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  1. In this deeply personal account, I describe for the first time how I was assaulted, beaten and raped by a gang of hired thugs or rogue police in a north central Indian state during fieldwork in 1992. A graphic narrative of this event leads into a brief meditation on the sorts of things readers would typically prefer not to know, and on our compulsion as engaged anthropologists to bring them into the conversation anyway. I conclude with the persisting hope of survivors of violence - like many of our ethnographic interlocutors in arenas of conflict - that healing is possible and that change toward justice can occur. Finally, I write of an anthropology that speaks from a spiritual, political and intellectual paradigm which recognizes that, unspoken or not, values of the heart are as central to our field as those of the mind. [Cynthia Keppley Mahmood, Senior Fellow in Peace Studies, Department of Anthropology, University of Notre Dame, U.S.A.] "It's not an interesting subject," said my colleague, an anthropologist at a research institute in north central India. He was referring to the Sikh separatist insurgency then at its peak in the northwestern region of Punjab. I was puzzled by his answer. "Not interesting?" I queried. Horrifying, maybe; tabooed, maybe; frightening, maybe; all kinds of other adjectives could be applied to the uprising that claimed tens of thousands of lives in the name of a sovereign state for the Sikhs, but "not interesting" was hardly an expected answer. Not least, from a fellow anthropologist. "No, not at all," came the firm dismissal. "You don't want to inquire about that. It's not a point with any research potential. We should continue with tribal development. That's what you came here for, isn't it?" You don't want to read the rest of this story. Not if you want to avoid confronting the utter disgrace of a world in which some people think they can threaten, pummel and punish scholars into studying the "right" topics. Not if you want to believe that knowledge is found in ivory towers and quiet libraries, that it comes without pain, that it is always welcome. I had gone to this undeveloped region of India to study tribal issues, and that's what we did. My associate clearly did not want to approach the topic of Punjab, and there were, after all, so many other "interesting" things to study in this vast nation. Interesting and safe, my memory adds parenthetically. When the tribal project was finished, I mentioned Punjab once again. It was 1992, and the newspapers were aflame with news of the northwest. In avowedly secular India, a religious minority had spawned a sovereignty movement so strong that it was seen as threatening the very unity of the nation. This Sikh uprising inspired further separatist unrest to the north in Kashmir, among the Muslims. A heavy crackdown in both states by the central government was prompting criticism of human rights abuses from every major international watchdog organization. An observer of India could hardly deem all this "uninteresting." "Might not one consider a study of the situation in Punjab," I prompted again, "when the tribal work is concluded?" There was nothing partisan, merely neutral, in my proposition. But my interlocutor returned my query with silence. I could understand it, because for him as an Indian it might well be problematic to show too much interest in security-sensitive topics. For me, it could be different. No one really grasped what was going on with the Sikhs, for example. To say that they were "terrorists" didn't begin to unpack the massive alienation of the Sikh population from the India they had opted to join in 1947. But I remained puzzled by the overwhelmingly "bad press" the Sikh separatist movement had gotten. There appeared to be no sympathetic voices anywhere. Something told me there must be a story behind that . . . my anthropologist's nose told me that such 100 percent agreement on a subject spelled ideology, not ground-level truth. The success of the Sikh guerrilla fighters meant that somebody supported them. That was why I brought up the subject here, far away from the actual conflict in Punjab. That evening, as I was returning from dinner, something happened that changed my personal and professional life forever. It was quieter than usual for this bustling, even raucous, area of the town. Twilight had fallen, shadows lengthening into darkness where alleyways twisted between buildings, but it was light enough on the major street where I walked. Thinking about the article I was working on, and feeling replete with a lovely vegetarian meal, I hummed a bit as I neared the last corner on the way home. Suddenly I had a vague sense that something was wrong. I was walking alongside a low wall marking the boundary between the street and the city's maidan, the grassy parade ground from British times, when I saw a small group of men walking in my direction across the field. There was nothing particularly wrong with that, but something clicked in my mind that they were striding a little bit too purposefully. It wasn't a typically Indian way of walking, in the dusk of a warm evening. Brushing this idea aside, I continued on my path, looking ahead. But when the group passed behind me, one of them, to my horror, leapt forward, grabbed me around the waist, and hauled me over the wall into the maidan. It happened so fast, as they say, I couldn't think. It took me a moment to even realize what had happened. Before I knew it, I was being pulled across the grass, stumbling, half-running, now grabbed by a second man, deeper into the darkness of the maidan. My adrenaline was shooting up, every warning I'd received about street gangs in India whipping through my mind. I fumblingly reached inside my bag when we stopped running. My hand came out with some bills and coins, probably more than these men had seen in a long time, and spilled them onto the grass. "Take this money," I gasped. "Here, take my passport." I reached into my shirt to pull out my "secure" wallet. "American!" A U.S. passport was worth a lot on the black market, and I fully expected my assailants to scramble for the money and passport and evaporate into the night. These gangs did such things for money. This was India's poorest state, with roving bands of unemployed youths. Typically, they weren't serial murderers. If you weren't involved in their local caste wars and it wasn't a communal confrontation, what they wanted was money. I knew all this from books and magazines and newspapers. I ticked through the facts in my mind as I stood there, agonizingly waiting for the thugs to reach for the bills, the passport, the coins. But to my horror, the crumpled bills I dredged out of my bag fell to the ground unheeded. One of the men grabbed my passport roughly out of my hand, held it to the light, and spat on it vehemently. For good measure, he stomped on some of the currency that now lay in the grass, grinding it down with the worn black heel of his shoe. I saw that the fellow next to him was barefoot, and one of the others wore flip-flops. My mind now started mentally checking off these details, click-clicking, ticking, as my fear rose like a gorge in my throat. Was this really a street gang, or what? A hand was on my wrist. Whump! I was flat on the ground. No time to do anything, breathless from the impact of my back hitting the field. "What do you want?" I was saying. Was I shouting, screaming or whimpering? Or speaking serenely? My voice sounded oddly calm to my ears. The men were hugely tall from my vantage point; hulking shadows, faces swathed in cloths. Only then did I notice that all of them were carrying lathis, Indian police batons. What could that mean? As I inhaled, the air carried the scent of rotten tangerines. Someone must have thrown fruit here on the maidan, I thought, as people occasionally did with the remnants of family picnics or workers' lunches. I almost gagged on the smell; it enveloped all of me and went straight down my throat to my stomach. The black-shoe man kicked me in the side just as the barefoot man put his dirty foot over my