A TIRING , LOVELESS TORTOISE - (About - Aneet Randhawa)

A TIRING , LOVELESS  TORTOISE

A NIGHTINGALE SINGS TO A TIRING , LOVELESS TORTOISE

I am taking the liberty to post what I consider what one of the most touching kinds of an exchange between me and one of the finest people on Facebook, Aneet Randhawa I have been extremely fortunate in receiving love in abundant, unlimited treasure from some genuinely warm, affectionate and caring people on facebook. But even by my own standards, Aneet's has been a most soothing yet stunning surprise. Never did a surprise occur so smoothly, so noiselessly and so much at a time when it was perhaps most needed,considering some negativity that had begun to creep in some of the exchanges on my wall.

Aneet's little courier, carried on the wings of breeze, not only erased the negativity but more than fully atoned for whatever absence of genuine compassion might have been felt on my wall over the past couple of days.

For this, as for a lot else, there is only thing one can do, but even that one thing would perhaps mar the grace of Aneet's melody:

Here is Aneet's surprise gift to me - which by itself became a most forceful advertisement for all that I have been writing about love on my wall over the past five six days.

(TODAY, ABOUT AN HOUR AGO)

A VOICE IN THE WIND

Dear Harcharan Bains uncle, I wanted to share my success at the selection board with you post commissioning, do not why, I owe a lot to u for this success and this medium FB which gave me an opportunity to interact with u, I didn't do any spl preparation for the ssb, it was virtually you echoing thru me, I think they actually selected you under my garb, I successfully deceived the selection board, donno if I really meet their yardsticks, a big thanks to u bains uncle

(BELOW: MY LITTLE SELF-ADDRESSED POST CARD SET SAIL ON A PAPER BOAT AFTER ANEET'S MAIL)

THE HOUR WHEN NIGHTINGALE REDEEMED A DARKENING VALE

Aneet Randhawa :: Goodness Gracious ! Even when the rest of us are busy debating whether love is spontaneous , free as fragrance and the winds, or transactional - petty, a give and take deal, here you come , Aneet, speaking a language all your own , and speaking to us with the mind of roses and hyacinths and nightingales !

I do not know which great and noble act of virtue are your words a reward for me for ! This is truly the greatest gesture of love ever of the purest and the most sacred kind ever extended to me by anyone in all my years on this planet. Yes, I have always loved you and truly been happy in just your presence out there but that is something which a remarkable child like you must be quite used to from so many others.
But no, I am not going to try to find out to what do I owe this most amazing and incredible offering of love. I intend to bask in it and just relish the unsolicited and undeserved blessing of Nature and Life to me.

This is perhaps God's or Nature's or Life's ( whatever you believe in) way of responding to the thousands of little or long, reply-paid self-addressed return mail love letters I have been writing and setting sail on my paper boats everyday. Someone out there seems to have decided to write a most touching and beautiful acknowledgement of all the songs I sang from my roof tops.
And the medium chosen was THE ONE PERSON about whom I have always felt as if he had always been my own child - Aneet. This is an hour of gratitude from a parent to a son. Thank you, Aneet. And Only you could have done it for your aging elder.

With one stroke, all those long and winding books I wrote on Facebook stand vindicated. In just one God-chosen moment,, the nightingale has chosen the hour of her song to fill a love-forsaken valley - a valley that is "now overflowing with her sound."

This is an hour of miracle. This the hour of love. Should I even say, Thanks, Aneet !! You seem to have loved and smiled even that into irrelevance , rendering love as the only point of relevance to this life..

I could go on - for such is the divine purity of nature of your gesture of love, but no....its just this,: I love you, Aneet. .

(Overlook or correct the typos. Its a family archive.)

" I must go now, but you must stay - which you will. ": Riders of a different kind.. Hazel

Beautiful Temptress, and riders of a different kind.. ..

i am pleasantly surprised at how well have friends reacted to this narrative of history of a popular motor cycle and of personal reminiscing about my younger days ( Well, I say "younger ' only as a concession to those who insist I must look gravely mature now...Truth be told, I am still at Baring College -some 40 years back - mentally, and to a large extent even physically. Yes, some rough living , massive abuse of body and long periods of financial hardships and of poverty zones may have taken their toll, as have the stress of debts and of income which simply refuses to budge - but as hands emerge to lessen my burden, I feel like the first time I held the accelerator of the Bullet in my firm grasp - and on only the fifth day after that, escaped death by the proverbial hair's breadth.
Life has always remained a beautiful maiden - desirable, never entirely approachable but often smiling - if spoken to in right language and with respect.

Early enough in life, I had this little pact with Life, telling her I will never cross the lines of decency in talking to or about her - and also that this needn't bind her down to reciprocal decency. "You go your way but all i will give you is what every man must always give every woman - love, respect and whenever permitted a little playful indulgence, but everything always within the bounds of finesse and decency." At times she has pretended not to care - life has - sometimes acting up a bit too much as all beautiful things have a birthright to do - but all in all, she has stayed nice and warm and loving, taunting me when vanity sat on my head like a cocky something, teasing me with dreams which she knew I enjoyed but lacked the persistence to to fulfil, flirting with me when I wanted serious commitment, demanding commitments when I wanted her for a fly-by-night fling and so on.

But most importantly, she has sat by my side, silent, compassionate and caring when I needed her to just let me sob in her lap - as when I suffered the biggest loss in mother's departure. When mother was alive, she was my life. When she left, life decided to be my mother as long as she thought I needed to be reminded that mother had never gone.

Once convinced that I had recovered just enough, life sprinted away or climbed the nearest trees which I used to climb as a child, and tempted me with her tantalizing beauty. She knew the stem was slippery and I would be able to climb to the delicate branches where she sat precariously, inviting me with her curling fingers like a little mischievous school girl.

And when the hour of bidding her farewell arrives, I expect her to be there like she has always been - smiling, lively, full of mischief and yet caring and compassionate.

That day, I hope to be able to tell her this: " I must go now, but you must stay - which you will. There are children here, weak and needy like I always was, and they need your company. Be kind to them, like you always were to me, and lend them the smiles which you sometimes with-held from me just out of difficult and naughty just out of good-hearted playfulness . I must go now, and give me a big, warm hug,as I leave. If we meet again in some foreign, unknown lands, be a friend to me again just as you were here - caring and loving , demanding and difficult. Be the perfect beloved and beauty - teasing me, tormenting me, yet kissing me on my forehead when burdens and worries of the world threatened to blow it apart.

