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Arts/Society The Original Poetry And Short Stories Of SPN Authors

spnadmin

1947-2014 (Archived)
SPNer
Jun 17, 2004
14,500
19,179
Golden Temple by Durlabh Singh ji

Posted 12-10-2008 at 10:41 AM by durlabh
Riding high on the limpid waves
Rising high on the shimmering presence
Blue waters of white marbled chequers
For the eternal hymns of wayward heart
The golden domes invoking a saffron path.

Novices of thoughts and sunshine abiding
The golden swarms of vibratory atoms
The hush of pilgrims on the circular pitch
Tearing apart structures of egoed ditch.

Give vent to destinations of beauty & liberty
The concerns of soul now past its restrictions
Illuminate a glance bereft of the inner tumult
Saluting the Guru’s presence in a silent rebirth.

Durlabh Singh © 2008
 

spnadmin

1947-2014 (Archived)
SPNer
Jun 17, 2004
14,500
19,179
Keeper of Reflections by Durlabh Singh ji

Posted 19-10-2008 at 07:11 AM by durlabh
Daljeet sat on the bed and reflected on his life. He realized that his life had been a tragedy as when he was only two years old his father died of an unknown illness. He could not remember him, not even a hazy recollection of him.

His sick mother was lying on a bed next to him coughing heavily and having difficulty in breathing. Why his life turned out to be such a disaster full of misery of all kinds? They were living in a small rented two roomed house with a small courtyard attached.

He used to go to school when his mother was well and doing part time job after schooling but had to withdraw from his class eight, as he had to look after the sick mother and also he could not afford the fees. In order keep him and his mother alive, he had to search for any menial job he could find. He went to work for the local sweetmeat maker where he had to clean all the metallic equipment associated with that profession. Big greasy cauldron or karahis in which the various sweets were made and cooked.

This left lot of grease, sticky sweets and remnants of cooking oil and when left overnight turned into loads of obnoxious smell of putrefied matter. It was a highly unpleasant job but he had to do it in order to earn some money. Hallwai’s unskilled employees had to start like this and slowly worked their ways up.

Festival of diwali came and that was the best season for selling more sweets. He was glad to be working during the festivities as the sale increased ten folds. He spent hours in arranging the trays full of sweets on steps around front stall in an ascending order. It looked a marvelous display with varieties of sweets and savories. Jalebis, gulab Jamans, badam burfies, peras. kalakands, basins, rasgulas etc. He was afforded the privilege of covering each tray of sweets with gold and silver leaves. These costly leaves came into sort of booklets arranged with extremely thin delicate metallic leaves wedged in between paper sheets. These were so delicate that even an accidental breath blew them away.

It so happened that the economic situation in the country began to deteriorate due to high inflation and soon the government raised the interest rates. . The sweetmeat seller could not afford to keep much of his workforce and many employees including Daljeet were made redundant.

The condition of his mother began to deteriorate and she began to spit great amount of phlegm and sometime with traces of blood. She began to feel weaker and weaker and one day when he came home during lunchtime with some food, he found her dead. He ran to the neighbours crying and screaming for help. They took pity on him and arranged the funeral for her dead mother. He saw her funeral pyre burning before him and then collected the ashes. The neighbours arranged the journey when he had to go to a holy place with bundle of his mother’s ashes and cast o these on waters of a river considered holy. Neighbours realized that the grief he had to bear was too great for a person of his sensitivity and advised him to go to a famous temple afterwards where God willing he might be able to find some peace in his life.

As he went to the holy place in the mountains large. He became a person without human ties and without any happy memories, just a sort of robotic entity without any deep feelings or any inclination for any action. He fell into deep depression with numbness of body and soul. Somehow he dragged himself out and started his journey to the city of Mansrover with its famed golden temple. The bus was overcrowded but he squeezed himself in to find a place. He had no concern for himself or for his comforts, so it was not a big problem; He got down at his destination and took a rickshaw to the temple. The rickshaw driver was jostling its way through the crowded streets full of people and vehicles of every sort, rickshaws, tongas, scooters, hand carts, bullock carts, bicycles and whatnots but he took little notice of those milling crowds. The rickshaw took him to a stand near the temple and from there he had to make his own ways walking through a labyrinth of narrow winding Streets.

