By Dr. Charanjit Kaur | Opinion |

It’s been exactly two years since our beloved father left us on 29 June. On that quiet evening, he had told my brother, “Jit went out to buy my medicine. Let me sleep first.” And he never woke up. Since then, grief has shown up in different ways for each of us. Some people commemorate their loved ones through annual barsi, formal prayers or community gatherings. We, on the other hand, grieve through stories, flavours and the simple act of remembering him in our daily conversations and by reminding each other of the values he lived by.

In our kitchen, for example, whenever we cook saag, kereleh, pakora or sardines, his favourite dishes, it becomes more than a meal. His memory comes alive. We laugh, we tease and we tell stories about his cooking, his sense of humour and his little habits. Food, for us, has become a form of remembrance, a way to honour love with warmth and gratitude.

Our father, Darshan Singh, was a hardworking lorry driver. He didn’t wear his emotions on his sleeve and he wasn’t the type to offer long lectures. But he lived his principles. And if you were paying attention, you’d learn everything just by observing him. Back in the 1980s and 90s, there were no motivational speakers or inspirational quotes flooding our screens. What we had were parents, real, struggling, surviving and showing us how to live with strength and dignity.

He didn’t come from a wealthy background. We didn’t grow up with luxury but we never felt we lacked anything essential. He made sure of that. Even when money was tight, he never let us feel small. He and my mother worked as a team. She anchored the home and he braved the roads from Terengganu to Singapore. Life was simple, sometimes hard, but always full of meaning. While many might assume a man of his time and work would stick to traditional gender roles, my father quietly challenged those expectations. Despite long hours and exhausting routes, he never shied away from helping at home. We often saw him cooking, doing laundry and cleaning. Not once did I hear him say, “Eh auratan da kam hai” (This is women’s work). He lived gender equality not by talking about it but by doing the work. No wonder all my brothers know how to cook too.

Looking back, I realise my siblings and I have all inherited his values even though he never formally taught them. We learned by watching. We learned that struggling isn’t a bad thing; it’s part of life. We learned that loyalty, responsibility and hard work matter more than titles or applause. We learned that having less doesn’t mean having nothing. It means knowing how to appreciate what you do have and making the most of it. He wasn’t one to entertain superstitions or false hopes. He believed in effort. He believed in speaking his mind. Though not someone you’d often find in the gurdwara due to his work schedule, he lived the essence of Sikhism through his actions.

He practiced kirat karni or honest work every single day of his life. He shared what little he had with others reflecting the spirit of vand ke chakna, especially with his foreign colleagues at the company. Many would say, “Singh baik orangnya, suka tolong orang susah” (Singh is a good person, always willing to help those in need). His kindness was sincere and effortless, a reflection of his values. Although he could not attend prayers regularly due to the nature of his work, he still carried the essence of naam japna, living with a quiet awareness of the Divine through his discipline, strong sense of responsibility and heartfelt respect for others.

Even in old age, he never sat idle. While my mother found joy in prayers and gurdwara gatherings, he found peace in staying useful by doing small jobs, keeping active. That was his philosophy: do something, contribute. He believed in movement, not stagnation.

During my second year at university, I wrote an assignment about his job as a lorry driver. I still remember the pride I felt, seeing my father’s everyday work through a sociological lens. I may be a lecturer now but my foundation was built by someone whose only classroom was the road and yet he taught me everything I needed to know about dignity, endurance and kindness. One thing he often said stayed with me, though I didn’t understand it at the time: “My name will never die”. I used to think he was just being poetic. But during his paath da bhog, his final rites, the hukamnama and kirtan that day included the word “Darshan”. I finally understood what he meant. He wasn’t talking about fame or memory. He was pointing toward something greater. His name, Darshan, is woven into the Guru Granth Sahib itself. It’s not just a personal name; it’s a spiritual vision.

The Guru says:

“Darshan pékhan kaii gun gāvā”.

“By beholding the Blessed Vision of the Divine, I sing Your Glorious Praises”. (SGGS, 207)

That moment taught me that grief, when held with reflection can become a wellspring of strength. When one experiences the presence of the Divine whether through inner awareness, reflection or spiritual awakening, it naturally inspires devotion, praise and gratitude. The ‘Blessed Vision’ (Darshan) is not merely physical sight but a deeper connection with the Divine. Once this connection is felt, expressing love and reverence becomes almost instinctive. My father’s words and values did not vanish with his passing. They became our guideposts.

Every home has its own quiet rhythm. In ours, it was the simple routines like shared meals, visits to the gurdwara and unhurried weekends with family and friends that shaped our memories and values. Even today, our lives carry the imprint of his resilience. We’ve learned that simplicity is not emptiness; it is clarity. That moderation is not lack; it is grace. We don’t just mark anniversaries. We live his values. We grieve by continuing what he started, not through rituals but by living the way he taught us. We work hard, stay grounded and carry ourselves with strength. In every act of integrity, in every bite of kereleh and in the small daily choices to be patient, responsible or kind, we carry his presence forward.

Losing someone who has shaped you so deeply changes how you see life. It teaches you to love more intentionally, to live more honestly and to remember differently. We don’t carry his memory as something from the past but we carry it as part of who we are. In how we live, how we show up and how we hold on to what matters. Not through grand gestures but through consistency, honesty and integrity. 

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Associate Professor Dr. Charanjit Kaur is an expert in cultural anthropology, with a special focus on the Sikh minority community in Malaysia. Her work explores themes such as religious-cultural conflict, gender identity, and social behavior.

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