Above all, be kind, caring and compassionate to everyone. Be what my mother always was. Learn from her whenever pride in your power makes you forget that there is a moment when even you must end - or at least get tired, sleep and wake up in new attires Not that you need to fear death. Death can't touch you as long as I am alive. Still be humble. In short, be like mother was - whom I must find elsewhere, in other lands, in other forms, - and I must try and be a better son - better dressed in the clothes she gave me which I didn't wear and finally lost. Her love will lead her to sit, spin new threads to weave new clothes for me. And this time I will not lose them.
And you - be good to yourself and to everyone. May you live forever, dear life!"

Sun and the Nightingale

UPDATED: The Sun and a Nightingale

July 27, 2013 at 2:57pm

(Completing a story started in 2011)

Said a nightingale to a snake: "There is a little poison in my heart too. When its pain stings sharp, I sing and feel light as a feather. Why do you never sing?"

A cuckoo heard the nightingale, smiled and said, "Snakes have no ears and he can't hear your words."

The nightingale became pensive and said to herself,"How sad he can't hear my songs. There is no music in his life." And she wondered if that was why the snake had to live with so much poison in his soul. "I must find some way to help him sing," she found herself mumbling, and the melancholy strain in her song filled the valley.

The snake slithered into a dark hole. This saddened the nightingale even more. The valley reverberated with her pain all night.

In the morning, the sun searched every branch, but the nightingale was nowhere to be found. Said a little flower to the sun,"She has gone to  valleys unknown  to get some music for a snake who lives here." "Amen !" said the sun, and went about his work, too sad deep within his heart as he had seen something that looked like a nightingale's body lying peacefully still close to where the snake lived. But the sun did not want to violate the innocence of the the little flower, and remained quiet.

A distant star, who had been watching all this, rubbed his eyes under the glare of the sun and shouted from afar, " She sang incessantly all night, and that drilled a hole in her throat. Her last song before day break was a promise to fetch music from strange lands for the snake and others. She left as she had lived -- singing."

The thorny plants that infested the forest did not believe the star. "The nightingale had been the cause of too much noise and trouble here , sang for the snake alone and did nothing to solve the problems of the poorest among us, " they complained to the sun.

The sun looked at them, smiled and moved over from the forest. "Did the nightingale sing for the snake alone?" he murmured to himself." He glanced over his shoulder and looked at the thorny plants, who had already forgotten their complaints against the nightingale and were lost in their daily fights against one another. "The snake did not hear the nightingale's song because he could not. But the thorny plants have ears," thought the sun, and his heart was filled with pity for the plants.

As the sun prepared to set over the darkening jungle, he heard a soft tune he thought he had heard many times before. It was a song overflowing with love and compassion, and it seemed to waft over the gentle wings of the breeze. Suddenly, the sun could see a luminous ball of feathers flying across the horizon. It was glowing with a  strange light that remsembled neither his own glow nor that of the cool rays of the moon. His heart was filled with happiness. he had never felt happiness like this before.

"This stubborn girl can never stop singing songs of love. Why does she mock her destiny? She must learn to fear for  her life," said the sun to himself, but deep downin his heart   he was happy, and he knew that the nightingale had already flown past fear as she had past vales of darkness . He wished the thorny plants would begin to enjoy the nightingale's song. "Perhaps, then they would have less of  hatred and fear and  unhappiness in their hearts." He remebered how the nightingale had once sung "Hatred is fear, and fear love not flet nor  shared."  The sun was a little sad that the shrubs loved only giving pin-pricks and loved pricking the nightingale's soft bosom when she sat near them to sing to them. This was the only reason they ate to live. Singing of love-or sometimes simply singing - was the only reason nightingale lived. Why do they love death? the Sun had often thought.  'Perhaps they confuse  dying with life. But why should I worry?" He had never seen the nightingale worried though she always cared. As he said this, a thought crossed his mind, "How does one care and not be worried? And why does she care? They don't need her, do they? ." However, he could not help answering this to himself: "They do."

Suddenly, he was reminded of the innocence of how he had come into being. After this, he felt light  and  went on with his daily journey and work  with peace in his heart. As he went, he kept watching the ball of feathers that seemed a ball of fire and glow. Songs of love and gratitude and humility and compassion flowed from this ball as water does from a deathless fall. Soon, the ball expanded as it sang and soon the entire sky and universe were filled with this soft feathery ball - or became one. Or so the Sun thought. He smiled as he notiuced his last thoughts before leaving the landscape: "How beautiful does she look dancing in the limitless skies and showering love and cool mercy upon deserts which I have left parched."

When he came back the next morning, the sun smiled  to himself again as he saw his fire and his face  reflected in every drop of  dew on the morning grass.

"This morning, I resemble a bird."

Your worthy son, father

YOUR WORTHY SON, FATHER !

(In the pic , My father (Left, in black suit) receiving my younger sister's would be father in law , Darji, on the day of her wedding at Mahilpur.)

January 1999 - the year of the Tercentenary of the Birth of the Khalsa. My father had been waiting for this moment - April 13 that year - for as long as I could remember. He had secured a promise from me much before anyone , including my present boss, could even have thought of it - 1971, my first year as a college teacher.

The promise was that I would take him along to participate in the event. I hadn't thought that there would ever be an event of the kind that we finally saw at Aanandpur Sahib, but Papaji was certain it would happen.There was no Akali or Badal govt in sight then.

January 1999, One day, I visited my father in the village, Mahilpur. He was 84 but looked much weaker than he should have. He had been an outstanding footballer and till a few years ago, he was a robust typical rural Punjabi - full of vigour, gusto, elan. Mother left us in 1994 - six months after my eldest brother suddenly left her and us in an utter shock. This was too much for all of us, but father and mother were more severely affected than the rest of us.

But this day in January 1999. I noticed father's thick glasses had gone old, dim,opaque and I could see scratches there. I could see that father must find it hard to read anything with those glasses. He loved reading Gurbani. When mother was alive, she would often persuade him to recite it to her.
But now, the eye sight had gone weak and the glasses had gotten worse. And I hadn't even thought he would have needed bi-focals too to help with distant vision.

Father never complained. Too dignified to ask even his son for help - and the son too obsessed with his own world to notice what his father so badly needed but was too dignified to ask.

. And father now needed someone even to accompany him to the optician's to get a new pair made. I knew I - and I alone - should accompany him. But I was content to call up the optician, thrust some money in his palm as advance payment and tell him to "give my father the best glasses money can buy." Father needed his son to accompany him to the shop. I thought that that was perhaps not necessary. Father may have thought it was.

I hugged my father, and left for Chandigarh.

