The Original Poetry and Short Stories of SPN Authors

The Chair

That was a chair to be sat on
Reclining back and eyeing the far away waves
They would go as they came
It was a post to sit on to watch
Scattered colors on the horizon reminding
Not Captured beauty revisited repeatedly

It is the chair having honor of lapping
A being who would watch fading the life away
Like the ice sitting on hot sand melts
Right in front of the eyes that refuse to see this reality

This is the chair that had pleasure to hold
A being that kept melting in due to day today
Sorrows and pains, a stamp of so called life
Nothing was there to measure them

Thanks to the one who captured it as the chance smiled?
Or cried in awful situation to remind us all
How sudden close the end knocks mercilessly
Remind us how we blossom to depart

This was a chair to be sat on
Reclining back and eyeing the far away waves
They would go as they came
Sadly this last time they came not to return
Not this time as they would before.

 
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__________________

Har Bisrat Sda Khuari - Mehla 5

Regards,
G. Singh

Let SPN become a 125,000 member community

Once upon a time, deep in the state of West Virginia was a small laid-back town.

[Age, though wisdom’s pal, is often memory’s foe which makes me fail to recall the name of the town that sure was in West Virginia]

At the far end of the town, there was a small cottage. A neat and tidy assembly of a man’s perspiration and efforts. With nature in abundance, and weather’s clement tendencies, the shallow land in front of the home was filled with water and there came upon a lake. Serene and soothing. Hard-working that the husband and wife were, they planted some seeds and some saplings around the lake. “Time and tender care will make them grow into tall shade trees of Chinar and Deodar and lovely flowering plants” the husband would say to the wife as she looked upon him lovingly.. The cottage had a small iron gate and on its left side about 3 and a half feet above the earth affixed to the wall was a plaque. The plaque proclaimed the name of the house: Aasthaa.

Passage of time saw the husband and wife become proud parents as the 3 trimesters ran their course and a new life arrived in the world. The mid-wife brought the small bundle of joy wrapped neatly in a soft cloth and handed it to the over-joyous father who was standing at the edge of the lake, till then pensive and in a prayer. One look at the child and he knew what he would call her. But the man of God that he was, he waited to seek consent of his wife before he gave the child the name. The Name, that, once given with Love, by anyone, Parents or Companion, stays with the Person for Life. When the husband met the wife later that day, he spoke of the name he wished for their child and as the dutiful wife concurred with her husband’s choice knowing he would never be wrong, on the 6th day, the child got her name. Beautiful, serene and gentle. Just like the lake in front of their cottage! The Gods had given her the place and the name!! Zeal, they decided to call her.

While Providence was benevolent upon the lake and the surroundings of the cottage, three sentinels stood at its iron gate. Strife, Penury and Loneliness. Howsoever hard the father toiled, strife just increased its level of test. Howsoever hard the mother tried, penury bottomed out the piggy bank. Howsoever hard the daughter united, loneliness stayed at the gate.

Time flies fast and daughters grow up faster. So did Zeal. In what seemed a mere flash, time saw her morph from a crawling baby to a sweet, twin plaited school girl and on it went to grant her saintly beauty and ethereal wisdom as she stepped on the door-step of youth, a fair and fine maiden.

The father would toil hard at his work often bringing the files from the office to complete his task in the room that he shared with his wife of life. The wife stayed hours in the kitchen to attend to all chores that the wife knows are needed to be done to make the house a home. The daughter would be in the study, seated at her writing desk immersed amidst tomes of educational texts. The wall on the far-side had an old wooden book-case and one could see various texts on anatomy, physiology and such other matters of the human body that the daughter had taken to peruse.

And the three sentinels stood guard.

One fine day of the year the weather was at its best, a soft sunshine shone upon the lake at such particular angle that caused the ripples created in the lake by the gentle breeze blowing across the surface to cast wave-like pattern on the front walls of the cottage. The cottage seemed to be floating to the eye that passed by the other side of the lake. The trees, also, at the other end of the lake swayed in the breeze as though mesmerized by the act of Destiny and the aroma of the myriad flowers permeated the atmosphere.