nose and mouth. Now I really will throw up, I thought. Who are these men? Are they thugs? Could they be police? I wondered as my eyes roamed wildly around, like they do in movies. For some crazy reason, I tried to look straight at the barefoot man high above my face. I tried not to let my eyes roam wildly. I concentrated on that. "<admin-profanity filter activated>! <admin-profanity filter activated>!" - and a string of curses followed. Unindividuated members of the band I couldn't distinguish were swearing and hitting my legs and lower body with their lathis. Intermittently, black-shoe man was leaning over to spit in my face, that part not covered by the other guy's foot, choking me with its pollution and filth. He pushed his accomplice's foot out of the way at one point to obtain a wider target. "Stop! Stop!" I half sobbed, though my mind insisted I was in control. "I am an American scholar. You won't get away with this." I said it but it sounded ridiculous, asserting U.S. power from my position lying flat down in a maidan. Before I could register this half-thought, I felt my salwar ripping. A hand was on my breast, pinching my right nipple. It hurt! Jesus, it hurt! I saw the glint of a knife. It was held in a large dark hand down near my waist, pulling up the silky cloth of my kameez. Thank God, I thought, they are not going to kill me. They are only cutting the nala to get my pants down to rape me. I calmed my mind. If they had wanted to kill me they would have done so already, I thought. They didn't take my money, I thought. They have a different aim in mind. So quickly does the mind change gears, it thinks of rape as "only" - they are "only" going to rape me. At least their aim is not murder. As my salwar was pulled off and my breasts were fondled by multiple hands, I continued, disembodied, to think clearly. They want to humiliate me or scare me. I can survive. I will live through this experience and go on. My thoughts were hovering above my body, thinking themselves through rationally. One of the men had put my hand on his <admin-profanity filter activated>, kneeling by my side. It was horrible, gross! A sausage-like thing. Repulsive thing. Vomit thing. Stinking bowel movement of a thing. Shouldn't I fight back? I barely formed this thought in my mind when twist! My hand snapped his organ around, a loud wail from his masked mouth! No registration of triumph though. The knife at my wrist. Slash, slash, blood. I see the blood dripping, even in the dark. I smell my own blood over the smell of the rotten tangerines. I cannot fight back, not against this. I should survive, only survive. Oh! I hadn't noticed. Black-shoe man is raping me. The stars are very bright. Odd, even with the city lights you can see the stars. I wonder if people at home are looking at these same stars. Of course! Silly me. It's daytime there. My thoughts, above, focus on daytime, night time, the rotation of the earth. There are, amazingly, many stones in the maidan, despite its grassy appearance. The stones are getting into my hair. I'll have to wash it before the trip home. What kind of shampoo will I use? A supermarket array of shampoo brands flash through my mind. Herbal Essence. Pantene Pro-V. More Value for Your Money. A Fresh Scent. It's a different man now. I can't feel him. He smells like garlic. Horrible. Throw up! No, pay attention. Pay attention to when he gets up.When he gets up, jump up somehow. Jump up and run away. My thoughts tell me to gather my strength, jump up, and run away. I try to hold on to my thoughts of plans, but they fly away like butterflies. I try to catch them, but the fragile wings tear. They are off and away, up into the night. Bushy eyebrows. I force myself to see, to pay attention. The man is sweating. Mumbling curses. How can I jump up? My legs have been beaten. My side hurts. I am bleeding. Rape man pushes on. Can I stick my thumb into his eye, as I've been told Special Forces do, to kill someone? I realize somebody else is standing on my hand. The non-bleeding hand. Blood and tangerines, semen, sweat. Inhale the solid miasma of degradation, get it past your nose and mouth, get that into your lungs, let it rip into your soul. With a groan, he is done. Somewhere, people are clapping. I hear a motorcycle nearby. Now! I think. I don't know how but somehow I am up, running with bent knees and twisted ankles but running, toward the sound of the motorcycle. RUN! My thoughts tell me, my brain screams. Men are laughing behind me, and their laughter feels like knives. I don't know if I am crying or screaming or if my mouth is open but utterly soundless, but I do know that I am away. I run and stumble and run and run. It is like a dream where you can't run, but I am running. I look down and see that my legs are moving. "Help me," I croak to motorcycle man. "Help me, help me," I plead to utter-stranger man, and fall onto the back of the motorcycle. My thoughts are back in my brain now. My thoughts, my brain, my body, we are one filthy, humiliated, angry whole now. I finally start to cry, weeping onto the shoulders of kind-Samaritan man, bumping over the rotting streets of the city on a sputtering moped. You do not want to know that this has happened, of course. You do not want to envision it. You do not want to read about the stones in my hair and the smell of the rotten tangerines. You do not want to imagine a woman you know as respectable and dignified clinging, weeping, to a total stranger in a north Indian night. Discreetly, I have admitted to a few privileged friends and colleagues that, yes, I was assaulted, but it was a long time ago, and I am alright now. Such admissions, legs held firmly together, avoid confronting the utter disgrace of a world in which some people think they can threaten, pummel, and punish scholars into studying "the right" topics. We don't want to throw that into the faces of polite academia. We want to believe we choose our research topics freely and follow our conclusions where they lead. Those who actually try to study "the wrong" topics - the silenced, the tabooed, the dangerous topics that challenge the power holders of the world - may find out just what it takes to be a truly independent scholar. But it is important not to hide the price some scholars pay for that in the interests of conventional good manners. That way leads to a trivializing of what Scholarship - the pursuit of truth - actually is. Pursuing the truth is a highly political endeavor! It is not the way of safety, of security, of sweet dreams, and comfortable retirements. It is a jihad. You do not want to know the nightmares I wake up trembling from, years later, the gripping, contorting, wringing headaches that plague me continuously, the post-traumatic stress disorder symptoms that do not leave, despite therapy and medication and time. I don't thrust such things before you, not in regular discourse. Not too many people know about "what happened to me." After all, I don't want to be viewed as a victim, as some sort of permanent cripple. What happened impels me, though, to push forward rudely with other things people do not want to know but need to see. Now, remember those Sikhs in Punjab? They were the people my colleague at the institute found so "uninteresting" that he dissuaded me from thinking about studying them. After I was assaulted (oh! that word covers a universe! an epoch!) I gradually came to learn that the entire episode had been set up to scare me into avoiding the topic of Punjab and the Sikh insurgency. Why else would my assailants have refused my money, my passport? I hypothesized. Spat on me, insulted me? And yet, they didn't simply kidnap or kill me either. The more I thought about the whole thing the more I came to the conclusion that this was an attempt to scare. And in light of that theory, other things fell into place. Slowly an explanation evolved that fit pieces into the puzzle. The person I had met for dinner was a well-known senior scholar of Marxist orientation who had written provocative analyses of the then-current Ayodhya controversy and, in the process, boldly critiqued the Hindu majoritarian nationalism that