February 1997. I went back. Father still had the same old sort of opaque glasses. I inquired from my nephew and niece why this was still so. They said father had been postponing a visit to the optician on one pretext or the other.Once he mentioned, "Kaake de aan te jaaoonga" (I will go when Kaka comes here.) Kaka was me.

I expressed a little annoyance, asked father to accompany me, but he said 'Not today. Not feeling well." He complained of backache. I suggested he accompany me to Chandigarh. He sort of just sat there - as if he hadn't heard me.

That reminds me he needed a fresh set of a hearing aid too. I asked him loudly again, "Papa ji mere naal chalo, Chandigarh." He again smiled, asked me to get closer. ( He was on his bed) I did. He stretched his arms, I bent, he hugged me, pressed me close to his chest."Tu bohata fikar na karia kar."( You stop worrying too much.) He called out to my nephew and as he came closer, father made a gesture which my nephew understood. And soon, there was a bottle of whisky - half full as I had seen it the last time I was here - two glasses, a jug of water and some ice. Father asked me to pour one for myself. I had rarely taken it in his presence but after mother left, father had once or twice shared it with me when we talked about her - as only he and I could. I moved to pour one for him, but he held my hand, "Mainu hun suit nahi kardi. Tu le"
About an hour later, after father and son had both poured out grief over the absence of someone so vital and crucial to the life of both, I was back on my way to Chandigarh - alone, leaving Papaji behind to grapple with night and with an absence which only I knew how much and how sharply it must hurt him.

Once again, his deteriorating eye sight and his glasses remained as these were. And nothing was said about his backache and the hearing aid was forgotten too.

March 1999. Mahilpur. Papji is not well. I feel a little fever in his palm. He denies it, but that's nothing - the usual stuff - and I forcibly give him some stop gap medicine lying at home since the times of my mother. I called the village doctor in and had him examine my father. "Enha nu apne kolle jao. Bohat ikalla mehsoos karde aa,"the doctor, an old friend, said.(Take him to Chandigarh with you. He feels lonely here without you.) I said "He doesn't agree." I requested father once or twice again - quite sincerely and vehemently - to accompany me - and I thought I had done my duty by a father who had once travelled from Mukerian to Mahilpur - about 65kilometers - on bicycle by night - just because he had received a message that his youngest son, aged about nine, wasn't well. I had run a mild fever then.

I was back on my way to Chandigarh. Alone again. Father's backache and glasses and hearing aid -- well, these still had to wait. (These days, when I have even a mild sore eye, I don't waste half an hour before going to the best doctor I know in town.)

Incidentally, he also needed a new denture - the old one had begun to come loose, and I noticed he was having difficulty taking his meals. The denture hurt gums and he probably had an injury already.

April 10,1999, Mahilpur." Papaji, aj ta enkaan bhi laania penia te mere naal chalo, hearing aid bhi leni aa chandigarh ton."( Today, we have to buy you glasses and we will go to Chandigarh for sure for hearing aid.) He said he could see very well with those glasses and as for the hearing aid, "we will buy it after paying obeisance to the Dasam Patshah (Tenth Guru) at Anandpur Sahib, three days later." He promised to accompany me to Chandigarh direct from Anandpur Sahib.

The backache -- somehow I forgot about that.

April 12, 1999: Evening. I am at Mahilpur to accompany my father to Anandpur Sahib that very evening, knowing that the following day would be tough for traveling, and even tougher for paying respects at Gurdwara Sahib. The milling crowds and my father's weak health --well,I thought today would be better. Father immediately agreed. Suddenly he looked in good shape. His eyes lit up ( glasses were still dim) and he even managed to hear when I said, "Ao chaliye". Soon we were in the car, en route Anandpur Sahib. We spent the night there at the house of a journalist friend -- Jangveer Singh of Ajit. I said "Papaji . aj Guru ki Nagri aan vich taa safal ho hi gaye." ( We have finally made it to the Guru's Town)
Father looked at me and smiled, "Ajay kithe aaye, Kaka. Jadon tak guru de darshan na keete, udon tak kaahde aaye?" ( No, not yet. How can we say we have arrived at Guru's town without having a Darshan of the Guru) Well, in the morning -not wanting to use my status to secure a priority - we started rather early, around three o'clock. My friend's house where we stayed is right next to the Gurdwara Sahib. Still, it was a job travelling those few yards. , I was able with great difficulty to take my father to Takhat Shri Keshgarh Sahib. He paid his respects. We moved around a bit on the roof and saw the town, still well lit in the early hours before dawn.

Father looked very happy. His face glowed under dim lights travelling from the town and also from half lights at the shrine - which was still not fully lit up for some reason. It was a divine sight - seeing father so happy, the first and the only time I was to see him so happy since mother left..

April 13 Evening: "Hun mainu Mahilpur chhad aao, Kaka."(Please drop me at Mahilpur now.) I remembered that I had to take him to Chandigarh first, for new glasses and hearing aid and a new denture and for attention to his obstinate back ache.
But I allowed myself to be persuaded to do it after the seven day Tercentenary celebrations were over. "There would be less rush then," he said, and I agreed even before he had spoken. By the evening, he was at Mahilpur and I was back at Anandpur Sahib- on duty - and later, at night, in Chandigarh.

Two weeks passed and then three and then four. I didn't get the time to visit my father.

May 14, 1999: I am spending a lazy, pleasurable evening at Sector 16.There is a ring on my sister-in-law's phone. She goes out to attend to it. She comes back, even as I am still laughing over a joke which I now find sickening.

Bhabiji kept looking at me, and then held my wrist gently.

"Kaka, Papaji has left us."

I don't know what time and date it is, but we travel and travel and travel and travel through the night, and finally we are at Mahilpur. Father lies on his bed, sleeping, eyes closed ( to spare his son a straight look ) The old, shabby glasses still lie around. There is no hearing aid in sight. No tablets which I had promised to bring for his backache. His face looks completely at peace, and elegant and royal as ever. But weak, as it had looked for sometime now.The old denture was still in - still old.

And his youngest son stood there, wondering., "Could it have been different? Could he have had the glasses he needed so badly for nearly two years now ? And how did he manage without a hearing aid? And why did he never complain about his backache to his son? And did he hurt his gums eating with that ill-fitted denture?"

Mother had loved him and doted on him like he were God. Before she went, she had said, "Kaka, apne Papaji da hamesha dhian rakhin. Tere ton siva enna ne kisse ton madad nahi leni." ( Take care of your father, Kaka. He will not accept any help from anyone except you.)

After letting mother down so badly when she was alive, here I was - the man thought by almost everyone in the village to be so good and caring and loving towards his parents, wondering "Would Papaji have refused to accompany me if I had just forced him to come with me, as I often used to do in so many other things?"