Such was that day when there happened to walk by the lake at that very moment three old and bearded men. Each walking alongside, together and yet alone by themselves. Three pairs of eyes saw the sight and three pairs of feet stood affixed to earth. Three pairs of legs at the iron-gate, that had solidly stood there all these years, wobbled.

“Today!” All six muttered in a single breath. Three voices each from either side of the lake. Three voices of dread, three of hope. Providence looked on from above, enticed.

The three bearded men traversed the narrow walkway around the lake and came up to the iron gate of the cottage and looked at each other for signs of life within the cottage. In a somber voice, one of them spoke: “Art the Lord of the house here?” The three sentinels of the house clustered close by, trepidation writ clear across their faces. After a while, the wife opened the door and seeing old men at the gate, called them to step in. The one who stood in the center spoke: “Who all have a bed to rest the head upon in this abode?” The wife, honesty being her virtue, replied: “Sires, my Lord, our child and me.” The old man spoke again: “Call them here!” The wife bowed her head and softly answered: “Sires, the husband is at work and daughter is pursuing her discipline.” “Hmm” said one of the other two old men, “Wait we will, by the lake till the time of the day brings them both home. Upon that summon us.” Saying this, the three old men trundled along together to the edge of the lake and sat there. They sat at the very spot upon which a father-to-be, pensive and in a prayer, had stood when he had received the biggest gift of his life, years ago. The three sentinels were there on that day too and they were there today also. But, their worlds had changed and they now placed their prayers in the family to continue them to be where they had been all these years. The visage of the three old men petrified them.

As the time traveled to the usual hour, almost together, arrived the Lord and his daughter from either side of the town. The husband did not notice the three old men as he was ridden with the burden of strife. The daughter didn’t notice the three old men as she was cloistered amidst her loneliness. The wife was watching the three old men all day worried at their penury and the thought of three more mouths to feed. The three sentinels and the three old men noticed everything. All the three pairs of three – the family, the sentinels and the old men had a test before them. Anon it would begin.
Reference:: Sikh Philosophy Network http://www.sikhphilosophy.net/arts-and-society/23363-original-poetry-short-stories-spn-authors.html

The shadows had started lengthening when the wife appeared before the three old men and respectfully addressed them: “Sires, as summoned by you earlier, all of us are here now. Please come in to our home. You have been sitting out here all day and have had nothing so far. Do join us inside.” Age slackens the rapidity of movement and the three old men slowly raised their eyes to see the wife flanked by her Lord and her daughter. “Ah! So nice to see you all here” said the old man who had not spoken so far. “But”, he paused a while as if lost in some contemplation. Perplexed, the husband inquired,” But, what, Sire?” “We would surely like to come in to your home but we have a predicament.” He continued “Amongst us three only one can go in the home with you. That is the way we three are”. Amazed at this strange mention and at a loss of comprehension of how to handle this, the family watched on. Another of the old men spoke “However, we will not decide who goes with you in to your home.” With a profoundly visionary voice, he went on “It is you three who will decide whom do you want inside your home with you.” Looking at the confusion and turmoil that the family was seemingly in, the old man raised a hand and said: “ I will tell you who we three are. After that, wordlessly….” he let his eyes meet each of the three persons before he continued “…you will go to your respective confines of the cottage and think independently whom do you want in there. Then, after your heart has pondered and your mind has decided, come to the dining table where food has been shared all your lives amongst you and hold your hands and speak to each other of your personal decisions. Arrive here when your collective astuteness makes you to decide whom you are inviting in to the home. We will be waiting.” The old man seated in the center took over: “He..,” pointing to the old man on his right, “…is Happiness.” Of the three sentinels, Strife, felt a scare. “This…” turning to his left, he spoke “….is Wealth”. Penury, it was now, who went pale with fear. The other two old man took the cue now and said in unison “He is Love.” The final sentinel, Loneliness shivered as he heard the name”. None of the three dared to look into the eyes of the three old men seated just a distance away.