enflamed minority passions among Sikhs, Muslims, tribals and others. I had been warned by my colleagues and hosts not to meet this respected academic, this senior scholar, and out of deference to them I had waited until our joint project on tribal development was nearly completed before deciding that, as a free agent, I could and should go ahead and seek out a conversation with him. I did so by accepting a dinner invitation that evening, in a public place, on the way back from which I was so purposefully attacked. When I had stumbled back to the institute that awful night, bruised and battered, my colleagues had proven unsympathetic. I was advised not to go to the police, because that could result in problems for our research project and potential future permits. Besides, everyone knew that police were corrupt and women could face even more problems with them. The matter could even become an international incident. But these were pragmatic concerns. Stranger still was the overall mood of "we told you so" that greeted me when I explained what had just happened. My hosts advised me to listen to their guidelines next time. If I hadn't taken time away from our current project to meet with dubious individuals concerned with "uninteresting" subjects, none of this would have happened. Instead of being comforted, I got more warnings: maybe you've learned your lesson now, maybe now you will stick with the projects approved by this institute. I was reminded, then, of other oddities about the trip that I had brushed aside at the time: the reluctance of my all-Hindu, all-male colleagues to trust me with a map of the border-area tribal region we were investigating; the insistence that I drop my married (Muslim) name and go back to my (Germanic) maiden name; the intellectual disagreements we had over whether the tribals should be classed as Hindus or as "animists" for the Indian census. This latter was an important political question, bearing as it does on the figures of just how extensive the "Hindu majority" in India really is, and invoking incendiary calls for hindutva (loosely translated, "Hindu-ness" or the "Hindu way") as a defining feature of the Indian nation. I had assessed the groups we investigated as clearly animist, whereas my colleagues uniformly classed them as Hindu. (We listed them as Hindu, with the majority, but I wrote a politely dissenting article.) The clarion call to hindutva by Hindu nationalist organizations who in 1992 were just leading the march to tear down the mosque at Ayodhya on grounds that an ancient Hindu temple lay beneath, was the same call that prompted Sikhs - over on the other side of the subcontinent - to fear for their place in ostensibly secular India. Muslims in Kashmir, Nagas in the Northwest, Christians in the south, Dalits ("untouchables") everywhere; these were the non-Hindu communities becoming restive over the rise in "muscular Hinduism" (Hansen 1999; Jaffrelot 1996; 2007). These tensions have only increased since the time of this incident in 1992, so that by now, we see violence in all the peripheral areas of India where Hindus and non-Hindus bump up against each other in India's jostling democracy. The Hindu right is sophisticated enough to fight one battle in its political war in the meadows of higher education. Although pogroms have occurred out in the streets against Sikhs or Muslims, the world inside the ivy-covered walls is not immune. We would do well to remind ourselves time and again that, as Salman Rushdie commented in 1984 regarding the Jonah-in-the-whale tale, there are no more whales in which to remain insulated, not for the arts nor for academia (Rushdie 1991). In 2004, a group of slogan-chanting Hindus looted the Bhandarkar Oriental Institute, where James Laine, a scholar whose book excited some controversy, had done his research. A Hindu mob nabbed and tarred the face of the Indian historical researcher he had acknowledged in the volume. Wendy Doniger, Paul Courtright and David White have also been among those academics who have been targeted by the Hindu right because of their intellectual work on the religion. Doniger, a senior scholar of the Hindu tradition, regularly receives death threats; a letter-writing campaign tried to prevent another young scholar's tenure at Rice University. It is probably difficult for readers without a background in India to imagine the venomous quality of these disputes over religion, which are tied to postcolonial identities and to the allocation of resources and rewards in post independence India. The Sikhs who brandished the flag of their own homeland of "Khalistan" in 1992 were especially threatening because that was the height of the new Hindu nationalist drive to rebuild the Ram temple at Ayodhya, and coincidentally it was the peak of the armed Sikh insurgency in Punjab. At that historical moment, it seemed as if the Khalistani guerillas might even succeed in establishing a Sikh homeland, making that separatist movement the first to actually challenge the integrity of the Indian state. The Kashmiri insurgency followed the example of the Sikhs, and India fast became a "fearful state" (Ali 1993), responding to challenges with overpowering violence. Vigilante groups and civilian posses felt emboldened to defend the Indian motherland, in Punjab and Kashmir and in the "cow belt" - the Hindu heartland where I had just been assaulted. Few were prosecuted; indeed, many were cheered on by the media. Indeed, India sees the threats posed by centrifugal tensions as so dangerous that it is willing to risk its reputation as "the world's largest democracy" to quash any potential revolutionary movements. International human rights groups have all criticized the ubiquitous use of torture and arbitrary detention by police and security forces in India and, where separatist insurgency threatens, extrajudicial executions and disappearances as well. But sadly, even the marketplace of ideas is now constrained by the fearful Indian government. Although the Constitution provides for freedom of speech and expression, under the Official Secrets Act the government may prosecute anyone who publishes or communicates information that could be harmful to the state. A press council composed of journalists, publishers, academics and politicians - which in the United States might be standing up for press and academic Freedoms - in India sets a code of conduct to regulate and self-censor materials that might incite communal violence. The government bans books considered incendiary, bans films deemed offensive to "communal sentiment," and applies restrictions to the travel and activities of visiting scholars and experts. It has to approve all forms of seminars, conference, guest lectures and collaborative research involving international scholars. The Informational Technology Act allows the government to limit access to the Internet if such access is deemed detrimental to national security, including allowing police to search the homes and offices of Internet users. The government itself is afraid of what ideas can do, and it is not surprising that the agenda of allowing only certain kinds of ideas a place would also be carried through to government think-tanks, research institutes and universities. Back in 1992, I was only peripherally aware of rising tensions between Hindus and other religious groups, about which I unfortunately know so much now. That is to say, I knew about communal conflict in India, but imagined that because my studies were not directly impinging on these issues, I could pursue my work on tribal development in peace. Through gang rape, beatings and broken bones, I learned differently. The books I had read had not made me understand the systemic quality of the silencing that goes on in a place dominated by fear, where state security has become synonymous with national identity. Even small comments, small gestures, small names, small dissents, blossomed into seemingly major potential threats. Facing the ambiguity of not knowing whom to trust, in pain, humiliation, and frustration, I got to the airport the morning after I was assaulted for the first flight to Delhi and then