By Jagdesh Singh | Opinion |

Please, before you read any further, please understand that this is borne from my imagination. I didn’t do any research whatsoever from written accounts of what happened that day, which there are plenty I’m told. I’ve been listening about this day for almost all my life, on Vaisakhi and in Sikh camps, typically as inspiration for me to adopt the Khalsa way of life. And I’ll be honest, my diet of glamorized Hollywood movies during my teenage years fed into this imagined scene.

Here goes.

He licked his caked lips. The wind carried light sands as fine as powder, such was summer marching in with no rain to cool the area. It was a wide area. He took a sip from his elder sister’s brass water flask. It was heavy but it kept the water cool.

They walked slowly, following the pace of the crowd. He put back the flask into her sling bag and caught her smiling to herself.

“You’re excited too, Wedi Phen. I can see it in your face”.

She didn’t respond, with the smile still etched there.

They had both travelled on foot the day before, right after their breakfast of wheat bread and pickle mangoes. Their mother stayed home, to tend to the water buffaloes at home, as well as their aging grandmother. Father had already a couple of days earlier, together with other village men volunteering to cook for the large crowds assembling in the small town of Anandpur.

Spring harvest celebrations were always comparatively big, and farmers like their father were always eager to display their happiness after gladly surviving another winter that didn’t destroy their crop. But this year, it was a little bit more special.

Their beloved Master and Teacher, Guru Gobind Rai, had invited his disciples from all of Punjab and beyond to come celebrate in Anandpur. The word of mouth trail must have begun months before, many believing that their Guru would be announcing some kingly message.

“Pita ji should be serving food now at the Langgar up ahead”, Simran told her younger brother.
“But lunch was hours ago. He should be walking towards the field as well. I hope we can see him. I miss him dearly.”

Suddenly there was a large arm around Ajit’s chest from behind, hairy and sweaty at the same time. Before he could react, Simran squeals “Pita!”, and hugs him tightly. Father in return, gives her a bear hug, and grabs Ajit with his strong left arm.

“You came! Come, let’s go. Guru Maharaj is already there in front of the canopy”
“Where?” Simran squinted her eyes as they all finally walked their last step on the dry sandy walk path between the shophouses into the grassy open field.

The grass beneath their slippers was already drying brown from the desert sand and hot sun. They quickly found a spot shaded by large trees a few feet away, and sat at the perimeter of the large open field adjacent to the row of shophouses.

The crowd kept coming. And soon their comfortable spot was over populated with more smiling and laughing villagers from all around. The scorching sun was magically hidden behind thick clouds, as if rain was signaling for its entrance later in the evening.

All of a sudden, like jumping into a pool of water, the silence rushed in abruptly. The only sound heard was the wind whistling, and the crows crowing. Every single soul’s attention was laser focused at the magnificent looking man standing on a wooden stage big enough for 10. He was dressed in dark blue, his turban in bright saffron. He had emerged from the brown canopy, normally found at camps in battlegrounds, with a stern look. The crowd got up and prostrated towards him. He started to speak loudly.

“I can barely hear him, Pita” Simran whispered.

Father was attentive, his neck straining to lift his head and ears up higher.

“Maharaj ji is saying something about us now growing as lions. Something about the challenges to come”

Ajit’s eyes widened “Lion??”

Suddenly there was a collective gasp from the crowd. Guru Gobind had unsheathed his sword, its naked blade glistening, his coattails flapping as the gust of wind swooped from behind him.

This time, everybody present could hear him loud and clear, as even the crows had suddenly abandoned their crowing habit and just sat on the roofs of the shophouses quietly, attentively.

“Who here, of my beloved, is willing to play the game of love with me?” He bellowed.
“Who here will give his head to me?” And the pregnant pause seemed unbearable to many.

“Pita ji, what is happening? Why are the men behind us saying that Maharaj ji has gone mad?” Simran hissed as to not be heard.

His mouth now pursed, his teeth clenching but his eyes were staring right at Guru Gobind, a couple of hundred feet away. A few feet from them, hand raised quickly, no sign of hesitation from the man.

Now their father remarked, “Arey, that’s Daya Ram. Our friend from the neighboring village. I know him well”

Daya Ram got up immediately after Gobind Rai nodded his head acknowledging him, and gingerly walked around those sat where he did, and then briskly up the stage, hands folded. At arm’s length away, he prostrated and then stayed bowed slightly, eyes closed. No words were spoken by anyone.
Gobind Rai pointed towards the entrance of the canopy behind them with his naked sword, and walked in first. Daya Ram, again without any hesitancy, followed the footsteps in.

The murmur grew into loud exasperated chatter in the crowd. The confusion was palpable. The crows flew away from the loud human noises.

Then the silence enveloped again. Gobind Rai emerged from the canopy entrance, eyes red as if he had cried, mouth bent with determination. But the thousands of eyes in front of him were not on him, but on his naked sword now awash with red crimson droplets. It looked very well like blood.

“I want one more!” He bellowed.

A handful of men in the crowd stood up but began to walk away, into the footpath between the shophouses, shaking their heads.

Simran, Ajit and their father didn’t budge. Their hearts were beating faster than normal, their lips dry as they breathed heavily.

In the next hour, more people left. When he emerged the fifth time, Gobind Rai now had a look of relief, like a huge burden was lifted. His sword was now clean, and he sheathed it back. With folded hands, he beckoned the 5 men with their names to come to the stage. From the canopy entrance, the 5 men now were adorned with similar dark blue clothes and bright saffron turbans. They too now had swords by their side, and expelled exuberant glows from their faces.

The crowd now murmured loudly. The clouds were now almost gone, and the sun was making preparations to depart.

Simran and Ajit couldn’t believe their eyes. They still sat rooted where they were, but now their imaginations were in another dimension, slowly giving birth to a magnetic yearning to be a soldier of the Guru. A soldier for the Panth. A lion and a Princess.

Jagdesh Singh, a Kuala Lumpur-based executive with a US multinational company, is a father of three girls who are as opinionated as their mother

* This is the opinion of the writer, organisation or publication and does not necessarily represent the views of Asia Samachar.

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