“Now!” Commanded the three old men to the three family members “Off you go in and come together to receive the one of us you want inside your home!!”
Reference:: Sikh Philosophy Network http://www.sikhphilosophy.net/showthread.php?t=23363

Three raised fingers showed the way. Three mortals made the way. Three sentinels battled to hold their sway.

They crossed the iron-gate of the cottage, stepped inside and as they were directed, each went to the individual cove of theirs. The husband went to the room he had shared with his wife of life where work and wife had almost equal share of his strife. The wife took to the kitchen where penury was wished to be washed away so many a times. The daughter went to the study, where her dreams were; bonded in loneliness.

The husband looked around the spare room as he wondered upon the words of the three old men and then looked Heavenwards for guidance. None was to come today. Engaging his faith, he looked at his life so far and saw strife along with him at each time. With due thought, he decided which old man he would wish to be in their home. He went and took his seat at the dinner table.

The wife stood there in the kitchen which had often seen less of fluid then the vessels were made to hold, baskets that were never replete to their extent, plates that were never full and looked at her time-weathered hands. Engaging her trust, she looked upon the life that had been so far and she saw penury at each spot of the domain. Her heart mentioned, mind jumped at it and she was decided about which old man would she wish to be in their home. She went to her customary place at the dining table.

The daughter went to the study and sat at the writing desk. Gently she picked up a book and took it to the book-case and placed it neatly among the other volumes that gave her the knowledge of her discipline. Returning to the desk, she conjectured on the strange event that had came upon to occur in their lives and with zeal she began to reflect. There was a window near the desk which looked outside upon the lake and it always brought her tranquil when loneliness besot her. It was even more tranquil today. As she stared on, she also saw the three old men, waiting in utter calm. It was their wont to be patient and wait. Young that she was, unlike her parents, she looked not back upon life so far, but chose to see ahead, far and into infinity. Heart pleaded and mind refuted many an argument, the mind debated and the heart denied many other. As the parents waited, the daughter continued with her deliberation. After what seemed an eternity, she looked again at the lake. Comprehension dawned and Zeal broke into a smile. Zeal had decided. She made her way to the dining table.

Seeing the daughter arrive, the husband and wife knew the moment was upon them.

Out there sat three old men who had the power to change their world as each one saw it.

Out there stood the three sentinels who were unseen by the family but they who had caused them all the difficulties that they faced.

In there talked the three whose destiny was to be altered. Tonight. Saturday it was.

The wife, her lord and their daughter held hands and the husband said: “Let us praise God for all that has been to us and for all that is yet to come to pass. Tonight, to alter our fate is in our hands. Seek the blessings of the God before each of you speak.” Saying this, he looked to his wife and she knew it was for her to go in first. She began “Lord, all my life I have but just done what you bade and agreed to all you said. Tonight, here I am, to decide on my own. So help me God.” Then she shared within the three of them her thoughts and then finally she said: “Let us invite Wealth.” Penury, the sentinel, felt the land beneath his feet sink. Strife and Loneliness, held his hands. The father then looked dotingly upon her only daughter and Zeal spoke: “Father, you are everything to us. So before I say what I have to say, I would like you to say do what we may.” The husband smiled, wry in tone as happens when a grim feeling of onus abounds the atmosphere. However, he began to tell what he had seen of life and argued his case in the court where they were the lawyers and they themselves the judges. He concluded thus: “Let us invite Happiness.” Strife got struck by panic at its mention as Penury and Loneliness struggled to hold him straight. It was now left for the daughter to speak. The parents looked on. The hearts throbbed wild and heavily. She began “Both of you have seen more of life than I have and I wish to understand if what I thought was right or wrong.” She then went on to narrate all her arguments and the parents noted that while both of them had looked back upon life, Zeal was seeing into the future. There was spry glint in her eyes as she spoke on. There was the zeal of Meaning in her belief. As she came into the final round up of her considerations she paused with this: “Let us invite Love.” Loneliness who was the lone sentinel so far unaffected was restless beyond reason. The three sentinels were inconsolable.

