of a Christian missionary.

He was 10 years old.

Under close watch by the British, access to young Duleep Singh was strictly controlled and monitored. Cut off from his people, language and his culture, he was completely alone, with strangers. He was made to study Christianity, and converted shortly before being exiled to England.

He was 15 years old.

In England, Queen Victoria became quite fond of the young king. He lived the life of an English gentleman, and was commonly known as “The Black Prince” by the upper echelons of British society. In a grand ceremony, the Kohinoor Diamond, considered the largest diamond to ever be discovered, was presented to Queen Victoria by the young Maharaja as a gift. Many argue this was all just a show, for Duleep Singh really had no choice – he was essentially a captive of the British and was dependent on them. Tragically, this beautiful treasure was then cut down to make it more appealing to European standards. A portion of this magnificent jewel now sits in the late Queen Mother’s crown – the crown that will soon be worn by England’s new Queen Consort.

Maharaja Duleep Singh was given a generous allowance by Queen Victoria, and eventually provided an estate in Suffolk. There, the Maharaja lived with his family, having multiple children.

Unfortunately, none of his lineage survives today.

Despite living a life of relative luxury, something in Duleep Singh still longed for his former life. He made several attempts at re-connecting with his exiled mother, all which were denied by the British.

Eventually, when she was no longer deemed a threat, the British allowed Duleep Singh to travel to Nepal to bring his mother back to England.

Duleep Singh attempted to return to India multiple times, all of which were also thwarted by the British.

Throughout his lifetime, he was only allowed two strict visits to the land of his birth, the first being to transit to retrieve his mother from Nepal, and the second being to return her ashes after her death. On both occasions, he was not permitted to enter Punjab, the land of his forefathers.

He tried desperately to take back his kingdom, but it was all in vain. Whereas the Queen passed surrounded by family and the world’s best physicians, he died a lonely death in a rundown hotel in Paris.

He was 55 years old.

Whereas Queen Elizabeth’s final resting place will be on the grounds of one of her mighty castles, Maharaja Duleep Singh, the ruler of a once mighty kingdom is buried in the small cemetery of Elveden Church, hidden in the English countryside – thousands of miles from his true home.

Whereas his father and other great royals throughout history have elaborate mausoleums and temples to commemorate their final resting places, he has a simple tombstone.

Whereas the world mourns the loss of a Queen, very few were impacted by or even aware of his death.

On a visit to England in 2018, I had the great privilege of visiting the graveyard at Elveden Church to pay my respects. As I stood before Maharaja Duleep Singh’s grave, I couldn’t help but think of the tragic life this man had lived. He was a king, my king, and the rightful heir to a mighty empire, yet here he was, buried so many thousands of miles from where he truly belonged.

As the world mourns the passing of Queen Elizabeth II, I can’t shake the thought of that lonely tombstone in the English countryside.

This young king was failed by so many people. He became a pawn and lived a life of lies, all by no choice of his own. To put it simply, it’s sad, it’s unfair and it’s tragic – but it’s also a part of our history, and makes us who we are today.

As we watch and perhaps even participate in the events, tributes and memorials that will be taking place in the coming days, I think it’s also important to take a moment to say a prayer for and pay tribute to our last Maharaja as well, because if we forget him, we forget a part of ourselves.

Photograph: Ian Burt

East Indian.

I’ve heard this term many times before, and have even used it to describe myself in the past. In recent years, however, it has started to really bother me.

As far as I can figure out, the term was created to differentiate between “Indians” from India and “Indians” from North America who, as we all know, were mistakenly labelled after Columbus thought he had landed on the shores of India. As a brown kid growing up in Canada trying to fit into a place that constantly reminded me I was different, I just accepted it without a second thought. I was an “East Indian” and there was no reason to argue or question it.

I firmly believe there is an inherent desire within all of us to fully understand who we are and where we come from. Proof of this is everywhere, from ancestry websites to DNA tests that will tell people exactly what their genetic makeup is. It’s a multi-billion dollar industry that caters to this urge to understand our own personal histories. When this urge grows strong enough, we start asking questions and looking for answers.

When I reached this point, I dove down the rabbit-hole of the history of the Indian subcontinent to try to understand what it is that makes me who I am. I’ve spent countless hours with my head buried in books, trying to comprehend who and what went into me coming into existence.