The temple was surrounded by high walls with four grand doors at each entrance, each pointing to four points of space- east, west, north and south. There were marbled stairs leading to the entrance at the top and slowly he climbed and pushed the high door open. Suddenly numbness of his body and his gloominess lifted and he felt entering a new world where his grief becoming of lighter shades. The golden temple struck him with its great splendour and charm and he gave himself over to it. Moisture gathered into his eyes washing away all the encrusted dirts of days bygone. He spent the whole day contemplating that glory and returned to his town in the evening.

After returning home he felt extremely lonely and in order to get away from it, he tried to find a job but no one wanted him. Someone he knew was offered a night watchman’s job, which he turned down as of unsociable hours. As Daljeet was desperate he took that job himself offered by the resident’s association; they wanted someone honest and reliable to do the job, guarding their homes against petty thieves and burglars.

His duty started at 10pm and lasted to 6am the following morning. Every each hour of his duty he walked round the boundary enclosing the said properties shouting “Khabardar! Be aware! The hour is now 11o‘clock.” “ Thieves be aware” etc. People felt safe in their beds that some one was there guarding their properties and also they were kept informed of the time of the each hour of the night. He took his charpoy or rope-stringed bed with him and rested on it between each round. He was alone but bore with it. After some time a stray dog began to visit him, sitting there looking at him as if sight of each other gave solace to them. He started bringing food for the dog too and encouraged by it the dog stayed there the whole time during his duty hours and he was glad to have some company. It was during winter period that they needed a watchman and his period of employment came to an end after few months at the start of summer season.

There was nothing left to hold him there anymore and he wanted all his emotional ties with that place to be broken as he sought refuge some place where he could find some meaning to his existence. He headed for the golden temple again. He boarded the bus and tried to join in the hub of humanity with their laughter, tears and talks. He found a place near the window to sit and looked out and lost himself in the panorama of passing sights. There were tall tree planted on roadside casting pleasant shadows of their leafy attires. Beyond the trees he could glimpse fertile fields planted with all sorts of crops, green with formations of different a colours and shapes. Here and there a farmer was working in the fields accompanied with his pet dog and children playing their noisy games, busy with their frolics unaware of worries the time would bring on

He reached the city and hired a rickshaw to take him to the temple and was delighted to behold its golden domes and the tall gates again He went around the temple walking on the marbled stones, leaving his shoes in the deposit room. The marble under his feet was cool and soothing. He bought some parsad from the stall to be taken to the temple as an offering.

The temple was situated amid a beautiful lake as he walked on a causeway connected it. Every few minutes he stood there admiring the view and the reflections of the temple within the pond. He went to the inner court and gave parsad to the priest and the priest added it to the common collection, from which he would take some and distribute to all the devotees and pilgrims as they came along to pay their respects.

He sat there listening to hymns of Guru and it communicated with him at his personal level. He went to langar, the common kitchen and ate the foods offered. He was satisfied and did not want to go anywhere. He spread his blanket outside the gates and soon was in a deep sleep. The keeper of the door found him sleeping with his sad face and twisted body inducing compassion in him. The keeper woke him up and took him to a vacant room in the complex and there he slept till morning.

When the doors opened, he was anxious to feel again the marbled steps surrounding the pool and wondered at its ethereal beauty. The sound of hymns reverberated in the space. He extended his bare arm and touched the water of the pool. The dazzling golden reflections of the temple became visible down the water and he tried to touch it too. Suddenly he felt something unknown beyond his comprehension- something vast but humanly soothing and felt that he was at peace. He was in two worlds, one of the golden domes and one of the temple reflections. He could spend his days holding them together.
He was the keeper of the reflections.


Durlabh Singh© 2008.
 

spnadmin

1947-2014 (Archived)
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Jun 17, 2004
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BHAI SEHNA by Durlabh Singh ji


It was a hot, sweaty and suffocating afternoon. Not a bird in sky, only the sound of some dogs barking at the sun perhaps showing their anger at the injustice in creating such an unpleasant weather for them to bear.