home to the United States. There followed months of back-and-forth negotiations of who did and said what, and about which groups were ultimately responsible. There remained many basic ambiguities that were never resolved, ambiguities I later recognized as characteristic of the arenas of terror in which many of the people I now study (Sikhs, Muslims; Mahmood 1999) live themselves, never quite clear who is an ally and who is an enemy, perhaps doubting their own complicity in the suffering they endure. Did they bring it on themselves? (As so many say.) It took me years after that to sort through what I should have, could have, or might have done as a victim-survivor who is also a scholar. What was not a gray area for me was whether to continue to work in this region, on those topics. I had to. Every scar, as it faded, begged me to. Since 1992, I did turn my scholarly attention to Punjab and I did learn a great deal about the Sikhs who are so "uninteresting" that their suffering goes ignored by the entire world - those Sikhs with their wounds of torture, their disappeared relatives, their raped women, and their secretly cremated remains. I studied the tabooed "Khalistanis" who definitely had more of a story behind them than the simple narrative of criminal-terrorist upheld by the Indian state and indeed the whole of the (non-Sikh) civilian population. Through face-to-face Ethnography - looking into dragons, not domesticating or abominating them (following Geertz 1984) - I learned about the history of Sikh grievances, the theology of war and peace, and the dynamics of the widespread Sikh diaspora. I learned that Sikh militants did indeed kill and bomb and terrify - but Sikh civilians suffered and died. They were ashamed, and were scared, and their government did not protect them. The human rights abuses going on in Punjab were horrific: this in the land of Gandhi; this in "the world's largest democracy." These things are among those that people seem not to want to know about Sikhs and about Punjab, things that we must make them know anyway, I decided. Put that raw and burning flesh right out there in coarse exhibition, legs splayed open obscenely. Make it so people can't turn away. Make somebody look. Make somebody question. Why is a generation gone from the plains of Punjab? Anyone who loves India should know what has happened in Punjab, I reasoned, because a tiny two-percent minority like the Sikhs are the proverbial canary in the coal mine, the bellweather that can point to how the winds of Indian democracy are blowing. Are the rights of a small, dissenting minority protected? If not there, where? When we come to the much larger minority of Muslims? When we come to the vast lowest level of the Indian pyramid, the Dalits? It troubled me that people in India viewed Sikhs as troublemakers, that they had no sympathizers, that even progressives didn't stand up against the nightmarish abuses of rights in Punjab. You may not want to know what happened to me - me, a mere drop in the heaving oceans, a mote in the vast eye of God - but you damn well will know what happened to Harinder Singh and Mehtab Kaur and Pritpal Singh and Jatinder Singh Kahlon and Maninderpal Kaur and the Sikhs at the Golden Temple and the others in the distant villages, and those unnamed who went up in smoke, and those named but still missing. In pain I will put it right before you until you have to know and you have to ask why. "Sikh Studies," a traditionally Orientalist field that has consciously steered clear of the topic of conflict in Punjab, even as tens of thousands of Sikhs perished, wants us to look at medieval religious texts while the heart of Sikhism is in flames. If we touch the fire, if then too we burn and say ouch! - then we are shunned. But then again, academia has never done well in perilous times. Raphael Lemkin, who coined the term genocide, was thought to be crazy when he pointed to the crimes of Nazi Germany, and academics have sadly been more complicit than protesting in mass killing campaigns from Rwanda to Bosnia. What's wrong with us? Not even in India, but internationally? In America, where we are "safe?" So few speak up. Like the tin man in the Wizard of Oz, do we simply have a deficit of heart? You may not want to know about that young man, bound and gagged, dropped from a helicopter in Atlantic waves, or about the state that now shelters his killers. Do you want to see - or is it too "pornographic," as we say (no one living with violence considers such an argument) - the beheading of that journalist, the muffling of those children in improvised live graves? Is it not time to think more critically about our institutional discourse of "safety" and "risk assessment" and how it guides us securely away from the martyring truths that might really unseat the powerful and change the status quo? How it is part of the machine that keeps academia complicit in the silencing of abuses, the turning away from suffering? We think of scholarship as a quietist occupation, but in this unjust world must it not be sometimes a militant one, as Scheper-Hughes so plaintively suggests (1995)? Is it not amazing that in this day and age, serious scholars get death threats, major academic bodies ignore the human pathos at their very feet, and "terrorism experts" in academia and our governments may never have crossed the path of a person enmeshed in violence? One may choose to be an "engaged anthropologist" as an intellectual matter; there are reasons enough as the 21st century dawns. I had gone to north-central India in 1992 to study tribal development needs as a scholar, an observer. I had no stake in any religious or political controversies. But when others chose to use their very bodies as weapons, insulting my own at its very core, this ethnography became a very intimate matter indeed. The question is, what does one do with that deeply, literally visceral violent memory? Use the healing of self to forget that unsought connection when my study of violence and my very being were suddenly thrown into one another on a maidan's grassy surface? Or, use that shattering intersection to begin a new journey, in which the bloody love of the other throws the anthropologist into the role of pilgrim - truth seeker - advocate, from the bones? Seek a new way to understand anthropology as a spiritual journey and a political commitment as well as a science, art, and profession? It's past time, I think, that we talk to our students not only about safety but also about courage. We should ask them what they think it takes to be an anthropologist in this perilous world of ours - not GRE scores but character. How will you stand up to it? How will you pursue, teach and write the truth in a world intent on masking it? Sometimes people ask me, how can you continue to do this work, how can you continue to have hope? How can you, a teacher of peace studies, imagine that the Sikhs and Kashmiris, who have now suffered so much, will heal, will flourish, will give back to the world the spirituality and music and art and all of those things for which they were known, "before?" How can you imagine that the Indian police and military, who have tortured and jailed and murdered, will become in the end human beings of peace and goodwill? How can you believe that militants who slaughter in the name of God or sovereignty will emerge as forgivers and reconcilers? Those who have become rapists or raped, is there hope for them, now? I believe that a future of healing and peace is possible because I know that human beings are more resilient than we can ever imagine. I have bones that have been broken and have healed. I have wounds that have bled, have scarred over, and are barely visible now. I have memories that have haunted me but have faded, and new, better memories that have replaced them. I know that despite all my continuing personal demons, when a gentle, strong man holds me, I melt. What other kinds of love are not possible? What courage is not possible when the courage of people all around us wells up through drownings, beheadings, live burials, wells up again and again until we are tired of watching it on our