Silence spoke for a long while. Everything froze in a suspended state. Movement ceased for all. Finally, the husband looked into the eyes of his wife and child. It was the time to decide. It was the time to choose. It was the time to take Fate in own hands. The husband said: “I chose Happiness and you, my wife, chose Wealth. We chose on what we have been bereft of in life. You , my daughter, have chosen that which we have tried to provide in everything we did for you.” Momentarily unable to continue, he paused and stated “Our lives, yours, my wife and mine, are almost more spent than left. Yours has just begun, Zeal. Let us go.” The decision was made, the choice done, the Fate decided. A new star shone brightly over the home. The three old men gazed at it in awe, mesmerized at Heaven’s indication.

The Lord now led the wife and the child to the three old men. Bowing before them reverently, he stood. “Have you all decided?” Happiness asked. “Yes, Sire, we have.” “Do you speak for one or for all?” inquired Wealth. “Good Sire, I speak for my family”, the husband conveyed. “Whom have you chosen to be invited to your home?” Love asked the thorn-sharp question. The husband and the father spoke “All three of you are welcome in our home and individually each one of us has selected one of you. In our home, thus, is amply evident that there is room for all and each one of you. But constrained we are at the condition that you wise men have imposed upon us and made us choose as you directed. I am the eldest in the home and the wife is the most devoted person I have ever seen. Our daughter chooses to heal the world. Ergo, sires, pardon our errors, if any that there be, in our decision that we have arrived at, Yatha-Shakti.” Having said that, the entire family spoke in accord “Love is whom we wish to be with us in our home!” The name was said. The three wise old men looked at each other and took to their feet. The three sentinels knew they had been vanquished, not by the Lord and neither by the Wife but by Zeal.

“Come along” the husband politely invited the Chosen One. Lo! All the three old men began walking one after the another towards the iron-gate. The husband and wife in the front and daughter following them. The three old men a step behind her. As they reached the gate, surprised they were that all three were there to enter. Incredulity swept the family as their eyes saw all the three men step into the gate. There was a sprightly spring in their step. At the door, the three wise men stopped. Happiness spoke to the Husband: “Had you chosen me, Wealth and Love would have waited outside your home. They would have been stopped by the sentinel of content.” Wealth than spoke to the Wife: “Had you chosen me, Love and Happiness would have waited outside your home. They would have been barred by the sentinel of avarice. Love looked upon Zeal. Nothing was said. Nothing was needed. They both smiled. Happiness and Wealth spoke as one, with gaiety: “In life, everything follows Love. And therefore, wherever Love goes, we follow Him”. Saying this, the three wise men stepped into the hallowed hall of the cottage, Love leading Happiness and Wealth inside. In followed, after them, the Lord and his wife.

Zeal stood at the iron-gate for a long time gazing at the lake that had given her the name. Divine [Divya] was she. Vast [Vishal] was her aura.

Gone were the three sentinels of strife, penury and loneliness. Forever.

Love had arrived. Forever!!

Zeal finally went inside Aasthaa.

In Love and With Her Love!!

[An Attempt]

BY A FOOL

~~SAINTY~~

~~WALD GURU NANAK~~

Sat shri akal,
Reference:: Sikh Philosophy Network http://www.sikhphilosophy.net/showthread.php?t=23363
Reference:: Sikh Philosophy Network http://www.sikhphilosophy.net/showthread.php?t=23363

Took my dreams,ya left them there shattered
Took my hopes,ya dug in them and they splattered
Took my mind like it didn't ever matter
entered the world that i didn't belong
Thought i could take it but i stayed too long
Thought i could handel it,boy was i wrong

hey i have a question when sending a post with Punjabi,Hindi,Urdu or Bengali writing i have to send translation with it?