Water was evaporating fast from every pour of your body, you try to replenish it by filling your stomach up to the bottom your throat but still felt thirsty until it was rippling inside your tummy. You line your courtyard with big earthen pots and then fill these with fresh water and after that the scientific principle came into force. Water seeps through all those pours and wants to escape into space and it had to borrow the heat from the pot in order to evaporate itself and thus cool it down. As the pot became cool so did the water inside the pot.

And what do you expect in the month of Jeth, hotter among the hottest months of the year. Sehna dragged his cot to the verandah where it was less oppressive. The heat induced in him a sleepy state and he started musing about things and his life.

He remembered his childhood. His parents were of farming stock and owned a small plot of land, which provided them with wheat, vegetables and other things. When they sold any surplus, they managed to save some money for other things to buy. It was not a luxury living but at least they were not starving .He loved his land and the green fields, different season and different rotation of crops. He particularly loved the oncoming of spring when the whole earth turned to yellow as the sown mustard flowered. The intense blue skies and tarnished gold of crops induced in him a sort of poetical reverie.

He remembered fondly the festival of Basant Panchmi. He liked the preparation before its advent and then long wait for the day of festival. His parents dyed the family’s clothes in yellow. His father prepared a yellow langa and a turban for himself while his mother donned a yellow salawar kamiz with a dopatta to match it. Not to be left behind he had a small turban dyed in yellow too. His father taught him how to tie it himself.

The open-air day brought in a new mood; frolicking through the passages among the fields, it became a new world for discovery, for him to explore. So many variety of the trees to observe, touch and hug; so many birds to watch, cooing, fluttering with their multi coloured plumage. It seemed an image of heaven

He was so proud of his yellow turban, his manly walk imitating his father. Holding on to his parent’s hands he felt sound and secure. He watched the water pouring out of small tin pots of the water wheels as it prepared to irrigate the fields. He liked the fresh morning air, the smell of wet grass and the gentle touch of brown earth beneath his feet.

How distant all that seems to be!

But now all that is gone.

And then the things changed. A dark cloud came and covered the land, things began to fall apart. His land was invaded by foreign forces and that pleasant land became a battlefield with cruel, callous and inhuman activities. The natives fought but had to pay a heavy price for their freedom. His father lost his life in a malaise and soon his beloved mother died too, heart broken with the loss of her husband. He was taken in by a distant relative for upbringing.

His life changed completely. He felt alone without any warmth or love. His inner coldness soon poured over the land and all became shrouded. He did not take any more pleasure in the fields around him and he felt like an alien in a strange land. He grew up to be man but his inner and outer being became desolate and vacant.

He drifted from job to job, working for others – a laborer, a tiller or a coolie.


The news was running around that a great Guru has come to the town and was organizing a campaign against the invaders. He was recruiting people for the army, organizing networks for the common folks as how to defend themselves and thus to organize the resistant.

The Guru for the sake of his people and country had left his secluded spot of scholarship and learning and had taken up the sword as a hedge against looting, killing, rapes and other such disasters. With his unique brand of personality he infused great courage and love of justice among his people that they turned themselves into full of valour. His attention was to make a hundred of his followers take on at least a thousand of the enemies and thus beat them at their own game.

It was better to die fighting for one’s dignity, country, family and home then to yield to cowardly whims of marauders.

On one afternoon, Sehna went to the durbar of the Guru and sat timidly in a corner to await arrival of Guru. When he saw the Guru, he was greatly impressed with his personality, which was soothing but overpowering.

The Guru carried out various urgent tasks like recruiting people for his army, appointing military instructors, generals and other organizers. Further he gave the outline of his plan for the civilians to organize themselves behind the scene and thus to help each other in a co-operative strategy.

Lastly he asked for volunteers willing to do difficult task of caring for the dying and the wounded in the battlefield. Timidly Sehna stood and presented himself for such a task and was glad that the Guru had accepted him. He was provided with all the first aid boxes and sundries.



The great battle had begun. You could hear the roar and den of it miles away. It was frightening and intimidating and imagining that men could kill each other in such a horrible way.
Could you imagine one’s head being chopped off by the sword of another and not feel sick at the sight of a torso gushing out fountains of blood? It would be hard enough to force oneself not to scream and shudder in total horror.