televisions and reading it in our newspapers - and yet people still find the strength to resist, and resolve, and forge on ahead? There are those who find peace unimaginable, so they warn of "uninteresting" topics. They send goons to scare off the inquisitive. They beat people with lathis to force them into cowardice. But we survivor-anthropologists are not afraid. We believe in the possibilities, find all human beings "of interest," and will not turn away. Acknowledgments I dedicate this article to the graduate students of the Kroc Institute for International Peace Studies, Notre Dame, who, on the eve of their first fieldwork, gave me the strength to tell this long-muted story. Colleagues at the institute were the first to read and comment on drafts of this article: Martha Merritt, Scott Appleby, Larissa Fast, Anne Hayner and Diane King, and I thank you for your early support. Anthropologists Agustin Fuentes, Daniel Lende, Greg Downey, Eric Lindland, Jim Bellis, Debra Mac-Dougall, Lisa Mitchell, Ian Kuijt, Kalyani Menon and Patrick Gaffney provided critical feedback and encouragement to publish. Gratitude also goes to two anonymous readers at Anthropology and Humanism who provided useful suggestions. None of the above should be held responsible for any of the contents or opinions in this piece, however, which are entirely my own. Cynthia Mahmood did go on to become a leader in the academic study of violence and human rights in Punjab. She is the author of: Fighting for Faith and Nation: Dialogues with Sikh Militants (1996); The Guru's Gift: Exploring Gender Equality with North American Sikh Women (Mahmood with Brady 2000); A Sea of Orange: Writings on the Sikhs and India (2001b), and many articles and book chapters on related topics. Mahmood also speaks and testifies publicly on terrorism, rights, and resistance in democracies such as India and the United States (see Mahmood 2001a). She founded and now directs the book series on "The Ethnography of Political Violence" at the University of Pennsylvania Press. Mahmood's current project is a book on state violence and historical silencing. References Cited Ali, S. Mahmud, 1993, The Fearful State: People, Power and Internal War in South Asia. London: Zed Books. Geertz, Clifford, 1984, "Anti Anti-Relativism." American Anthropologist 86(2):263-278. Hansen, Thomas Blom, 1999, The Saffron Wave: Democracy and Hindu Nationalism in Modern India. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Jaffrelot, Christophe, 1996, The Hindu Nationalist Movement in India. New York: Columbia University Press. Jaffrelot, Christophe, ed., 2007, Hindu Nationalism: A Reader. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Mahmood, Cynthia Keppley, 1996, Fighting for Faith and Nation: Dialogues with Sikh Militants. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press. 1999, Trials by Fire: Dynamics of Terror in Punjab and Kashmir. In Death Squad: The Anthropology of State Terror. Jeffrey A. Sluka, ed. Pp. 79-90. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press. 2001a, "Myth, Terror and the Power of Ethnographic Praxis." Journal of Contemporary Ethnography 30(5):520-545. 2001b. A Sea of Orange: Writings on the Sikhs and India. Philadelphia, PA: XLibris. Mahmood, Cynthia Keppley, with Stacy Brady, 2000, The Guru's Gift: Exploring Gender Equality with North American Sikh Women. Mountain View, CA: Mayfield. Rushdie, Salman, 1991[1984] "Outside the Whale." In Imaginary Homelands: Essays and Criticism, 1981-1991. Pp. 87-102. London: Granta. Scheper-Hughes, Nancy, 1995, "The Primacy of the Ethical: Propositions for a Militant Anthropology." Current Anthropology 36(3):409-420.
  2. The Song Of The Sikh "Ah ! Well, let my hair grow long; I cannot forget the knot He tied on my head; It is sacred, it is his mark of remembrance. The Master has bathed me In the light of suns not yet seen; There is eternity bound in this tender fragile knot. I touch the sky when I touch my hair, And a thousand stars twinkle through the night. Who says the hair is no more than grass ? Yet a single hair is a dear remembrance, An heirloom, a trust, a pledge, a love, A vow, an inspiration. My form is but a statue of dumb gratitude for The knot of Friendship tied by those Kings of Eternity, The Gurus who came to the Punjab; The Saviours who were gracious to love me, and Made me a home in the Realm of Eternal Beauty." Puran Singh Extract from Hail Hair ! by Dr. Birendra Kaur
  3. JapuJi Sahib has in it the inimitable rhythm of life in Nature- it makes man a fountain that flows with the milk of human kindness. JapuJi Sahib is the text of the art of living in unison with Nature and with Nature’s God. Nothing in the other scriptures and Bibles of men equals JapuJi Sahib, in its wonder, its depth and its simple clarity of perfect revelation of personal truth. …this hymn gives joy; it vitalizes the whole of our spiritual being, and elevates and ennobles. The Sikh is one with Nature and it is JapuJi that has brought this about. JapuJi Sahib is a hymn that has in its ring the tremble of the Stars, the flickering lamps of this blue-domed Temple. …the true Sikh, a true hero, will not exchange his JapuJi for the wealth of the three worlds, for the comforts of Paradise or the joys of a dream-world of intense pleasure. …without JapuJi Sahib one dies, that the personal love for the Guru falls into the dust and diet of daily life and that without JapuJi Sahib one is famished. The JapuJi of Guru Nanak From Spirit Born People (first published in 1928) By Professor Puran Singh (1881-1931) The modern age has been auto-suggesting through its false science of political economy that man lives on bread alone. Miserably small and depressing is this animalistic view of life. The greatest thinkers of the world have not put faith in bread alone. Pregnant with spiritual beauty are the memorable words of Jesus Christ,-“Thou shalt not live by bread alone but by every word that proceedeth out of the mouth of God.” All animals get hungry; they must go to the manger, but to glorify this physical necessity, as does the modern world, is the outcome of ignorance and of blindness to spiritual values. My eyes turn upwards and kiss the lotus feet of the Great Guru who dwells within me when I read the hopeful message,- “Thou shalt not live by bread alone.” My thirst for reality is greatly assuaged. And when I reflect that Sikhs of the olden time, the disciples of the Guru, lived on the hymn of JapuJi Sahib I am filled with joy and thankfulness. So profound has been the influence of the constant repetition of this divine music by my Sikh ancestors, the ancestry that started only 450 years ago, that when I dip myself in cold water, involuntarily escapes the song out of me as birds cry out at break of dawn. To have dissolved its pure cadences in the blood of the Sikh children is a great artistic work. For this hymn gives joy; it vitalizes the whole of our spiritual being, and elevates and ennobles. Its touch cools down all fires of desire and the peace that was the Buddha, comes to the Sikhs to both men and women as they chant the Guru’s songs. Today if you ask any Sikh child to choose between JapuJi Sahib and bread; he will answer unhesitatingly ‘JapuJi!’ I am glad whenever I find the son of Man rises above physical need. And the true Sikh, a true hero, will not exchange his JapuJi for the wealth of the three worlds, for the comforts of Paradise or the joys of a dream-world of intense pleasure. With a broken shoe, a tattered turban, and a thread bare shirt, a poor toiler on the earth without name or caste reads JapuJi as he sits clothed in the color of the false dawn under a tree in the wilderness. His eyes grow red with delight and as he opens them there is the red sun trembling in the east. The Sikh is one with Nature and it is JapuJi that has brought this about. JapuJi Sahib is a hymn that has in its ring the tremble of the Stars, the flickering lamps of this blue-domed Temple. They who live on the surface, rebuke that Sikh for wearing a white turban, but as he raises his head, the clouds disperse and reveal the snow-covered mountain. I sometimes wonder because the mountain is such a splendid Sikh of the Guru. The Sikh copies his fashions of dress from the beautiful in nature. Of what use is life, if my head does not rise above all its circumstances and conditions even as the high white mountain rises above the plains? Seeing the river that comes out of the mountains like a song, is it manly for me to have a heart that is not the fountain of all the rivers that flow? JapuJi Sahib has in it the inimitable rhythm of life in Nature- it makes man a fountain that flows with the milk of human kindness. JapuJi Sahib is the text of the art of living in unison with Nature and with Nature’s God. It describes creation, as the divine poet sees it and suggests the realization of cosmic consciousness. Our reasons are of the material and therefore negligible; but feeling is of the spiritual. Nothing in the other scriptures and Bibles of men equals JapuJi Sahib, in its wonder, its depth and its simple clarity of perfect revelation of personal truth. Those who have the likeness of God in them dwell within the inmost circle of the family that is Nature. Is it not crude to speak of ‘one’s own family’ and not to be of all families? What is that courtyard which has not the moon and the mountains within its small expanse? What is that house which has not the wondrous expanse of the whole universe? It is miserable to be small. I wonder we do not suffocate in mental misery because of this ignorant exclusiveness. But by its rhythm, JapuJi Sahib of Guru Nanak lifts us up to great heights. We clasp the stars in one hand and the roots of life on earth in the other. It is a charmed hymn. In its repetition is life. It is wonderful that Guru Nanak resumes his personality in this one hymn of His. We meet the master in its sound. They of this earth have not yet heard of it, but the Heavens resound with its lilt. I think it is of no benefit to translate it. Having translated it once, in another mood I am impelled to translate it again. At least I wish to translate it endlessly. And it is forever impossible to translate it. In its vision swing many universes. In its sound resides the omnipotent being. In its movement there is the thrill of the silver steps of a myriad dancers of the sky. In its repetition is the assonance of a choir of Heaven, and the companionship of the liberated souls. It teaches no philosophy but it imparts the spark of life. In its chant is the secret of the future religion of the whole mankind. And one never has enough of this spiritual chant. JapuJi Sahib will make the little sweet intense language of the Punjab the universal language of man. ‘A fond hope!’ you may say. But love has its ways. And a small track may lead to a new continent I do not know. Love works all miracles. And Guru Nanak’s chosen language may, by the love of His name, be the chosen of the people of this earth. Its cadence is audible in Heaven; this much I know. The JapuJi in Brief O Beloved, Thy name is Truth. Thou art the Person who creates, Thou art the humanity that hath no fear, no enmity. Thy shining spiritual form is above time and space. Thou art immortality, Self-radiant Thou, O Love, Whom no birth can envisage And no death can remove. O Beloved, Sacred, secret is Thy Name, And it opens like the flower of life in the kindness of the Guru. Thou art eternity The beginning Thou, The middle Thou, The end Thou, O Beloved, Thou art beyond the wings of thought, Thou art beyond the plumbings of silence. Without Thee desire is not sated, And all wise proposings sink with sorrow, nothing avails without Thee. Living with Thee, In Thee, O Great Love, Consenting to be Thine for ever and ever is life’s fulfillment. At the signal of Thy brow The forms rise, The souls are cast, And glory gilds the brow even of the smallest, the meanest. At the signal of Thy brow Life is scattered in myriad positions, low and high, And the souls rise up through pain and pleasure. Some are the gifted beings in union with Thee And others wander away, in their orbits, for ever and ever. All is the superb creation of Thy eyes, O Beloved. Thou art. Glory, Glory, O Beloved. All are in Thy sunshine. Thieves, they say, Cut-throats, robbers who live on the other’s blood, Sinners, slanderers, liars They say these are mean and small But when Thou shinest, all is beautiful, I am attracted out of myself, Fascinated by Thee I sacrifice myself to Thee, Glory, glory, O Beloved, All is well. Thy palace is of music made, On its walls the universe breaks in song, Its sky is full of fair dancers, The space resounds with the rhythm of soundless bliss, The rivers and the continents sing Thy Name, O Beloved, The stars beam with Naming Thee The mail-clad warrior is fierce, But his heroic death on the battle-filed sings in faint Tunes of love Thy anthems of personality-music. Thy dreams roll on. Life is inspiration of Thy Beauty, And they are the princes of Heaven who love, who love In that still repose of soul, in the infinite rapture of silence. When one I buds forth into a million, When the voices of the rivers become my voice And the cries of birds on wind my own, And the leaves of the forest and the blades of grass my myriad tongues, When one call of mine to Thee, O Beloved, becomes a million, and that million becomes a million again, And the wheel of the whole Universe moves as a wheel In wheel of song Naming Thee, O Beloved, and ever In harmony with the celestial music within my soul, Of Thy Love. And my once saying “Thou” “Thou”, O Beloved, starts and countless ages of life saying “Thou”, “Thou”. Of this music is made the ladder that rises up to Thee. And they meet Thee who scaling this shining ladder cross the frontier. Beyond, there, up, above, the highest art Thou, O Beloved, And higher floats like the nimbus around Thee Thy song of Naam, And the entrance unto Thy Palaces is according to the assonance of one’s soul; they enter whom Thou callest, And the smiths that make men of themselves toil hard at their craft. They cast and recast their souls in the image of Thee, O Beloved, From near and far, it is the music of life that ascends to Thee. Born of waters, We children of earth Hear news of Thee from the winds. Day and night nurse all life. According to the action of each soul are appointed places for all, be they near or far, Those who Name Thee, Beloved, are perfected, Bright are the faces of the victors who have learnt to live in the maddening music of Thy Presence, O Love, my Love. Some of you will say this is not a translation of JapuJi Sahib. True it is not the million readings we can have of it, but it is one of those readings. Music has an infinite number of moods and meanings. Moreover, this translation is absolutely literal. I should be a blasphemer if I were to give any sense differing from that of the Guru in my translation of His Hymns. I like the short rendering given better that I gave in 1921 in The Sisters of the Spinning Wheel and I still like some of the passages in my earlier version. And when out of the million more renderings I have yet to give in centuries to come, I shall have selected the best, pearl-like in their beauty, and have strung them on a thread of light, I shall then make still other translations and become so vain with pride of wearing the garland, that then perhaps my ambition of translating JapuJi Sahib will have its first crude fulfillment. I make a personal confession here. I have been saved from death by the love of the maker of JapuJi. I have doubted frequently with others of the age, the merit of repeating the psalms of the Guru, but by actual experiments conducted by myself on myself, I find that without JapuJi Sahib one dies, that the personal love for the Guru falls into the dust and diet of daily life and that without JapuJi Sahib one is famished. Without the repetition of the psalm of the Guru one becomes heavy of soul- and knows it not! Repeated singing of the psalm is to me the very essence of the best ethical state of mind. But all lyrical repetition follows love, it cannot precede it. No one who has not learnt the lesson of the sorrow of this life is capable of love of the Guru, and without His love there can be no life of the spirit.
