Quiet Captivity

Across cities and rural corners alike, gurdwaras, once incubators of awareness and fellowship, have slipped into a kind of autopilot. The sacred text is read, the kirtan performed, the steel thalis stacked high. Crowds come, especially around langar time, and the acoustics of presence are satisfied. But the transmission is faint. Gurbani is seldom discussed, let alone engaged with.

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By Gurtej Singh | Opinion |

It begins, as such things often do, with shoes neatly arranged in the shoe racks. The tiles are shining, the microphones work, the atmosphere is air-conditioned. The daily protocol is carried out with clockwork precision. To the casual observer, there is little cause for concern. But listen longer, sit stiller, and something becomes apparent: the Gurdwara is no longer listening.

Across cities and rural corners alike, these institutions, which were once incubators of awareness and fellowship have slipped into a kind of autopilot. The sacred text is read, the kirtan performed, the steel thalis stacked high. Crowds come, especially around langar time, and the acoustics of presence are satisfied. But the transmission is faint. Gurbani is seldom discussed, let alone engaged with. There is no trace of the heritage of Siddh-gosht, the incisive discourse, the wrestling with meaning, the debate that once defined Sikh intellectual life. What remains is polite performance.

In this uninspiring atmosphere, where the keenness for reading, understanding, and learning from Gurbani has all but vanished, there is no shortage of enthusiasm for paid services. Families are quick to sponsor akhand paths, their names announced with solemnity, their donations logged and acknowledged. The path itself unfolds in the background, unheeded, while attention turns to the arrangement of langar, the preparation of sweets, and the presence of the right guests.

The ritual becomes a package, carefully curated. Even as the scripture is being recited continuously, the family paying for the service is more visible in the kitchen or behind the serving line, ensuring every detail of langar seva meets expectation. The performance is thorough, but the listening is absent. The words pass through the speakers like weather, noticed briefly, then forgotten.

And in this vacuum of inquiry, a kakistocracy has settled in, a governance by the least able and often the least inclined. A managerial class now dominates, wielding control with all the subtlety of functionaries on a tenure clock. They refer to themselves, not without irony, as sevadars (servants) and Guru Ghar day kooker. But in demeanor and conduct, they are anything but. These are not stewards of understanding, nor exemplars of living. They are control freaks, adept not in reflection but in committee arithmetic, visa sponsorship politics, and the art of intimidation masked as formality.

They are sarcastic about the old term pardhān (president) but eager to wrap themselves in the self-styled humility of seva. It is a curated humility, worn like an outfit. Not a lived truth, but a shield behind which decisions are made unilaterally and enforced rigidly. They do not function like caretakers; they function like landlords, men who manage property rather than meaning, protect territory rather than nurture trust.

This was not always so.

Read the full article here (The Sikh Bulletin, July – September 2025, Page 7)

This article appeared in The Sikh Bulletin – Vol 27, No 3 (July – September 2025). Click here to retrieve archived copies of the bulletin.

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