The invaders had come to trample over this pleasant land, intend upon a killing spree, with no pity in their heart and no soul within their body. He shuddered again at the very thought. How could they do it? He could not even kill a fly. It was not given to us to deprive a human being off his life. Once you have taken away that last possession of a human being, what is there left to be proud of?

But that was that. Someone had to confront those marauding invading hordes and only the Guru had the guts to stand against those killers. His small army was fighting like tigers against overwhelming numbers of those outlaws. They showed an exemplary valour to defend their homeland.

What a tragedy it was for the Guru to take up arms! A Guru with tenderness in his heart and pity for the sufferings of others. He admired the Guru greatly for his courage and fortitude. He infused such a spirit in his army that it fought like heroes forgetting even the fear of their own death.

************


He was in the battlefield, caring for the wounded and the dying. He had his medicine box and jars of water with him.

In that aftermath, the battlefield was littered with the fallen; strewn bags of
the bodies, either the corpses or the wounded. It was his first time and an overwhelming sight clutched his being. His eyes began to get misted and his hands had a tremor caused by seeing all the grief .He pulled himself up remembering the Guru’s command; of caring for the wounded. He began to set himself to work. He attended to the ghostly forms smeared with blood and dirt. Tenderly he cleaned their wounds, applied the precious ointments, bandaged and propped them up giving them sips of the water. Hours passed and he forgot himself completely. Gone was his fear of seeing the dying and he found a small satisfaction in carrying out his duty to full. When he reached the end of his lines, he wanted to take a respite from the exhausting work but he heard moans and cries from the other side of enemy’s lines. They had no one to care for them and they were calling upon Bhai Sehna for help. What could he do? Become a traitor to his own side by helping his enemies?

He tried to cover his ears as not to hear those ghastly cries but could not help hearing them. He knew he was provided with the costly and precious ointment which was not to be wasted on enemies but the sight of those wretched creature awakened his consciousness and pity. He went forth to enemy’s lines and started attending to the dying and wounded enemies. The pity and tenderness of his heart drove him to go against his own reason.


His reputation has suffered. Some people were saying behind hid back that he was helping his enemies while the other termed him a traitor, which was extremely painful to him.
One day someone came to see him from the committee managing Guru’s affair. He was called upon to present himself in the durbar to answer various allegations brought against him and against his conduct on the battlefield.

For days he could not sleep properly and was worried as to what would happen to him at the hearing. On the appointed day he went early and sat in a corner in a timid gesture avoiding people’s eyes.

It was a busy day and the Guru eventually came and sat in his usual seat on the dais. He consulted various people about the coming battle plans, listened to the please of the poor and the dispossessed. Other people brought him gifts, money for the battle expenditure, provisions for the langar, the common kitchen.

At last his name was called and he got up to face the Guru with trembling heart, presented himself in dignified manner and made a courteous bow and felt a bit at ease as he observed Guru’s reassuring demeanor .A senior member of the committee read the people’s charges against him. He pleaded as not guilty to all those charges.

Guru asked him – ‘ Bhai Sehna, what did I employ you for?’

‘To care for the wounded and dying on the battle field ‘

‘ Did you truthfully performed your duty?’

‘ Yes sir, I did. I did care for the wounded and the dying ‘

‘Did it include the enemies in your course of duty? ‘

‘ No I did not thought so first t but then things changed. As you commanded me to help the wounded and dying. I did, as I could not see any difference between one human being and the other, all were wounded and dying on the field. So I provided the aid to all ‘

Every body in the congregation was eager to listen to the Guru for his command of punishment to a traitor who has collaborated with the enemy.

‘Bhai Sehna ! Shabash , you have truly carried out my instructions. I am proud of you ‘

That was a thunder bolt out of blue to the congregation and they held their breath

A hush fell on the congregation with few whispers of dissent and anger.

Sehna felt his heart fluttering within his expanded chest. With pride he stood upright and felt like ten feet tall. He took his handkerchief to wipe away the rush of tears pouring down his face. He forgot himself and felt even greater pride for his leader who could see directly into human heart and its motivation. Guru was a dignified figure who distributed proper justice. His whole being melted. He wished he could do more for his beloved leader. If asked he could even offer his life. More tears of love flowed from his dim eyes.