  4. Ik-Oankaar Satgur Parsaad. One Universal Creator. By The Grace Of The True Guru: Aasaa Mahalaa 3 Chhant Ghar 3. (The Third Nanak- Sri Guru Amar Das Ji) man tu jote saroop hai, aapnaa mool pachaan. O my mind, you are the embodiment of the Divine Light - recognize your own origin. man har jee terre naal hai gurmatee rang maan. O my mind, WaheGuru is with you; through the Guru`s Teachings, embrace WaheGuru’s Divine Color. mool pachaaneh taa saho jaaneh maran jeevan kee sojhee ho-ee. Acknowledge your origin, and then you shall know your Husband Lord, and so understand death and birth. gur parsaadee aeko jaaneh taa doojaa bhau na ho-ee. By Guru`s Grace, know the One; then, you shall not love any other. mann saant aayee vajee vadhaee ta ho-aa parvaan. Peace comes to the mind, and gladness resounds; then, you shall be acclaimed. iyo kahai nanak man too jot saroop hai apnaa mool pachaan. ||5|| Thus says Nanak: O my mind, you are the very image of the Luminous Lord, WaheGuru; recognize the true origin of your self. ||5|| Sri Guru Granth Sahib Ji -Ang 441
  5. This Shabad is by Guru Amar Daas Ji in Raag Dhanaasree on Pannaa 665 DnwsrI mhlw 3 ] mnu mrY Dwqu mir jwie ] ibnu mn mUey kYsy hir pwie ] iehu mnu mrY dwrU jwxY koie ] mnu sbid mrY bUJY jnu soie ]1] ijs no bKsy hir dy vifAweI ] gur prswid vsY min AweI ] rhwau ] gurmuiK krxI kwr kmwvY ] qw iesu mn kI soJI pwvY ] mnu mY mqu mYgl imkdwrw ] guru AMksu mwir jIvwlxhwrw ]2] mnu AswDu swDY jnu koeI ] Acru crY qw inrmlu hoeI ] gurmuiK iehu mnu lieAw svwir ] haumY ivchu qjY ivkwr ]3] jo Duir riKAnu myil imlwie ] kdy n ivCuVih sbid smwie ] AwpxI klw Awpy pRBu jwxY ] nwnk gurmuiK nwmu pCwxY ]4]6] Dhanaasaree, Third Mehla: When the mind is conquered, its turbulent wanderings are stopped. Without conquering the mind, how can the Lord be found? Rare is the one who knows the medicine to conquer the mind. The mind is conquered through the Word of the Shabad; this is known to the Lord's humble servant. ||1|| The Lord forgives him, and blesses him with glory. By Guru's Grace, the Lord comes to dwell in the mind. ||Pause|| The Gurmukh does good deeds, and so, he comes to understand this mind. The mind is intoxicated, like the elephant with wine. The Guru places the harness upon it, and rejuvenates it. ||2|| The mind is undisciplined; only a rare few can discipline it. If someone eats the uneatable, then he becomes immaculate. As Gurmukh, his mind is embellished. Egotism and corruption are eradicated from within. ||3|| Those whom the Primal Lord keeps united in His Union, shall never be separated from Him; they are merged in the Word of the Shabad. Only God Himself knows His own power. O Nanak, the Gurmukh realizes the Naam, the Name of the Lord. ||4||6||
  6. ਸਲੋਕੁ ॥ Salok. Shalok: ਕਬੀਰ ਕਸਉਟੀ ਰਾਮ ਕੀ ਝੂਠਾ ਟਿਕੈ ਨ ਕੋਇ ॥ Kabīr kasa­utī rām kī jẖūṯẖā tikai na ko­ė. Kabeer, such is the touchstone of the Lord; the false cannot even touch it. ਰਾਮ ਕਸਉਟੀ ਸੋ ਸਹੈ ਜੋ ਮਰਜੀਵਾ ਹੋਇ ॥੧॥ Rām kasa­utī so sahai jo marjīvā ho­ė. ||1|| They alone pass this test of the Lord, who remain dead while yet alive. ||1|| ਮਃ ੩ ॥ Mehlā 3. Third Mehl: ਕਿਉ ਕਰਿ ਇਹੁ ਮਨੁ ਮਾਰੀਐ ਕਿਉ ਕਰਿ ਮਿਰਤਕੁ ਹੋਇ ॥ Ki­o kar ih man mārī­ai ki­o kar mirṯak ho­ė. How can this mind be conquered? How can it be killed? ਕਹਿਆ ਸਬਦੁ ਨ ਮਾਨਈ ਹਉਮੈ ਛਡੈ ਨ ਕੋਇ ॥ Kahi­ā sabaḏ na mān­ī ha­umai cẖẖadai na ko­ė. If one does not accept the Word of the Shabad, egotism does not depart. ਗੁਰ ਪਰਸਾਦੀ ਹਉਮੈ ਛੁਟੈ ਜੀਵਨ ਮੁਕਤੁ ਸੋ ਹੋਇ ॥ Gur parsādī ha­umai cẖẖutai jīvan mukaṯ so ho­ė. By Guru's Grace, egotism is eradicated, and then, one is Jivan Mukta - liberated while yet alive. ਨਾਨਕ ਜਿਸ ਨੋ ਬਖਸੇ ਤਿਸੁ ਮਿਲੈ ਤਿਸੁ ਬਿਘਨੁ ਨ ਲਾਗੈ ਕੋਇ ॥