Mother had said, "Enha ne kisse hor ton maddad nhi leni."

The only one from whom he would have accepted help had not given any.

The story of a man who pretends to be a champion of love.

Beautiful Temptress and Riders of a different kind

i am pleasantly surprised at how well have friends reacted to this narrative of history of a popular motor cycle and of personal reminiscing about my younger days ( Well, I say "younger ' only as a concession to those who insist I must look gravely mature now...Truth be told, I am still at Baring College -some 40 years back - mentally, and to a large extent even physically. Yes, some rough living , massive abuse of body and long periods of financial hardships and of poverty zones may have taken their toll, as have the stress of debts and of income which simply refuses to budge - but as hands emerge to lessen my burden, I feel like the first time I held the accelerator of the Bullet in my firm grasp - and on only the fifth day after that, escaped death by the proverbial hair's breadth.
Life has always remained a beautiful maiden - desirable, never entirely approachable but often smiling - if spoken to in right language and with respect.

Early enough in life, I had this little pact with Life, telling her I will never cross the lines of decency in talking to or about her - and also that this needn't bind her down to reciprocal decency. "You go your way but all i will give you is what every man must always give every woman - love, respect and whenever permitted a little playful indulgence, but everything always within the bounds of finesse and decency." At times she has pretended not to care - life has - sometimes acting up a bit too much as all beautiful things have a birthright to do - but all in all, she has stayed nice and warm and loving, taunting me when vanity sat on my head like a cocky something, teasing me with dreams which she knew I enjoyed but lacked the persistence to to fulfil, flirting with me when I wanted serious commitment, demanding commitments when I wanted her for a fly-by-night fling and so on.

But most importantly, she has sat by my side, silent, compassionate and caring when I needed her to just let me sob in her lap - as when I suffered the biggest loss in mother's departure. When mother was alive, she was my life. When she left, life decided to be my mother as long as she thought I needed to be reminded that mother had never gone.

Once convinced that I had recovered just enough, life sprinted away or climbed the nearest trees which I used to climb as a child, and tempted me with her tantalizing beauty. She knew the stem was slippery and I would be able to climb to the delicate branches where she sat precariously, inviting me with her curling fingers like a little mischievous school girl.

And when the hour of bidding her farewell arrives, I expect her to be there like she has always been - smiling, lively, full of mischief and yet caring and compassionate.

That day, I hope to be able to tell her this: " I must go now, but you must stay - which you will. There are children here, weak and needy like I always was, and they need your company. Be kind to them, like you always were to me, and lend them the smiles which you sometimes with-held from me just out of difficult and naughty just out of good-hearted playfulness . I must go now, and give me a big, warm hug,as I leave. If we meet again in some foreign, unknown lands, be a friend to me again just as you were here - caring and loving , demanding and difficult. Be the perfect beloved and beauty - teasing me, tormenting me, yet kissing me on my forehead when burdens and worries of the world threatened to blow it apart.

Above all, be kind, caring and compassionate to everyone. Be what my mother always was. Learn from her whenever pride in your power makes you forget that there is a moment when even you must end - or at least get tired, sleep and wake up in new attires Not that you need to fear death. Death can't touch you as long as I am alive. Still be humble. In short, be like mother was - whom I must find elsewhere, in other lands, in other forms, - and I must try and be a better son - better dressed in the clothes she gave me which I didn't wear and finally lost. Her love will lead her to sit, spin new threads to weave new clothes for me. And this time I will not lose them.
And you - be good to yourself and to everyone. May you live forever, dear life!"

Frameless grace of being a woman

But thanks for that compliment about my writings recognising the fluidity and frameless  charm and grace of women.....I strongly believe that unlike us men, women defy every definition - whenever she chooses to be a woman. Chooses to be or is allowed to be, depending on the circumstance. Men have been grossly unfair to women, and this is not restricted to just material and physical circumstance. it goes back to their utter failure to understand  "woman" and to judge her by the size of the frame they want to throw  her into.  And that failure stems from their being too full of themselves. In the end, they are the losers for look at how impoverished they are for company when they need class. But who is responsible for that poverty of class? 

As always there are exceptions, and I know some even among my friends.

Lazines is living below par

Laziness is not just sitting idle. Laziness is living below par, not delivering your full potential, not doing as much as you are gifted enough to do. By this definition, most of us live lazily. I know it better than most people because......Well, well, well...

Stunning beauties and Riders of Royal Enfield

Stunning beauties and riders of Royal Enfield

I was not very happy when, sometime around seventies, automobile company, Royal Enfield, changed its name to Enfield. I have always been and still am a die-hard fan of the Royal Enfield motorcycles, popularly known as 'Bullet'. There was a time, during my college days, when there was no thrill more pulsating than to ride this "man machine" on roads running through the vast open and verdant landscape of the Punjab countryside, the deep, resonant boom of this marvellous machine giving one the feel of absolute power..

I got my first Bullet, a gift from my elder brother, Dev Veerji, (Gurdev Singh Bains) He had promised to buy me one if I passed my graduation. i did so with eyes shut, but the promised gift was delayed by two years as I committed the blunder of boasting that i wanted to get my Masters in English, and brother insisted that "students" should not ride a Bullet. But he said he would buy me a brand new machine the day my result for the Masters would be announced and I got through. He was as good as his word when finally I cleared my M.A. in English from Government College Hoshiarpur. It was a black and handsome Bullet which I was given the pleasure to drive myself to my first day as a teacher at the Khalsa College, Garshankar. I have never ever felt more powerful than I did that day as I felt the sonorous boom of the Enfield merge with my pulse echoing deep in my chest. Every pore of my body reverberated to the mighty vibration of the machine.

But there is a reason why young men want to look handsome, macho and full of power. Bullet has always symbolised all three .

When I was in college, there was this disturbingly beautiful girl whom I loved but who always gave me a royal ignore. I had once heard her talking to one of her girl friends how much she loved to see men riding a horse or an Enfield. So, the first "round" on Bullet had to be around my erstwhile college where she was still studying. i remember she was in her music class as I entered the college, feeling like a knight at arms. The entry of vehicles was prohibited on the college premises but the Bullet and its rider were intoxicated that rainy day.Soon i stood before the girl, drenched to my skin and the gas "tankie" of my debonair 
new companion had beads of sparkling clear water running down on both sides.

"Mine," I said, patting the motorcycle's seat, and then looked, distinct pride in my eyes, at her for response.