Miracles in Sikhi
by TEJWANT SINGH


I used to be a keen runner.

I have run several half (13.1 mile) and full (26.2 mile) marathons in Brasil, where I lived for nine years.

It all started one early morning, at 3 AM to be exact. I ran three times around the block out of sheer vanity with my fellow drinking buddies. I was the only one to do three laps. Most of the others stopped after one or two and started sharing their consumed Martinis and Brahmas (as in Brahmin - yes, a famous beer brand in Brasil), with the pavement. On the second day, I could only run two blocks, and on the third only one.

This is the way it all began.

I started running more and more miles. My first half-marathon took place after six months, on September 7, a national holiday in Brasil. My best time was 1 hr 45 min, whereas the winner finished his in 1 hr 1 min. I was the happiest man in the world that day.

The goal in running marathons is not the speed, but reaching the finish line! In the end, all runners end up being winners.

Two months after my first half-marathon, I ran my first full marathon in the picturesque city of Rio de Janeiro. It was a tough run due to humidity from the ocean.
For those unfamiliar with long-distance running: the runner hits the proverbial "wall" at Mile 20. In a nutshell, it means that all energy is depleted and the last six miles become mind-over-matter; because of the accumulation of lactic acid in the legs, fatigue sets in. It was the most difficult six-mile finish I had to endure, my body hurting with each breath.

I finished my first full marathon in 3 hrs 45 mins. A great accomplishment as far as I was concerned, having progressed from running three blocks in a drunken stupor to finishing my first marathon within a mere eight months thereafter.
The year was 1979. I ran quite a few more of them with improved timings.

Fast forward to 1985.

I was vacationing in the southern part of Brasil, a beautiful place called Foz de Iguacu which has the most beautiful waterfalls in the world. I got a phone call from my older brother Harsimran Veer ji who was living in London then. He told me that Mum had had a car accident and was in critical condition. She had gone to Wajirpur Sahib gurdwara near Ferozepore, my home town, with her friends on masyah (new moon). The vehicle she was traveling in on the return trip flipped on the wet road and the gear rod hit her head.
Reference:: Sikh Philosophy Network http://www.sikhphilosophy.net/showthread.php?t=23363

The world changed in a flash for me. I had left India at the age of 16 to go to London and then to Brasil and had not seen my parents for 14 years.

I was reduced to a 30-year-old crying like a baby for his mum who was on her deathbed thousands of miles away. It was time to go back. I needed her.

I quickly rearranged my affairs and, in a few days, headed back to my Mumland. During the preparations, I got one more call from Harsimran Veerji informing me that Papa ji had suffered a stroke and was in a coma and was in the same hospital as Mum. One more thing for my mind to grapple with.

I reached Heathrow, London, England, on February 10, 1985 and had an inkling that Papa ji had left the world. Anjana bhabi, with whom I had had a very close relationship because she had helped raise me since I was 16, came to pick me up at the airport.

My first few words were, "Is Papa ji still alive"? The answer came in a hug and lots of tears. He had just passed away, ten minutes before my arrival at Heathrow.

My family has been devout Sikhs since I can remember. My dad with his good knees used to go to Amritsar during every masyah and walk with the jatha from Harmandar Sahib to Taran Taaran Sahib - a 15-mile trek during the night, barefoot. They sang shabads and visited all the gurdwaras en route all night long. In the morning, after reaching Taran Taaran and taking a dip in the sarovar, he headed home.

He did this for twenty years for his sick mum - Mata ji - who had not moved from her bed for years. The only person who looked after her was my granddad, who was a physician and a lawyer by profession. Pita ji had given up his medical practice to fight for Punjabi Suba and to liberate the gurdwaras from the mahants. He also spent some time in jail for his activism. After that, he was her only nurse. He bathed her, cleaned her and did everything for my feisty strong-willed Mata ji.

My mum and dad were deeply in love with each other. My dad had weak knees and depended on my mum a lot during that time. He had recited the whole paatth of the Guru Granth Sahib in five days on his own, during my mum's stay at the hospital, so that when she - "Joginder" - came home, he would do the bhog in her celebration.

