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.