Although at the personal level it’s different for each of us, I share this here because on a broader level, the histories of those who have been mistakenly identified as “East Indians” in Canada are very similar. Recent numbers released by Statistics Canada show that Punjabi is now the fourth most spoken language in Canada, up 49% since the last census. The vast majority of my fellow “East Indians” trace their roots back to Punjab like I do, therefore to a certain extent, we have a shared history and therefore, a shared identity.

On the 15th of August, India marked the 75th anniversary of becoming a nation, celebrating the gaining of independence from British rule. To prepare for their departure, the British had appointed a lawyer named Cyril Radcliffe to decide on borders to create Hindu and Muslim majority countries – India and Pakistan. Mr. Radcliffe had never visited the land he had been assigned to divide, nor did he have any knowledge of its culture, history and traditions.

It took him just five weeks to reach a decision, one that would forever change millions of lives, both at the time, as well as for generations to come. The Radcliffe Line divided Punjab between India and Pakistan, and thus the horrors of the event called “Partition” began.

Hindus and Sikhs scrambled to get to the Indian side of the Radcliffe Line, while Muslims scrambled to get to the Pakistani side. This was at the time and still remains the largest mass migration of people the world has seen, with approximately 20 million being displaced.

Communal violence broke out everywhere, but was felt with extreme intensity in Punjab, where it is estimated up to 2 million people died in the chaos that ensued.

As the realities of the Radcliffe Line began to set in, families who had lived side by side in peace and harmony for decades were suddenly out each other’s blood.

People were forced to abandon homes, lands and businesses which had been in their families for generations. In some cases, they were forced to set off on a dangerous journey with nothing but the clothing on their backs.

Trains arrived into stations full of corpses on both sides of the newly formed border.

Women were abducted and subject to unspeakable horrors. Many decided taking their own lives was a better option than what awaited them if the mobs got a hold of them, jumping into wells or stabbing themselves.

Fathers, rather than have their daughters abused in the most vicious of ways, killed them when they realized what the alternative would be.

In short, it was one of the most horrific and tragic events in modern human history, yet it receives such little attention in our schoolbooks, nor do we ourselves as a community talk about it as much as we should.

I was astonished to find out there was a Punjab in Pakistan when I was younger. I had always thought of Pakistan as a far off place that India didn’t get along with. When I made my first Pakistani-Punjabi friends, I marveled at our similarities. They spoke the same language, enjoyed the same music and ate the same food. The only thing that was different were our faiths, and that had been the one thing used to divide us and enforce upon us that we were different.

In looking deeper into the history of Punjab, I began learning about Maharaja Ranjit Singh, the ruler of Punjab who was admired, despised and feared by the British. I learned how his court had Sikhs, Hindus and Muslims in positions of power, and how he united the vast majority of Punjab into a formidable fighting force.

I could go on and on about what I learned, but instead, I’ll share what I realized instead.

I realized a great injustice was done to the people of Punjab.

I realized how many had suffered and died.

I realized how little I knew, and how little I still know.

I realized no one is going to teach me about any of this, and that it’s up to me learn my history and try preserve and pass it on to future generations.

Going back to the whole purpose of this piece, I realized I wasn’t “East Indian”.

The land of Punjab has one of the richest histories in the world. It’s the land of poets, revolutionaries, trailblazers, saints and warriors. It is also a place that has seen an abundance of violence, hate and division.

Both of these sides of Punjab go into making us who we are, as does understanding the history of Punjab before Radcliffe drew his line.

Marcus Garvey once said,

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

I believe it’s important for each of us to understand our pasts, because if we don’t, we will end up like the tree without roots that Marcus Garvey mentions; a few gusts of wind and our identities will be toppled over and forgotten. We will become what people tell us we are, which for me at least, is a terrifying notion.

“A generation which ignores history has no past – and no future.”

These are the words of Robert Heinlein, and there is perhaps no better sentence to describe the choice we have to make. We can continue to let ourselves be misidentified as “East Indian”, or we can take it upon ourselves to educate ourselves and those around us about who we truly are, before it’s too late.

If that happens, being mislabeled as “East Indian” won’t matter anymore, because we ourselves won’t know the truth.