©2006- Durlabh Singh.
 

spnadmin

1947-2014 (Archived)
SPNer
Jun 17, 2004
14,500
19,179
Heer Sayal by Durlabh Singh ji

Posted 26-10-2008 at 07:15 AM by durlabh
I was the moonlit night of lapid love
Some confused lores of a tortured mind
A tongue to tell, to speak of truth jogia
Then to live in shades of encumbered lies.

No soul enamoured in this wide world
That can bring about my heart’s satiation
Certainty within my soul will never again
Gaze upon starred face of Ranjha yaar
And never again the buds of my heart
Blossom anew in cloudy tales of romance.

Strike uproariously for hindered desire
Some deeds in burning to quench the fire.

I will sell my skull for vessel to be made
My dark tresses for silken rope to be woven
My gory skin for the shoes to be soled
And gauged eyes to blinds for instructions.

Oh my lord if my heart was not so worn
Glimpse of Ranjha yaar was enough
To restore my soul.

Forgive me dear God for sins of love
For seeds of grief, for songs for the dove
I will scatter my ashes windward to spark
On some altered dedicated to my true Lord.

Durlabh Singh
© 2008
 

pk70

Writer
SPNer
Feb 25, 2008
1,582
627
USA
The Discarded Bullets

I was running a convenience store and every day I would encounter different kinds of people save for some regulars. One of the regulars was a man without a home. He would mutter to himself but would not indulge in a discussion with any one. I saw him begging too but it would be only at the end of the month. I would see him collecting cans and bottles in a grocery cart. I tried to initiate a conversation with him many times but he would just stop murmuring, stare at me but he would not utter a single word. The homeless man though with cans and his grocery cart would always catch my attention but some how he was different than others. Other homeless people would love to chatter. In their case, I would avoid indulging in a long talk with them.
One evening, he brought a six pack beer and put on the counter, after counting all change he had on him, he found out it was not enough to pay the bill. He looked at me helplessly and mumbled, “Can I pay the rest tomorrow?”
“Sure.” Right here was an opportunity to learn more about this homeless man, for a moment I thought, so I asked him, “what’s your name?’
“Jim Baker”
“Alright Jim Baker, remember, you owe me 85 cents.” Saying this, I bagged his beer.
“See you tomorrow, thank you.” He left without a smile.

I took a break for a week and when I resumed my duty, he came to buy beer again. He paid for the beer in full this time.. After bagging his beer I looked at him with a curiosity to ask something. Guessing I was going to inquire about the 85 cents-credit a week ago, he said “I paid 85 cents to other guy, you can ask him.”
“I knew you would, I just want to ask you a question if you don’t mind?’
He looked straight into my eyes but remained quiet.
“Jim Baker, would you mind having lunch with me?”
“What? Why?” He was surprised, I could also read curiosity in his eyes.
“I like to listen to other people’s stories and like to share mine with them.”
“I really do not have any stories and excuse me, I am not interested in hearing others stories.”
Smilingly I responded to his refusal. “Jim, you have a story, I know that you are different than many, a lot people walk in here but you are different than all of them.”
For the first time I noticed a smile on his face, “Maybe later,” and he walked towards the exist door.
I said loudly, “Maybe tomorrow or day after tomorrow? Jim have a nice day!”
“You too,” he responded and left without confirming the invitation.

After a couple of days, Jim Baker came to buy beer again. He was short of money and asked rather politely, “Would you trust me for a dollar?”
“Of course I will… but Jim, what about having beer on me today? Keep what you have but you have to go with me for a lunch,” I tried to take advantage of his situation to just listen to his story.
He gave in and putting back in his pocket all the money he put on the counter, he asked. “Fine, what time?”
“After one hour, I will be free, don’t go away, and stay around.” I responded.
“Alright” he left.
I took my lunch break for one hour on that day so that I could talk to him in detail about
his life because I was doubtful he would talk with me again. There was a fear of disappearing. Many of the homeless people would just disappear, never to be seen again; where they went, I honestly don’t know.

