By Jagdesh Singh | OPINION |
I looked at the Bajaj scooter with a bewildered smile. And then I turned to the supposed rider of the scooter, standing in front of me. His name was Maan, and I’ve known him to be my uncle, a cousin of my father’s. And then I turned to my right, another smiling Sardar, with a bigger turban and a bigger girth. This other uncle of mine, a paternal cousin named Jagtar, was to be the pillion rider. I was supposed to be in the middle of both these adult Sardars. Now, mind you, I was only half their size, and should be able to squeeze in, but with my very limited Punjabi, I managed to get the gist from their animated conversation that it was going to be a 4 hour ride, sandwiched between both of these big burly Sardars.
I was seventeen and had just finished my Malaysian Certificate of Education (SPM). My father offered the adventure of my lifetime: accompany my aging grandmother to visit her birthplace in Punjab and her sister for, what we thought at the time, the very last time. Her nephews were given the duty to introduce me to the Punjab, to her colorful people, to the vast history and spiritual richness.
It was decided that the Holla Mohala celebrations would be an experience for me to remember forever. The very claustrophobic 4 hour scooter ride was supposed to be from a small village at the outskirts of Rajpura town to Anandpur Sahib. Thus began my adventure to witness how grand the celebrations would be at the birthplace of the Khalsa. Although already spring, it was still cold for me, and I wasn’t really keen being away from the younger crowd in the village where the real party of throwing bright colorful powder and paint was going to take place.
As we rode out of the village and onto the trunk road, the majestic irrigation canals gushing with blue waters from the Himalayans, we started to see large tents already propped up along the road. The further down the road we went, the more tents appeared, now side by side. After a while, I realized these were mobile langgar tents. Fresh food and drink were prepared by the villagers living nearby. I was silent, but my curious looks elicited some tour guide explanation from the Uncle sitting behind me. “Langgar! Roti! Chaval! Cha! Khanna?” (Communal Kitchen! Bread! Rice! Tea! Wanna eat?”). Then it hit me. These villagers had set up these langgars to feed travelers heading to Anandpur Sahib, many of whom are traveling from all around Punjab and the neighboring states. Back home, you only see this at gurdwaras.
It was night and we had finished visiting the historical gurdwaras in Anandpur Sahib. We were now walking around the city packed with so Sikhs converging for prayer or just for the bazaars. We ate at one of the larger tents set up right in the middle of the city. I was exhausted, but the vegetarian food (something I wasn’t fond of at seventeen) tasted nice and enjoyable. There were just so many people there. You can imagine the constant turnover of food being served almost on a half-hourly basis since God knows when the couple of days before. The food was fresh. And in abundance. It’s ready for everyone – poor or wealthy.
Late into the night, I was hoping we would now head towards some hotel for a good night’s rest. But we got into another tent. I was confused as no food was being served. And this tent was filled with hay. Thick layers of hay on the floor. My eyes adjusted to the dim lighting to finally realize that this was a tent for travelers to retire for the night, to sleep on the hay with nothing else but the clothes on our back. I was too tired to even ask.
Today, as I recollected back these memories, I realized that this experience could well have jumped out of a National Geographic edition. But even more significant, the celebrations I witnessed that night personified us as Sikhs. I can recall back the camaraderie of the villagers as they cooked and served strangers, laughing and bellowing instructions to one another. They were having as much fun as dancing bhangra, even more. Whether it was serving food and tea, or providing a clean sleeping area with fresh hay, this was how Sikhs celebrated their religious and cultural events. Sure, there were prayers and holy hymns sung in the background, and families were together enjoying it all, but the fun and joy of the actual celebrations was in service to humankind.
Today, as we celebrate our 322nd anniversary of the birth of our Khalsa, with so many well wishes on social media from Sikhs and of other faiths, the narrative is that we’re mostly celebrating the harvest festival along with our other Indian friends. You will see our e-cards on WhatsApp or Facebook adorning a lovely Punjabi couple in the middle of the field dancing bhangra, with wheat or some form of harvest highlighted. I mean, yes, I’m sure we should be celebrating the hard work that got us the harvest, even though many of us are just descendants of farmers. But I really believe that the significance of Vaisakhi is more on how we got our Sikh identity, on how we got our names Singh and Kaur, and celebrate the day our 10th Father created this precious identity that sets us apart from the rest, always in service to mankind. Always in joy while serving in any way we can.
Happy Vasakhi from all of us. May we never forget the joy of being in service to all around us.
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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