That day never arrived.

I think he could not bear the shock of his beloved on the deathbed and being alone without her; hence the stroke. He was in a coma for three days and then passed away. It seems as if he had offered his life to Waheguru for the survival of his beloved.

The hospital brought his body to her hospital bed so my mum could bid him her final goodbye - in her semi-comatose state.

This happened on February 10, 1985. I arrived at my mum's bed on February 12. Seeing her after fourteen years in that state was overwhelming. Eventually, with the grace of Waheguru, she got better.

Mum, lovingly called Ami ji by all, passed away a decade later, on April 4, 2004.
My running kept me sane. I ran eight miles daily without fail and fifteen on Sundays. I enjoyed it and rather cultivated this solitude.

After having lived outside India for fourteen years, I could not get used to its climate. I developed nasal ulcers during the summer and asked my mum if I could go to the U.S. The brave woman, who always thought of others rather than about herself, gave her consent and, after living in India for 16 months, I headed to the U.S. I settled in Los Angeles and then, later in 1998, moved to Las Vegas.

My running continued. I did not run any more marathons.

One Sunday in January 2003, I went out for my daily seven-miler and was feeling good. After three miles, all of a sudden I felt something in my chest. My heart was pounding very fast and I was short of breath. I stopped running and started walking back slowly with chest pains. Stupid me, in denial that nothing serious had taken place.
It took me 55 minutes to get back home. My wife was at work. I did not say anything to our two children, Jaskeerat and Trimaan, and went upstairs, changed and lay down with a heating pad on my chest. The pains would not go away.

Finally the macho in me mellowed a bit and I called my wife to come home.

After her arrival, we decided to go to Quick Care - a place for minor aches and pains, rather than to the hospital, out of sheer stubbornness and denial of the seriousness of what was happening. I walked on my own and told them about my chest pains. They took me in immediately. They checked my pulse and it was 175/min. The doctor on call stopped everything, called others and gave me something through IV, which reduced the chest pains but the pulse failed to drop.

He called for an ambulance. I could see the color change on his face. I was very lucid. The ambulance arrived and I left the Quick Care center while thanking everyone. They gave me more drugs through IV on the way; it still did not work, as the pulse-rate remained high. I was talking to the guys in the ambulance all the way to the hospital, still very alert and lucid.

At the hospital; the emergency crew was waiting for us. The doctor at the ICU pumped some more medicine. Nothing changed. He told me that the last resort was to give me a shock.

I asked him to let my wife out of the room before he did that. She left and he gave me a couple of shock-jolts; my pulse came down to 104. The doctor said it was a miracle that I had had the pulse at 175 for more than two hours and still lived. It was a V-tach, when the heart suddenly goes berserk.

I watched the playoff football game while perched on my hospital bed and was pleased to see my Raiders win and get to the finals. They finally lost.

The doctor installed a defibrillator in my chest - a "mini me" version of the shock-giving device that the doctor had used in the emergency room. It has given me electric kicks several times since. This is the last resort for the heart to come to its normal pace.

This is the only one common thing I share with **** Cheney.

This defibrillator is like my Simranah and because of this I am still here.

When it is about to give the shock, people feel dizzy, some pass out before it happens. And when it does activate, it gives a kick of a donkey, a very painful jolt for a second or two. I have never felt the former but always felt the kick which makes one scream with pain and agony.

It takes some time for one to recover from this.

I had to stop running because of this but I walk seven miles daily instead.

I was reminded by my kids the other day that the last time I had the shock was on Valentine's Day in 2008, while lying in bed and talking to my wife who was standing nearby. No, she was not screaming at me, although I am one of the few henpecked souls left in the world, a dying species.

Some people miss a beat or two on Valentine's. For me that day, it was a shocking experience, literally, figuratively and metaphorically.