Jim was sitting in the parking lot under a small tree. He was reading something. I approached to him and said, “Let’s go Jim.”
He stuffed his pocket with whatever he was reading and came with me.
Before I started the car I asked, “Jim, where do you want to go?’
“As you like, I really have no choice, I do not like to go to those fancy restaurants”
“Are you aware of any thing closer?” I asked as I did not want to waste time in finding something better to eat. He replied “No mister”
“Do you like Indian food?’
“Don’t know sir, never tried”
“What about that Deli around the corner, they make good sandwiches,” I suggested.
“That will be fine”
It was about 1.45PM and Hillside Deli was empty. So we had ha had the chance to choose where to sit. We sat in a corner booth I had to order for both of us because he wouldn’t order. What I ordered, it brought a smile on his face; he consented to my order with a reason; he said “I used to eat this kind of sandwich a lot when I came back from the war.”
“Really?” I smiled. So he served in a war, I thought.
“It has a lot of stuff in it, and it is always filling” he expressed his views about that special sandwich.
“I am glad I could order you the right stuff”, I smiled looking at him, and he was staring at a window.
“You have good taste” he replied without stopping gazing through the window.
I skipped the small talk. “Jim, what were you reading?”
He looked at me and took out an old envelop from his pocket and handed it over to me.
“Can I read it if you don’t mind?” I asked.
“Sure, I brought it for you because you wanted to ‘listen to my story’”, Jim said.
It was a love letter addressed to him by a lady named “Sandra” and there was a beautiful picture of her attached to the letter. After I finished reading it, I pointing at the picture asked him “Is she Sandra? Where is she?’
His eyes turned sad suddenly, then he said “Yup, she is my ex wife.”
“She is beautiful; did you two have any children?’
“No, when I came back from the war, I was in bad shape there was a lot of pain medicine I had to take, I didn’t work for some time… I started drinking excessively … it led to separation and eventually divorce…how much she could have taken man?”

“Jim you took pain medicine due to your wounds, right?”
“That is right, but there was more than the pain of wounds.” He lowered his eyes, why, I couldn’t figure out.

( TO BE CONTINUED )
 

pk70

Writer
SPNer
Feb 25, 2008
1,582
627
USA
re: The Discarded Bullets

Our sandwiches came and we started eating, during eating, I avoided questioning him.

After lunch, we came back to convenience store and I took him to my office, the guy working on the counter gave me a surprised look when I closed the door of the office behind me. I knew what he was thinking. He would never understand how circumstances take a person from the top to the bottom. As usual, I ignored his look.
Jim then opened up, his face was tensed.

“We were stationed in rural area, on some occasions, our group was attacked. It was clear that our presence was reported by the villagers to our enemy. So we had to move to a thick dark jungle area. Nearby, there was a small village. Our Staff Sergeant ordered us to destroy that village. One of my friends tried to talk him out of the order,” we could force them to vacate it by telling them that we need it to stay there, even if the villagers did report it to our enemy, they would not find us because we would be in the jungle not that village”. However, the Staff Sergeant wouldn’t budge. After a long argument, since almost no one wanted to commit unnecessary massacre, he told us, ‘Alright, scare them out, pick up a couple of girls.’
We scared them and brought two girls to the post. I don’t know how old they were but they appeared very young. One of them died due to wounds next day, the other one was fine. All of us would rape her every night. She was very depressed. I started feeling pity for her. As I was alone with hr one day, she showed me a picture of a small baby and was saying something and bowing to me. I couldn’t make any thing out of that but I felt she desperately wanted to go to the baby. One day, I took the courage and untied her hands and ankles. One of my friends came back and said ‘What are you doing?!”
‘I am letting her go man, look at her!’
‘Don’t, Sergeant would kill you; take my word, when we move to the other location. Tomorrow, we’re getting gettinnew orders I heard from the Staff Sergeant I will help you in letting her escape, I swear.”
I looked into his eyes, he was very close to me and he was sincere. I retied the girl. After one day, early in the morning, we moved. The Staff Sergeant remained close to the girl whose hands were tied. I discussed again about setting her free w ith my friend. He asked me to remain calm and wait for the opportunity. Suddenly near a bridge we faced enemy fire. We took positions and start firing. For some time we forgot every thing but firing at the enemy. When every thing turned quiet, we waited to move on. I looked behind, my friend and the girl were missing. The Staff Sergeant screamed ‘Where is the girl?’ Nobody said a word. He turned back and started looking around the road. We sat there. After about twenty minutes he came back with the girl who was crying and trembling. When she saw me, she ran to me and hugged me crying. The Staff Sergeant forced her away from me and told her, ‘Shut up, if you don’t, I will kill you right here.” He was furious. I asked him about my friend.
“He was trying to elope with this {censored} to desert us, so he got what he deserved,” the staff Sergeant replied angrily.
It was too much for me to take; however, I controlled myself. I wanted to finish him right there but something held me back. I got up and walked up to him and said
‘He is my friend, he wouldn’t do that at any cost, and he just wanted this girl to go as I do too’
‘So she is the cause…..’ he smiled.
‘Let her go.’ I said politely.
‘Are you giving me orders?’ He was real angry.
‘I am requesting you to let her go,’ I replied..
‘No, I will not do that. Now listen to my orders, move on to the bridge, all of you soldiers, and go on, don’t stare at me like this and get the bridge before the enemy comes to reinforce their positions.’
We started moving. I heard him shouting, ‘Lie down!’
I looked back, the girl was on the ground, and he put his rifle between her legs and pressed the trigger. I ran to him, jumped top of him and started beating him with my gun. Then I felt a a blow at the back of my head and I lost conscious.
When I woke up, I was in medical comp. The first thing I remember was the girl’s face oozing out blood profusely. It still haunts me to this day. I testified against the Sergeant about the girl and death of my friend. They sentenced him to death but I couldn’t recover ever since then from the emotional trauma I went through. All the violent raids we did are still fresh in my head, what the girl went through is still bothering me after so many years. I tried to come out of this, I drank, took drugs but just couldn’t. Some times I want to just die.”

