You have heard many people speak of our grandfather
today; people who celebrate his love of Sikhi, and the simplicity with which he
performed his seva. I see in front of me a great, big canvas, onto which
many have taken their brush and illustrated how he made a difference. And we,
his grandchildren, ask only this: that we too are allowed to paint a tribute to
him.
I may be speaking these words, but they are not
just my own. They have been stitched together, piece by piece, from the
memories and emotions of his grandchildren.
You may know him as Giani Ji, or a sevadar of
Sikhi, or a carrier of the Guru’s message. These are great things, wonderful
things. And yet to us, before any this, he is, most simply, our grandfather.
Our Nanaji, our Babaji.
moment captured by Angad Singh - thank you again :)
If you ask us where we grew up, many of us will
say, right here, in Ulu Yam. Every school holiday, every long weekend, this is
where we congregated. We made pacts with our cousins to ensure the whole clan
was going, we packed our tiny toothbrushes, we pulled out the little bit of
pocket money we had hidden away.
Ulu Yam to us meant playing at the Gurdwara,
sneaking out to the village on Nanaji’s bicycle to buy junk food, lighting
fireworks at night, at least one waterfall visit where we came home with our
pockets full of sand, Nanaji sitting at his desk reading, or writing, washing
busses for pocket money, enjoying Naniji’s delectable cooking, an endless
supply of fresh milk, homemade Kirtan Darbars and Akhand Paaths, and swinging
on our swing, on which generations have rocked, back and forth, back and forth.
You may say, that perhaps as a child, Ulu Yam was
just an escape from our parents and homework. But no. Our Nanaji had a magnetic
presence – and his energy was so expansive that he encompassed this entire
little village. Ulu Yam was, and still is, a mythical place to us. It is where
we come, and the rest of the world does not exist, and we are healed.
It is our grandparents who have created this
sanctuary for us – they built this space, verse by verse, Baani by Baani, and
have sealed it with boundless love. This space is where we first understood sanggat,
this is what we were to each other as children, and continue to be to this day.
This home that our grandparents have built, is, right here, our training
ground, our Samelan, where we come to recharge our batteries. To us, our sanggat IS
our family.
Our grandfather was our godfather – he made it his
mission that we should grow up to love Sikhi.
For just as he took us to the waterfall on hair
wash day, his hands holding ours with a shampoo bottle tucked under his arm,
every morning in his home began with a walk to the Gurdwara where we had darshan and
did our Paath.
Just as he took us for rides in his school bus down
the village road, where we stuck our heads out of the window and waved at our
neighbours, every meal time in his home began with one of us leading the
thanksgiving prayer, Dadda Dataa Eyk Hai, Sabh Ko Devanhaar.
Just as he allowed us to cause a ruckus in his
living room during our Play Station league games, every evening, that same
living room transformed into a Darbar where we sat together and read Rehraas.
Gentle eyes, deep laughter, and God’s name on his
lips. Jap Man Satnaam, Sadaa Satnaam. That was our Nanaji.
As we learned to sing Kirtan, in him we found our
biggest fan. Even when our short arms could barely hold the pakha, or the tabla dwarfed
our little fingers, even when we forgot our lines or missed the beat, he sat
there, listening to us, singing with us, making us feel as if we were God’s own
gift to sangeet.
Only when we grew older did we understand that glow
in his face as he watched us. It did not matter to him that we were off beat,
or off key, or probably both. His heart was made light just knowing that there
we were, sitting, and singing Gurbani.
And when we grew a little older still, and learned
to read Paath, most of us spent time learning from him, bringing our seynchis with
us during our holidays and sitting with him while we read, and he corrected.
Baani was his anchor, the centre of his being, and
growing up in Ulu Yam means it has also become a part of ours.
They say this is the age of kal, of darkness.
And it is the light of the Guru that will carry us across.
This we know; that in our family, Guru gave His
light to our grandfather, who held it, and planted a wick in each of our
hearts, that Guru’s jyot may always shine our path.
Just as we are blessed to be born in the house of
Nanak, we are doubly blessed to be born into our gentle Nanaji’s home. It is
not possible to not love him, which we did, and do, very much. And at the same
time we were afraid, not of him, but of disappointing him. When he would ask:
did you read your Paath today, we knew that it was not us he was judging, but
himself – he wanted to know if he had been able to pass on that love for
Gurbani to us.
Each Shabad, each Ang, each Baani that he has
invested in us, we hope to nurture and let bloom, that the seeds of our flowers
will go on to bloom in our children’s gardens, that they too may know him as we
do.
To end, we offer a humble prayer. Dearest Guru,
please hold near, our darling dear. We know he has journeyed to You, but still,
his absence leaves a shadow in our hearts, one that we hope to illuminate with
the very light that he planted in us – the light of Your Naam. On days that we
forget, help us remember all that we have learnt from him: kindness, humility,
grace, and above all, love, love, love, and only love, for You.
Thank you for listening.
~~~~~
P/s: Hargobind and Manpreet, thank you for doing
this together. Happy tears now :) xx
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