"I hate people who like to show off," was all she would say before she walked proudly away, books held stylishly in one arm, her posture regal and elegant.
I kept standing there for about half an hour after she was gone, and then kick started the mobike and turned it on one leg, like boys love to do. I was about to march towards the gate, when I heard a female voice calling me out. I turned and saw the girl . She was walking towards me with unhurried, elegance, clearly conscious of the divine beauty that sang out from every movement she made.

"Can you drive well?," she asked.

"I have been driving since my school days," and that was a brazen lie, and she knew it straightaway.But she said:
"Never mind, I will take a chance with you. Can you drop me home?" in those days,this was as bold as a girl - especially a girl as beautiful as she was - could get.

Time flew cruelly fast that afternoon even though I drove as slow as I could. All i can remember of that drive is a question ," Who gave it to you?" Refusing to let that puncture my typical Punjabi lad's pride, I said, "What do you mean who gave it me? I got it through a bank loan?" And that was another outrageous lie, and the loud laughter that greeted my words then make me suspect today that she probably saw through this lie too.

The only helpful sign was a smile - a most beautiful smile - that she gave me as she prepared to move away after i had dropped her - a few a paces ahead of her home, as directed by her.

There is something about beautiful girls that makes men forget their narrative, even if the subject is as handsome as a Royal Enfield.

But to return to the Bullet story, Royal Enfield is a motorcycle with a history.It was originally produced by a company named Enfield Cycle Company which made motorcycles, bicycles, lawnmowers and stationary engines.It also manufactured weapons at some point, and this legacy is reflected in the logo - a cannon. The motto of the motorcycle - "Made like a gun, goes like a bullet" is also a hangover of that legacy.

As per history, use of the brand name Royal Enfield was licensed by the Crown in 1890. The original Redditch, Worcestershire based company was sold to Norton-Villiers-Triumph (NVT) in 1968.The Royal Enfield produced bicycles at its Redditch factory until it closed in early 1967. Its last last new bicycle was called 'Revelation', a small wheeler released in 1965.The darling Royal Enfield Motorcycles went out of production in 1970 and the company was dissolved in 1971.

But Enfield of India had started assembling Bullet motorcycles components In 1956 under licence from the UK , and by 1962 it was manufacturing complete bikes.

The use of the name, Royal Enfield, was bought by Enfield India in 1995.Based in Tiruvottiyur, Chennai, Royal Enfield is now the oldest motorcycle brand in the world still in production with the Bullet model enjoying the longest motorcycle production run of all time.In May 2013 a new assembly facility was started at Oragadam, Chennai.

In 1973, accompanied by my school teacher and life long friend, Iqbal Vant (Masterji) of Mahilpur, I drove from the Baring Union Christian College Batala, to the Library Club in Missourie, non-stop, halting only for two re-fills on the way.It started raining near Saharanpur and by the time we reached Missourie, it felt really cold. As I stopped, i could barely hold the weight of the motorcycle as my legs had gone numb from cold and the long drive. I was held in balance by two bystanders, before I finally dismounted, shivering badly.

It kept raining for the next two days we were there, staying in a hotel whose name I have forgotten. We spent the days watching low hung clouds pouring down on us as we loved to walk the roads and the hills, flakes of snowy clouds alternating with dark, thick bounces hugging us as we walked.
It was Diwali the third afternoon and I wanted to spend it with my mother at Mahilpur. Night caught us near Dehradun on the way back but we drove on and on . There were no cell phones days and even landlines were scarce. There was no way I could inform mother how we were placed, but when we finally reached Mahilpur around midnight, she was still waiting. Instinct had told her that her son was on the way .

The next morning, I started for an early morning class at Batala. I halted at a friend's place in Chabbewal who informed that it was a holiday in college. So I decided to have a "round" of the place where I had once dropped that most beautiful girl from my college . As I reached there, I parked the Bullet right in front of her house, pretending an engine snag. To my surprise, a most gracious, charming figure, fresh as a morning lily, walked out of that door. I pretended to look away, but could sense from the corners of my eyes that the beautiful figure kept walking towards me. She walked slowly, gracefully, regally - as ever. Soon , she stood near the motor cycle, and just stood there, silent, arms folded in that self-consciously attractive way.

"kis traaN ho ( How are you)", I said after a while.

"I am fine. How about you.?"

Then there was a silence before it was broken by some of the sweetest words I have ever heard in life.

" Its good you have come. I have been feeling bad since that day - when I said nasty things about you showing off about your motorbike. Actually, I love these motor cycles....and ..."

"And...." I ventured. " And...do you know......do you?" I said, standing there foolishly - not knowing what to say.

" And .....yes. I am sorry. But........but...I miss you. Please a jaaya karo. I am sorry I hurt you that day. You are so ..."She made me feel comfortable as she said,

And then, she was silent. But she still stood there. I looked around and seeing that no one was directly watching us, I held her forefingers gently in my hand and said, " I love you."

Her eye lids fluttered nervously, her bold self confidence appearing to crumble - looking coy and modest. This made her look even more charming than she had always done.

Now when I see these boys riding their Bullets proudly,my chest swells with a special feeling..

Is someone missing him too is what I think when I look at any one of the riders of the Royal Enfield.

Go rub your bare, wet cheeks against the rainbow: Or dip your hands in rainbow and paint the sky in love..Hazel

"Just as your eyes must need a mirror to see themselves, your mind needs another to understand itself: it is impossible to know oneself entirely without the reflecting aide of another compassionate mind. In the end, experience and intelligence fail where simple, old fashioned and innocent love works. The magical deciphering of oneself and of the world around is a leap of pure affection. Love has eyes as fresh as a newly born infant- with an uncanny knack for marveling at what it understands in a flash," she said, but in a flash she saw that her son was dithering on the bounds of understanding her words, and needed a little extra nudge.

"You once said that to truly understand something, one must always have look at it with wonderment. You said to understand is not to decipher the mystery of something but only to enjoy it," he said.
She looked at him with eyes that bespoke love and kindness. For the first time, she knew her son was inching towards romancing realism.

"The romance of mystery is a plaything for the old; lovers and infants alone can invest the familiar with mystery, and romance it. The wise know too much to understand anything; love renders both wisdom and understanding irrelevant, because love must enjoy everything and be happy with it completely. It is impossible to know something without first being in love with it. Understanding follows love as fragrance follows a flower. "Don't panic at the thrill of love at first sight. That's the only love there is; the rest is mere laboured posturing. But it will require a saint's heart to know that its desire at first sight that is a fleeing joy. The trouble with first sight is that most people mistake desire for love. Desire will always die, first sight or last.Satisfaction of desire will see the death of desire. But satisfaction is what love starts it,"said Hazel, as he persisted with his questions.

