May the Guru Bless You!
In fall 1947, a mob ambushed and killed Sardar Chanda Singh, a Nambardar (landlord) of a small village in modern day Pakistani Punjab. Reason: he was a Sikh who suddenly found himself living on the wrong side of the newly created border overnight like millions of others. His ten teenage sons, ran for their lives, and somehow managed to escape. They settled in a small village in central Punjab (India), were granted only some of the ancestral land that was transferred from across the border, and started their lives anew. Poor like most of India post-independence, many of them joined the Indian army, most took to farming, and all got married and started families. I was born in one of these ten families, and my grandfather was one of those teenagers who escaped death.
Life in the village was very simple and straightforward. Most people were involved in agriculture. Resources were limited, luxuries were scarce, yet everyone was quite happy. The village was a model of sustainable consumption. Almost everything was self-produced- wheat and rice were cultivated and harvested manually; vegetables and fruits grown locally, and buffaloes reared for dairy. The rest came from the village shop.
I remember tagging along my grandfather many a times, watching him water the crops in the mornings and helping him bathe and feed the buffaloes in the afternoon. Running into cousins, uncles, aunts and friends along the way. The whole village was one big family.
The smells, the sounds, the voices, the flickering lamps, the bonfires, the roosters, the buffaloes, the golden wheat crop swaying in soft breeze, the heat, the cold, the rain, the mesmerizing hymns emanating from the village Gurudwara (Sikh place of worship) loudspeaker: my village was my cosmos, and in a very strong way defines who I am.
Like most systems, the village life was not perfect and had its own flaws and shortcomings. There were clan fights; women suffered because of patriarchal social structures; superstitions and illiteracy were paramount, and life was quite uncomfortable given today’s standards. Freshly hand-pumped ground water was as close to refrigeration as one could get. The cooling system was comprised of the thick shade of the village banyan tree, while heating was based on these dried round buffalo excreta discs.
The village health system was also very simple. An old lady was the designated midwife and was responsible for the bringing most from my generation into this world. I remember being told stories about how my father carried this lady piggyback and ran from her place on the other side of the village to ours when my mother suddenly went into labor with her second kid, my little sister. An old gentleman in the neighboring village adept in the knowledge of natural medicine was the community physician. I remember myself being taken to him after an accident involving boiling water spilling on my back while I was a little kid. The guy put a greasy ointment on my back and dressed it up, repeating the process every day for many days. I was burnt pretty badly my parents tell me, but healed pretty fast, and without any residual scar.
My father was the eldest kid of his family, with four younger siblings-three boys and a girl. Unfortunately, one of his brothers died in his childhood (being inflicted by some disease that is very curable in modern times). Eventually two more passed away, leaving my father and his little sister the only two surviving siblings. Bibiji (my grandmother) passed away suddenly one day while I was a teenager, and bhappaji (my grandfather), the one I was attached to the most, a few years after her because of heart ailment. I was in the US and could not even attend his last rites.
My sister and I along with our little cousins fondly remember the village life. A recent trip to my ancestral village as a 37 year old guy with a family of his own was quite surreal. I visited my grandfather’s farm, still the same, reminding me of the times I spent with him as a kid. Him walking around in the muddy soil with me following him like a little duckling. When the soil would dry, the crop was harvested, he would see the still intact marks of my little feet, preserve them as long as he could before tilling again and remember me while I moved away to the town with my parents. Today, some 30 years on I was walking through the same farm, looking for any marks that my grandfather might have left behind. I kneeled, picked up some dirt and poured it over my forehead². “Sat Sri Akal³ bhappaji”, I said in my mind… “Guru Bhala Karey” (May the Guru bless you) I heard him say back….
Notes:
- Millions were killed in the horrifying and unfortunate communal riots when India was divided into two nations in 1947. Sikhs and Hindus were killed on the Pakistani side and Muslims were killed on the Indian side.
- Its a tradition in India to bow and greet your elders by touching their feet with your forehead as a mark of respect and submission. In return the elders give you a blessing.
- Sat Sri Akal is a Sikh greeting meaning “The timeless Almighty is the ultimate truth”.