Artwork: The Ghost Trains (of 1947) by Ruby C. Tut

If I have learned anything from the events of the last few weeks, it’s that our culture and heritage are at risk of being completely forgotten within a few generations if we don’t start doing something about it.

As the child of immigrants, I tried extremely hard not to draw attention to myself; I desperately wanted to be like everyone else around me. I learned at a very early age that although I couldn’t change the color of my skin, the image I put forward to the world was entirely up to me.

With this in mind, I did everything I could not to stand out or be different. As an adult, I have realized that I have done such a good job at hiding who I am that I myself have started to forget.

As a parent, this thought is terrifying. If we don’t pass on our rich history to our children, we are doing them a massive disservice, one for which they will resent us for when they are adults.

Maya Angelou once said,

“It is time for parents to teach young people early on that in diversity there is beauty and there is strength.”

If we don’t pass on the knowledge of where we come from to our kids, we are robbing them of the ability to absorb the beauty of their culture, as well as the ability to draw not only strength from knowing who they are, but also inspiration when they need it most.

We all need to do our part to keep our history from fading away, therefore it is time we became fiercely unapologetic for being who we are.

It was an absolute honor to participate in the Shaheed Bhagat Singh Annual Run today with my good friend Bob and our sons. It was with great pride that we were able to tell our boys who Bhagat Singh was and what he stood for, and why they should consider it a privilege to belong to the same community he does. I look forward to more events like this one, in which my family and I can not only have fun, but also embrace our amazing culture and share its magnificence with the world.

Imagine waking your kids up for school, not knowing it is the last time you will get to do so.

Imagine serving them breakfast, not knowing it will be the last of their lives.

Imagine dropping your kids off at school, not knowing they will never come home.

Imagine hearing the news that there has been a shooting at your child’s school.

Imagine a sick feeling taking root in your stomach as you hope and pray for the news that your child is safe.

Imagine the ache in your heart when you hear that your child was one of those who lost their lives.

Imagine the emptiness of having to make funeral preparations for your little one.

Imagine the pain you will feel for the rest of your life as different moments trigger that inevitable thought of what your child didn’t get to experience, or what they would have felt if they did.

Imagine.
Imagine.
Imagine.

Fortunately for you and I, we only have to imagine such a horrendous situation; for many families, this became a devastating reality yesterday.

This should never happen once, let alone repeatedly.

I was in the twelfth grade when Columbine happened. I thought a bit about how some of those kids that were killed were my age, but in the excitement of grad coming up, I quickly went back to my life without ever giving it much thought unless it came up on the news over the years.

Sandy Hook occurred in December of 2012. Just like many of my friends, I was a new parent at the time, and although I discussed the shooting and how scary it was to think about now that I had a kid of my own, I also reminded myself something like this was so horrific that it was still just a one-off. Just like with Columbine, I went back to my normal life soon thereafter.

In May 2022, 19 children and 2 teachers were killed in Texas. From what I’ve heard so far, they were in the fourth grade, just like my son.

Since I first heard about this devastating tragedy, I’ve been constantly running those “imagine” scenarios I mentioned earlier through my head. As a parent, it is hard not to, but like I also said earlier, you and I don’t have to…this isn’t happening to us.

We have the ability to show our support via social media. We will read articles, share the ones that resonate, hug our families tight for a few days and swear to never to take another day for granted, and then go back to our normal lives.

After thinking about it now, I think that’s precisely why things aren’t changing, it’s why this keeps happening over and over and over again.

We keep going back to our normal lives.

There was outrage after Columbine, but most of us were too wrapped up dreaming of our futures to keep up with it. After Sandy Hook, lots of people spoke up, but many quietened as time inevitably moved forward. It happens every time a horror such as this occurs – we get mad, we voice our outrage, and then, for lack of a better word, we forget. Things don’t change much because we revert back to our normal lives.

I think we will all agree that serious change is needed, not just in the United States, but in our global society as a whole. It’s not an easy task, but it’s one that must be undertaken.

I won’t even begin to try to figure out how that process unfolds, but I think I might know where we can start:

We can make a promise to not only ourselves, but also those innocent victims that we will never go back to our normal lives again.

Image: Last Lockdown Sculpture (Manuel Oliver)