"But unless you feel the wonder that a child feels before a rainbow, unless you run bare bodied, barefooted to touch and feet of the rainbow at the edge of the earth, unless you climb that rainbow and hang by it upside down, as dew drop hangs from a quivering, rain-weakened branch - unless you do all this, you know nothing about love which comes as a dream dropping through the mist of particles of rain-moistened wind. Go rub rub your bare, wet cheek against the rainbow . Dip your hands in the colours of the rainbow. As the sun passes through mist to produce a rainbow, so does love pass through your heart to create a multi-splendorous dream," she said.

SAD-BJP Relations: Boys will be boys, but they better be men (HT Article)

BJP, and the Punjab factor
       by Harcharan Bains*
               
The BJP is on song these days. Almost anything the party touches turns to gold, thanks largely to the presence of a modern Midas in its ranks. In a stunning reversal of fortunes, Prime Minister Narinder Modi seems to have  built an impressive political edifice virtually on the ruins of  a party which not too long ago wore the look of eternity in Indian politics.
   What is most significant here is that the agenda on which India’s new political icon steered his party to the national cameos is a well  crafted ensemble of modern political ideas. Its colours were drawn not from saffron factories- harsh and abrasive -  but from the rainbow –natural, soft and inclusive.   It was based politically on liberal  and open democracy, socially on the ideal of a tolerant and secular state and economically on a futuristic development  model driven by the idea of  transparent and responsive  corporate with compassion and conscience. The entire Modi campaign saw a marked departure from the  trade mark BJP rabble.

  Herein lies what is at once an opportunity and a challenge, both for him personally and for the country. And nowhere will this opportunity and challenge emerge sharper than in Punjab.
      And the anvil on which this challenge and opportunity will be tested and moulded will undoubtedly be the relations between two of the principal political players in the state: the Shiromani Akali Dal and the Bhartiya Janata Party.   At stake are not political ascendency, individual egos or spoils of power  for either of the two parties. At stake is peace and communal harmony not only in the sensitive border state of Punjab but to an extent in the entire  country. And at test will the ability of leaders of the two parties to  look beyond the immediate and work for  future goals for the country.

  In  a country which, despite its increasing unitarism,  remains federal in spirit and character, the dynamics of relations between a strong national  majority party,  and one of the strongest regional political organizations in India have to be seen in a context much larger than partisan politics.
    Punjab is the only major state where the national majority is a provincial minority. Further, the Sikhs are a national minority but a provincial majority in Punjab. No other state in the country carries this creative yet explosive paradox.
      So far, the BJP and the Akali Dal have together managed this paradox with a finesse seldom associated with India’s political class. Like it or not, the BJP is identified with India’s majority.  And yet, its most dependable and longest standing ally in the past  nearly 70 years is a party that proudly represents India’s most vocal and stridently patriotic minority community, the Sikhs. Each party has so far disallowed strident and discordant  radicalization of  conflicting identities by elements either within their own ranks or those sniping at them from the tramlines. In the process, they have salvaged the cosmopolitan spirit of Punjab and delivered what looked almost impossible at one time:  first created and then occupied a proud secular common ground.

           Not many people are aware how the Akali-BJP relations have always been the best barometer of the mood of the state in ways more than just political. The graph of health of Punjab’s social harmony runs concurrent with the graph of Akali-BJP relations. Since the reorganization of the state in 1966, the SAD and the BJP have parted ways only once – from the early 80’s to the mid 90’s. And that was the only time when Punjab saw bitter, fratricidal violence at an unprecedented scale. At one time during this phase, the destiny of the nation seemed to hang by a dangerously slender thread – all because social and religious fabric in Punjab had got badly fractured.
     It needed the present Chief Minister Sardar Parkash Singh Badal on the one hand and one of the country’s  best loved leaders  from the BJP, Mr. Atal Behari Vajpayee on the other to show political daring  to re-start what proved to be not only a political alliance but a veritable social cohesion for Punjab and the country. A Hindustan Times front-page picture of these two leaders hugging and laughing together in 1996 re-set the mood of the state and of the country where communal relations were concerned. Never has peace and communal harmony looked in any danger as long as these two outfits have stayed together.
  As one who has worked closely with Mr. Badal for over thirty five years now, I am fully aware of  what great risks the Akali stalwart took at that time by offering unconditional support to Mr. Vajpayee at a time when the BJP most needed it in Delhi. This was by no means a favor , nor a political gambit as the survival of the minority-BJP government led by a visionary poet –Vajpayee-  was known to be matter of time. But Badal knew how important peace and communal harmony were for his people and how important the symbolism of Akali-BJP alliance was to ensure that peace and communal harmony.
I strongly believe that apart from the Khalsa Heritage Monument at Anandpur Sahib,  history will rate Akali-BJP ties as Badal’s greatest gift to peace, communal harmony and stability in the country.

Almost two decades later, Badal and Prime Minister Modi re-worked that chemistry when the Akali leader virtually named NaMo as BJP’s Prime Ministerial candidate – even ahead of his own party. And the Prime Minister showed singular grace when, at Ahemadabad last year, he described Badal as “the country’s most seasoned and respected statesman and a father figure.”

   It hurts me these days when I see some people showing less than the requisite seriousness while talking about Akali-BJP relations. I know there are boys in both the parties, and that boys will be boys. But Punjab and the  country require their boys to be men now, and heed the example of Badal, Vajpayee and Narinder Modi,   and not chip away at the strong and  precious edifice of peace and communal harmony symbolized by the Akali-BJP  relations so far.  At stake once again are interests that Punjab and the country can never afford to trifle with.



( Mr Harcharan Bains is a renowned political commentator . He is at present at present Advisor to hief Minster Punjab, Sardar Parkash Singh Badal. The views expressed here are personal)

I am glad that one of my old friends and political colleague and former minister in Punjab Government, happens to be Washington while I am already here in connection with an issue I had left long unattended. I would ahve loved to go around the town with him , visiting some of the greatest monuments of "unageing intellect" that dot this unofficial world capital. I stepped out for a long early morning walk and some light solo-soccer as my hosts and the rest of the city slept away to glory. There is a small open park close to where my hosts live, quiet, peaceful and shy. The mighty Potomac, which loves to roar its sovereignty all day, all night is, for some unknown and strange reason, just whispering gentle prayers of peace as it glides almost embarrassed by its own might and magnitude and behaving at this hour like a most beautiful bride, happy in yet embarrassed by her own beauty. And its rubs its belly on the bosom of the riverbed , lost in ecstasy and eyes closed both in sheer bliss and in self conscious diffidence over its irresistible charm in this mood. The sky above, a clear blue and unmoved and unmoving ascetic yet looks benign as it watches from a height not measurable by human mind. I could never have believed Washington would have moments of such divine peace as it has this hour. Wordsworth tip-toed back into my mind after years of separation:

"Earth hath not anything to show more fair:
Dull would be he of soul who could pass by
A sight so touching in its majesty;.....

