The Sikh-born author recalls three episodes from his childhood to point out that the so-called ‘bad feelings’ we experience are often based on false premises. They are fleeting and hold no significance.
I had a deeply ingrained Sikh upbringing that began around the age of three. My father would regale me with tales of Sikh gurus, known as “sakhis” in Punjabi, which centered around Sikh values and valor. While many of these stories were highly embellished and even contained elements of fiction, to my young mind they represented the ultimate truth. These narratives left an indelible mark on my psyche, igniting a profound desire to have lived during the time of the Sikh gurus. I felt a sense of misfortune that I was not born in an era where I could witness the gurus in the flesh, a sentiment bordering on envy for those who had that privilege.
Most of these stories revolved around the first Sikh guru, Guru Nanak, whom my father affectionately referred to as Babaji. Each night, my father would share a sakhi from Babaji’s life, leaving me in awe of the greatness of this spiritual figure.
I would like to recount here three incidents that occurred when I was about four years old, from which we can draw some life lessons.
1. MY ANGER
It was a serene winter day, and I lay contentedly on a cot in our front yard, basking in the soothing warmth of the North Indian sun. As I gazed at the azure sky, lost in my thoughts, my father came up with the exciting news, “Your eldest sister has been blessed with a baby boy.” (penji da kaka hoya).
Innocently, I asked, “Where did the baby come from? Who brought him here?” (Kaka kithon aye? Kaun leke aye?)
My father replied, “Baba ji brought him.”
Perplexed, I retorted, “But I didn’t see Baba ji entering the house carrying a baby.”
My father explained that Baba ji had come through the back door and had already left. I was extremely disheartened and asked why he hadn’t informed me when Baba ji arrived, lamenting the missed opportunity to witness the divine being in person. I felt deeply hurt and was upset with my father. I felt betrayed and let down. I was beside myself with rage.
To console me, my father explained that Baba ji was in a hurry, as he needed to go and deliver another baby to someone else. However, I remained inconsolable, and it took several days of patient persuasion from my father for me to overcome my despondency. He promised that the next time Baba ji visited us, he would ensure that I received his blessings.
Reflecting on this incident, I now recognize that it was probably the first time I felt such an intense wave of anger spread through me. And over what?
2. MY FAILURE
Another incident from around the same time also stands out. In every gurdwara, the morning and evening kirtan is followed by a specific form of prayer called the ardas. This ritualistic invocation involves one person standing in front of the Guru Granth Sahib, the Sikhs’ holy book, and reciting the ardas while everybody present stands up with folded hands and bowed heads. The recitation lasts roughly 5-7 minutes. As the ardas comes to a close, one person calls out in a strong, booming voice, “bole so nihaal” (the one who speaks shall be blessed), and the call is answered by “Sat Siri Akal” (the great truth is eternal!) by all present.
As a four-year-old, I was fascinated by this ritual. We lived just a few steps away from a gurdwara. I used to go to the gurdwara, holding the hand of one of my sisters, who was around 12 years old at the time. I sat through the kirtan like a well-behaved child next to my sister. I stood up when everybody stood up during the ardas, folding my hands and bowing my head slightly, just like everybody else. At the end of the ardas when the call “bole so nihaal” was given was the most anticipated moment for me as if I had stayed there all along just for that instant. I found that every day, a different person gave that call, always in a rich, resounding voice.
I don’t know how it happened, but I found myself wanting to be the one who made that call. However, I was just a tiny kid and did not know how it could be possible. I told my sister that one day I would give the “bole so nihaal” call. My sister may have found it amusing coming from a four-year-old, but she did not discourage me. The first time I decided to do it, I started shaking and shivering and could not muster the courage.
Many days passed. One day, I gathered enough courage to voice the magical words, but my voice was so feeble that it did not register at all, and in the meantime, some hulk of a man with a flowing beard had given the call in his full-throated voice.
This happened day after day. Every time I tried to give that call, my words were drowned in the loud call of an adult. I was highly disappointed. In my frustration, I blamed my sister, believing that it was because of her that I could not give the call. To cut a long story short, I was never able to realize my childhood ambition for the simple reason that my gurdwara visits came to an end as I grew up, and it was no longer a wish of mine to do that.
As per my memory, this was my first brush with a sense of failure and disappointment. Did I really fail?
3. MY FEAR
Here is one more incident from around the same time. Motivated by my father, I had memorized the names of all 10 Sikh gurus in sequence by the time I was four. Next, I learned the names of panj pyare – the first five men to receive initiation as Sikhs by the 10th Sikh guru, Guru Gobind Singh. This was followed by memorizing the names of the four sons of Guru Gobind Singh and the first five stanzas of the Sikh prayer book Japji Sahib.
For me, it was all fun and games. I was overjoyed by this accomplishment of mine and used to recite the names and the stanzas in a singsong voice every now and then. My family and neighbors thought of it as a great feat for a four-year-old. I was seen as a bright child. I was on top of the world.
What followed was initially welcome but later turned out to be torture for me. Once, a friend of my father came over. He was served tea and snacks. Then something occurred to my father, and he called me and asked me to recite the names of the 10 gurus to the guest. I did that with aplomb. My enthusiasm was to be seen to be believed. Of course, this was followed by my reciting the names of panj pyare, the four sons of the 10th guru, and the five stanzas of Japji Sahib. The guest was full of praise for me. My father looked on with pride.
Now, it turned out to be a regular practice. Whenever some guests turned up, I was summoned to do my recitation. Every time, there were wild compliments, and my ego received a further boost. What more validation and approval could a child look for?
All this went on for some time. Then I noticed that one particular guest was hardly keen to watch my performance. There was a grimace-like expression on his face when I went ahead with my recitation. That put me off. A child is intuitive enough to know whether an adult likes him or not.
Unknown to myself, I developed some kind of aversion to the entire process of being used as a showpiece for our guests. I felt more like a circus animal on display than anything else.
It was then that I started hiding away whenever some guests showed up. Mostly, I used to hide in the toilet or sneak out of the house. A few times I could not hide quickly enough, and my father called me to perform, which I did not want to do. On these occasions, I pretended I had a stomachache and excused myself, taking refuge in my solitude.
This is how I developed a fear of people. It took me a long time to get over it.
ALL SAID AND DONE
What may seem real and painful from a child’s perspective is only a bum steer. Likewise, as adults, the so-called ‘bad feelings’ we experience are often based on false premises. They are fleeting and hold no true significance or value.
1 comment
Thanks for sharing sir!!