Last Sunday, on January 11, after my seven-mile morning walk in the crisp desert winter, I was explaining the meaning of the hukam in English at the gurdwara, which I have been doing for years. And, in the middle of it, I felt the shock out of the blue. My body shook for a moment; one could see the concerned and fearful looks on the faces of the sangat.

The amazing part was that I did not feel the proverbial donkey kick. No pain. Nothing. Nada. Zip. I kept on for a while till I was done and then helped distribute the parshad and told the concerned sangat what had taken place.

We are all products of our environment. In Punjab, I remember when someone used to die, people used to hire professional chest-beaters to set up the mourning scenario so that others could join in. Crying for the others who came to mourn for the dead became easier because of the chest-beating drama. This influence on us Sikhs is from Hinduism and Islam because, in true Sikhi, death is a time to celebrate.

We laugh when we watch a happy and comedic movie, we cry with the help of the melodramas offered to us by Zee TV.

In the same way, when we are at the gurdwara, the aura of positive energy that the sadh sangat brings in is very powerful.

Terms like miracles - and reincarnation, evil spirits, and other catch phrases - are sadly imported into the Sikh way of life and terminology from Hinduism and the Semitic religions (Judaism, Christianity and Islam), where they are used regularly as snake-oil rub for all cures, because they are attributed to the God deity who is vengeful, evil, jealous, just and a punisher to His followers.

The followers of this angry God accept Him and follow Him like blind sheep and are unashamed of having a blind faith. They would rather flaunt it and mock others who are not birds of the same feather.

If Sikhi believed in miracles, then the hot plate Guru Arjan was put on and tortured to death would never have gotten hot. Or no one could have had the power to behead our ninth Guru, Guru Teg Bahadar. The walls built around the two chotei (young) Sahibzadey to bury them alive would have crumbled, brick by brick.

If Sikhi believed in miracles, then Bhai Mani Singh would not have been cut into pieces, joint by joint, limb by limb, nor could any one have taken the scalp off Bhai Taru Singh.
We would have no need to utter the following during Ardaas if Sikhi believed in miracles:

Remember those who were broken on the wheel, cut up limb by limb, who gave their scalps but not their hair, and those mothers who, for the sake of Truth, sacrificed their dear children and suffered through hunger and pain at the hands of the fiends, but never gave up their faith in Ik Ong Kaar and their determination to live in Sikhi, to their last breath.

All the above incidents are not miracles, but are miraculous indeed.

Now the question may arise for the miracle-believing people, including some of Sikh faith, that if the above are not miracles then where did the Sikhs get their inner strength.

It is all in the will attained through Naam. Guru Granth is full of tools that let us sharpen our will and determination and help us elevate our level of normalcy. What may have been impossible yesterday can become probable today and ought to become a piece of cake the next day.
Reference:: Sikh Philosophy Network http://www.sikhphilosophy.net/showthread.php?t=23363

One can open the Guru Granth randomly on any page and find the inspiration, motivation, determination, perseverance and, last but not least, the acceptance of Hukam.

Ik Ong Kaar - The Creative Energy which Guru Nanak calls Ajuni Saibhang in the Mool Mantar is always manifested in the sangat. Thanks to the sangat, the donkey-kick in the chest was taken off me like the proverbial monkey off one's back.

Sikhi does not rely on or propagate miracles, but Sikhs themselves make miracles when they are seeking the ONE together, in sangat.

Isn't this the true essence of "mil sadh sangat bhaj keval naam'?

January 14, 2009

Only Thee

That I want thee, only thee---let my heart repeat without end.
All desires that distract me, day and night,
are false and empty to the core.

As the night keeps hidden in its gloom the petition for light,
even thus in the depth of my unconsciousness rings the cry
---`I want thee, only thee'.
Reference:: Sikh Philosophy Network http://www.sikhphilosophy.net/showthread.php?t=23363

As the storm still seeks its end in peace
when it strikes against peace with all its might,
even thus my rebellion strikes against thy love

and still its cry is

---`I want thee, only thee'.