Never saw I, never never felt a calm so deep!

The river glideth at its won sweet will:
Dear God ! The very houses seem asleep;
And all that mighty heart is lying still."
A few hours from, this moment of sublime quiet and oneness with the universe would be lost yet again in the din of 'towns and cities'. A few hours away also lies the moment where th agenda of hatred would be sought to be camouflaged by 'concern for Punjab and the need for a new revolution' ( Read change of face of those in control of civil secretariat.)
What an irony that just at that hour, when a new messiah of political revolution , would be blaring away about the number of jeeps that line up the caravan of his political rival, I would be lost in an era over 14 billion years ago when this universe began in an inexplicable big bang and on how the phenomenon called life surfaced on a pretty ordinary planet lying in the suburbs of one of the many spiral arms of one of the most mundane galaxies among billions of galaxies, and how it progressed to a level where, forgetting  vast, immeasurable distances in time and space, the Kings of he planets, the humans, fritter away their energies on trying to rule over one or the other tiny fragments ( like Punjab or Korea or Iraq or Virginia etc) of this invisibly small among countless number of stars and  planets. While my friend will be surrounded by second or third rung self-pusher local political activists, I will be sitting somewhere, unobserved, among a different kind of cosmic galaxy that will comprise Stephan Hawkins, Einstein, Carl Sagan, Tacho Brahe, Kepler, Heisenberg, Niel Bohr, Capra -- among others.

And I will be taken to them by a person who can at any time decide to be  large and limitless and everlasting ike the universe.

Words alone are any good

Words alone are any good, even words beyond language. Actions speak louder than words only when words do not have a heart. No action can match words that flow from the fountain-springs of our being, from the depths of our soul. Every word with a  heart is a scripture.Actions,  in their highest form, merely reflect words. This world is an idea and  the idea is contained in the word.But to know this, you must free yourself from the bondage of language and rise to the Word.

Unquestioning love is hardest to handle

"He makes all my smart arguments irrelevant by trusting them. Sometimes, I realise the stupidity of my lies because he takes them as true. How I wish he would suspect me of the sins I commit and allow me to deny them. I find his complete, unquestioning love difficult to handle. His innocence ruins my peace. How shall I ever escape his trust and his innocence?" she asked, and looked completely dishevelled as she did so.

"Try not to escape. You will understand that you don't really need to," said a voice, and having spoken, the voice melted in the breeze and was lost..

Like

Writing an autobiography

One of the ways to measure your self is to push yourself to believe that you deserve to write an autobiography, and then to test this belief by what you think you would rather skip in a similar attempt by someone like Einstein,Lincoln, Gandhi, Shakespeare, Hawkins, Attenborough, Ingrid Bergman, Dilip Kumar, Audrey Hepburn, Meryl Streep, Vivian Leigh, Audrey Hepburn, Pear S Buck, Mary Kom or Marie Curie - to name just a handful.of glowing spirits who should pour their life through love affair in the form of a book ( each)."

Woman was created beautiful..

Woman was created beautiful and had to work hard to lose that advantage. How efficient and hard-working many women have really been in securing this loss !

Words change meanings as we change

Words change meanings as we change. That is why a classic is as much in what the author wrote as in what you read. Every reader re-writes the classic. That alone is what makes a classic both universal and eternal.Or else, a classic would die with the author. Shakespeare would never know what Hamlet do I read . For sure, the words I write are not always the words you read - and I am grateful for that, for if I write a classic,it won't be one classic that I give unto the world, but as many as the minds that read it. Not just that. Even the classic you read today won't be the classic you read when you come back to it tomorrow. Words change meanings as change.When a genius creates a classic, he creates  a different one for each of us, and a different one for us for each time we turn to it.

Pearls over parents

"Other than the love in your heart, what do you have which is worth your loving? Without that love, your child is just a person among billions.. With that love in your heart, those billions are your children, each one a reason for limitless joy. What else is love? What else does love do to you? What is that goddess without the love and devotion that you experience towards her? With love in your heart, that girl in rags roaming the streets to beg is a fairy princess, a goddess, a poem, a lyric, a song, a dance . And yet you ask me should you choose love or riches? Choose riches over your child, over that joy made manifold if you love every child.Do you check genes before you take your child to your bosom ? What is it that makes your child your child, except love.What do you feel when a child , any child, holds the folds of your shirt in his nimble fingers, his mouth, his wet mouth pressed on your neck in love? What do you feel? Ask those loveless parents whose children have either gone away or chosen pearls over parents."

Incomplete from Niagra

Roar on, Niagara, for prophets follow me wherever I go as does your roll and and your roar.
Love and poetry and prophets follow me wherever I go and where I leave my footprints , God comes and rubs his forehead on the river bed . God follows me  where my feet leave prints, kissing those prints to leave marks for prophets to find a path....Follow me,  will be blessed as your  kisses wash their feet


The mighty circles, whirl pool and the ripple of   waters at the rims  ..these ripples and their murmur at the outskirts echo footfalls of of memory of my maiden love...they  silently sing the same melody that your ripples do....Also the mighty falls do in a roar.  and hearken the gentle, inaudible melody of love that smiles at you all the time.

Romance and (Ground) Reality

ROMANCE AND THE (GROUND) REALITY....

Once again shall Socratese be mocked. Once again shall the Cross be questioned. Again shall Chandani Chowk be frowned upon as " unrealistic, adventuresome, romantic".

Where shall we take a stand?


I take mine here:


Not daring to invest life with a glow that defies its mundane and pathetic surface -  not daring to romanticize reality and then blandly declaring  it  to be 'ground realities' , and refusing  to see that even the filthiest gutter carries the potential to bloom into a garden of  flowers of  stunning beauty, something that happens so casually everyday,  everywhere -- in short accepting dust as dust, bones as bones, muck as muck,  gutter filth as gutter filth: what else should be called  'burying  one's head in sand' ( a romantic expression by itself)?  Those who dare never to accept a  'particle' as ground reality but discover in it energy large enough enough to light up a whole metropolis - these , my brother, are the romantics who do not bury their heads in  sands of what is so fashionably called "ground reality".