He was breathing heavily and his face was sweaty. He suddenly asked for a beer. I told him that I would give him one. I asked him, “What did the Government do for you?”
“It was only my ex-wife who tried to do something; there was no free treatment after coming out of the Army… They just use the youngsters, they bribe them by showing money for scholarships, once they have used you, and they just dump you, only your family takes care of you… I didn’t have any family, if I had, I might have been in better position… I want to be normal but I just cannot… it’s bad. They used me like a bullet. Once I’m used not a bother to them, all of us, we’re discarded once we’re used. What I went through, they don’t give a damn... it’s crazy man.”

After he left, it was very hard for me to take out of my mind that tragic story of the girl, Jim’s friend’s death and the plight that Jim is in. That night I couldn’t fall sleep as easily as I usually do. Finally with restless dreams, I slept thinking of Jim and the faceless discarded bullets walking the streets before our very eyes.

G SINGH
 

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Jun 17, 2004
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Another poem by respected brother and forum member pk70 ji --


Destiny of illusions

We were brain-washed we never realized
Against the purpose we appose
Against the cause we defy
We were made to sell the souls
For the intention we ignore
For the aim we think futile
Solute to the souls who
Preferred to exit than be present
To support to witness horror and helplessness
Living has many facets
Sometimes they come without choices
Solute to the souls who
Preferred to exit than to be present
To witness horror and helplessness
Very much you were there
Why weren’t you seen?
You are here why are so invisible?
Guru Nanak points out the ditches
The walls that fortified the visibility
Amazing, amazing, amazing Oh Lord
You given the light to progress
We adore the darkness in tempting illusions!
Light is shadowed with destiny of illusions!!!!
 

pk70

Writer
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Feb 25, 2008
1,582
627
USA
Re: New Blog: everyday sikhee

everyday sikhee

everyday sikhee

thoughts, feelings & experiences
whilst walking upon
The Satguroo's Path

everyday sikhee


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.
 
Jun 1, 2008
183
13
Three
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.

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!!”

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~~:ice:​
~~WALD GURU NANAK~~​



 
Jun 1, 2008
183
13
Re: Three

Sat shri akal,:D

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?
 

Tejwant Singh

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Writer
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Jun 30, 2004
5,029
7,158
Henderson, NV.
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.

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.

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

 

Archived_Member_19

(previously amarsanghera, account deactivated at t
SPNer
Jun 7, 2006
1,323
145
Re: The Magical Hat

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'.

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'.
 

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