Only a romantic could ask,"Why does an apple not fall upwards?" The ground reality prophets had ridiculed him: "How can anything 'fall' upwards?"


 Only 36 romantics could defy  your beloved 'ground reality'  to ensure that a force as large as 10,000  Afghans and Orokzai tribesmen was not large enough to overwhelm them at Saragarhi  on September12, 1897 .


Only  a romantic could call out five beloved ones out of a gathering of thousands and dare to  ask them to offer their heads to his sword, and then turn these "meek ground reality herds" into a  romantic force whose Kesariaas and Neelas still dare the infinite skies ?  Ground Reality is that I, you, our beloved parents and children are all bones, blood and marrow and a bit of muck:  it is romance in thine heart and thine eye that turns them into something for whom we are willing to die - any time, any number of times.


Only a romantic in the nineteenth century could eye the crown of Europe lying in a bush, haul it up with the tip of his naked sword and place it on his head. We call this romantic Napoleon Bonaparte. Does anyone here know more about ground realities than this 'little Corsican' did,  he who wrote hundreds of most glowingly romantic letters to his most beautiful wife - she  of the dubious loyalty did? What was the bigger ground reality? His love, her disloyalty, his sword or the fear of entire Europe that first ridiculed him and then ended up fearing and finally saluting him - for whatever length of time.


Was Garibaldi the passionate Italian freedom maniac a romance or a ground reality? Is the ground reality of an invincible British empire larger than  the romantic legend of one man - Bhagat Singh -  determined to look this ground  and this reality in the eye and declare, "My dreams shall overcome this reality"?  

Romance is the highest form of ground reality. And love, still higher.


 Romance is to reality what fragrance is to a flower and what music is to a guitar or  what poetry is to a poet or ,what a child is to a mother 


 If you have any doubts, put your arm across your child, your mother, father or  some other beloved one, and try saying, "You are just GROUND reality, as good or bad to me as any of 700 crores humans and many million times more creatures that walk this earth."


You will hear a reply. honestly reproduce that here, please

Two Comments from FB

Innocence , Trust and Suspicion

"How often does our obstinate suspicion over goodness in another's heart rob us of a chance to be good ourselves ! How often does our refusal not to see a saint in another stall our own walk towards saintliness !. How shall I ever become a saint if all I see in others is evil, intrigue and conspiracies ! When shall I get over this demon that whispers dark rumours of universal designs against me ! When will I begin to see that I was not the only one chosen to be good at heart in an otherwise completely wicked world ! How utterly idiotic that I keep refusing to see myself as just a random specimen of all that this world is made of - and what I think this world is what I symbolise ! Am I the really the only one striving to overcome evil in me and to be always good to others ? And in fact, am I even among those who constantly cleanse themselves of this evil?"

He was familiar with this voice within him.But he did not want to trust this voice. And other questions resumed.

" How can I be sure that its good to be good in this wicked world?

The jungle heard the question and smiled and then replied, breaking into a gentle early-winter morning breeze:

" Only through love. The moment your heart begins to overflow with love, you will feel trust returning to it. And with trust, innocence. Only the innocent can trust. Only the innocent are wise."

His cheeks kissed by a gentle breeze, he closed his eyes and began to listen, "But you won't understand this if suspicion and fear of being cheated still rule your heart. This fear is not fear at all. It is your own selfishness masked as fear. You need this fear to justify why you act selfish. 'The world's wickedness is your only justification for your own, and the excuse for not being innocent. You need this fear and you will never let it go. How else will you justify your own selfishness?"

The breeze got a little stiffer, and the jungle spoke on.

" Stop playing games with yourself. Stop cheating yourself. The moment you do that, innocence will return. With innocence, trust. With trust, peace and bliss. Did you ever see a suspicious man happy?".

The Rakhi debate -contd.

I am truly touched to the core by your words, sir, and by your enlightened approach to differences of opinion on ideological issues. Your views on religious processions, the use of loud speakers etc truly come as relief.
I feel it a blessing for me for a person of your learning to allow me to agree to differ with you on a few things - like Rakhi, for instance - and still continue to have respect for each other, although almost all of this respect between us belongs to you . After this,I am emboldened to say that even if Rakhi had been an empty ritual for me personally, I would still have totally respected the sentiments of those who find a lot of sentimental worth in it - as I do now..
We agree to differ on Rakhi , and this is a measure of your intellectual magnanimity .
I look forward to interacting with you in future also - more in the nature of learning from you through discussion .

I have a some reservations ,sir, on some of the things contained in your earlier post and I will take the liberty of in-boxing my views to you for a dispassionate look at things.

I am obliged that you forgive me my political views. Quite honestly, i regard my politics as a very small part of who I am.

I humbly wish to make use of this opportunity to share a little more on how I view a proximity to and respect for the Hindu, the Muslim and the Christian ways of life as a tribute to egalitarian spirit taught to us by our great Gurus - one of whom is also described as "Hindu ka Guru, Muslim ka pir."
. 
The spectacle of my Hindu brethren coming to Gurdwaras does not give me any communal pride but it does fill me with respect for their magnanimous approach to religion.

Likewise,, I respect the Sikhs who accompany their Christian friends to Churches and Hindu friends to Templesand Muslims to mosques and observe the norms of their religion at their holy places out of a heartfelt respect for each other's sentiments.I have never felt that my paying respect to the religious beliefs and customs of other religions can ever come in the way of my religious persuasions.If anything, these things merely fill my heart with more humility and reverence towards what the Gurus taught us.

Similarly, sir, when I take pride in the brave Sikhs/Khalsa rescuing Hindu women from invading marauders, I am also filled with reverence for the brave Hindus who came forward courageously to stand by the Guru when the beloved Sahibzadas were martyred and their mortal remains had to be consigned to elements - as at Sirhind . Every Khalsa who risked his life to save the honour of Hindu women as a part of his duty of honour must also have been reminded of Bhai Todar Mall and many others of his kind from among the Hindus.To these brave and enlightened Hindu followers of the Guru we owe a debt of gratitude which can never be repaid. These bonds sparkle like gems in history. 

I must learn from you in due course of time ,sir, more on what our great Gurus taught us on open-minded approach to spiritual pursuits.I am greatly touched by the humility and modesty with which you have sought to understate your own learning and scholarship and also your profound knowledge of Sikh history and religion. It is thanks to your truly liberal and tolerant approach only that I have been able to express my views on an extremely sensitive issue in such a free and open manner . I intend to put more demands on your time, tolerance and learning in days to come.
Meanwhile, I will try to deserve at least some of the kind words you have spoken about me.Please accept my sincerest gratitude for that, sir. .