੨॥ Nānak jis no bakẖsė ṯis milai ṯis bigẖan na lāgai ko­ė. ||2|| O Nanak, one whom the Lord forgives is united with the Lord, and then no obstacles block their way. ||2|| ਮਃ ੩ ॥ Mehlā 3. Third Mehl: ਜੀਵਤ ਮਰਣਾ ਸਭੁ ਕੋ ਕਹੈ ਜੀਵਨ ਮੁਕਤਿ ਕਿਉ ਹੋਇ ॥ Jīvaṯ marṇā sabẖ ko kahai jīvan mukaṯ ki­o ho­ė. Everyone can say that they are dead while yet alive; how can they be liberated while yet alive? ਭੈ ਕਾ ਸੰਜਮੁ ਜੇ ਕਰੇ ਦਾਰੂ ਭਾਉ ਲਾਏਇ ॥ Bẖai kā sanjam jė karė ḏārū bẖā­o lā­ė­ė. If someone restrains themself through the Fear of God, and takes the medicine of the Love of God, ਅਨਦਿਨੁ ਗੁਣ ਗਾਵੈ ਸੁਖ ਸਹਜੇ ਬਿਖੁ ਭਵਜਲੁ ਨਾਮਿ ਤਰੇਇ ॥ An­ḏin guṇ gāvai sukẖ sehjė bikẖ bẖavjal nām ṯarė­ė. night and day, they sing the Glorious Praises of the Lord. In celestial peace and poise, they cross over the poisonous, terrifying world-ocean, through the Naam, the Name of the Lord. ਨਾਨਕ ਗੁਰਮੁਖਿ ਪਾਈਐ ਜਾ ਕਉ ਨਦਰਿ ਕਰੇਇ ॥੩॥ Nānak gurmukẖ pā­ī­ai jā ka­o naḏar karė­i. ||3|| O Nanak, the Gurmukh finds the Lord; they are blessed with the Lord's Glance of Grace. ||3|| Sri Guru Granth Sahib Ji -Ang 948
  7. waheguroo...all thanks are only and always due to guru sahib/akaal purakh...who is the doer of all things :lol:
  8. ਸਿਰੀਰਾਗੁ ਮਹਲਾ ੧ ॥ Sirīrāg mehlā 1. Siree Raag, First Mehl: ਮਰਣੈ ਕੀ ਚਿੰਤਾ ਨਹੀ ਜੀਵਣ ਕੀ ਨਹੀ ਆਸ ॥ Marṇai kī cẖinṯā nahī jīvaṇ kī nahī ās. I have no anxiety about dying, and no hope of living. ਤੂ ਸਰਬ ਜੀਆ ਪ੍ਰਤਿਪਾਲਹੀ ਲੇਖੈ ਸਾਸ ਗਿਰਾਸ ॥ Ŧū sarab jī­ā parṯipālahī lėkẖai sās girās. You are the Cherisher of all beings; You keep the account of our breaths and morsels of food. ਅੰਤਰਿ ਗੁਰਮੁਖਿ ਤੂ ਵਸਹਿ ਜਿਉ ਭਾਵੈ ਤਿਉ ਨਿਰਜਾਸਿ ॥੧॥ Anṯar gurmukẖ ṯū vaseh ji­o bẖāvai ṯi­o nirjās. ||1|| You abide within the Gurmukh. As it pleases You, You decide our allotment. ||1|| ਜੀਅਰੇ ਰਾਮ ਜਪਤ ਮਨੁ ਮਾਨੁ ॥ Jī­arė rām japaṯ man mān. O my soul, chant the Name of the Lord; the mind will be pleased and appeased. ਅੰਤਰਿ ਲਾਗੀ ਜਲਿ ਬੁਝੀ ਪਾਇਆ ਗੁਰਮੁਖਿ ਗਿਆਨੁ ॥੧॥ ਰਹਾਉ ॥ Anṯar lāgī jal bujẖī pā­i­ā gurmukẖ gi­ān. ||1|| rahā­o. The raging fire within is extinguished; the Gurmukh obtains spiritual wisdom. ||1||Pause|| ਅੰਤਰ ਕੀ ਗਤਿ ਜਾਣੀਐ ਗੁਰ ਮਿਲੀਐ ਸੰਕ ਉਤਾਰਿ ॥ Anṯar kī gaṯ jāṇī­ai gur milī­ai sank uṯār. Know the state of your inner being; meet with the Guru and get rid of your skepticism. ਮੁਇਆ ਜਿਤੁ ਘਰਿ ਜਾਈਐ ਤਿਤੁ ਜੀਵਦਿਆ ਮਰੁ ਮਾਰਿ ॥ Mu­i­ā jiṯ gẖar jā­ī­ai ṯiṯ jīvḏi­ā mar mār. To reach your True Home after you die, you must conquer death while you are still alive. ਅਨਹਦ ਸਬਦਿ ਸੁਹਾਵਣੇ ਪਾਈਐ ਗੁਰ ਵੀਚਾਰਿ ॥੨॥ Anhaḏ sabaḏ suhāvaṇė pā­ī­ai gur vīcẖār. ||2|| The beautiful, Unstruck Sound of the Shabad is obtained, contemplating the Guru. ||2|| ਅਨਹਦ ਬਾਣੀ ਪਾਈਐ ਤਹ ਹਉਮੈ ਹੋਇ ਬਿਨਾਸੁ ॥ Anhaḏ baṇī pā­ī­ai ṯah ha­umai ho­ė binās. The Unstruck Melody of Gurbani is obtained, and egotism is eliminated. ਸਤਗੁਰੁ ਸੇਵੇ ਆਪਣਾ ਹਉ ਸਦ ਕੁਰਬਾਣੈ ਤਾਸੁ ॥ Saṯgur sėvė āpṇā ha­o saḏ kurbāṇai ṯās. I am forever a sacrifice to those who serve their True Guru. ਖੜਿ ਦਰਗਹ ਪੈਨਾਈਐ ਮੁਖਿ ਹਰਿ ਨਾਮ ਨਿਵਾਸੁ ॥੩॥ Kẖaṛ ḏargeh painā­ī­ai mukẖ har nām nivās. ||3|| They are dressed in robes of honor in the Court of the Lord; the Name of the Lord is on their lips. ||3|| ਜਹ ਦੇਖਾ ਤਹ ਰਵਿ ਰਹੇ ਸਿਵ ਸਕਤੀ ਕਾ ਮੇਲੁ ॥ Jah ḏėkẖā ṯah rav rahė siv sakṯī kā mėl. Wherever I look, I see the Lord pervading there, in the union of Shiva and Shakti, of consciousness and matter. ਤ੍ਰਿਹੁ ਗੁਣ ਬੰਧੀ ਦੇਹੁਰੀ ਜੋ ਆਇਆ ਜਗਿ ਸੋ ਖੇਲੁ ॥ Ŧarihu guṇ banḏẖī ḏėhurī jo ā­i­ā jag so kẖėl. The three qualities hold the body in bondage; whoever comes into the world is subject to their play. ਵਿਜੋਗੀ ਦੁਖਿ ਵਿਛੁੜੇ ਮਨਮੁਖਿ ਲਹਹਿ ਨ ਮੇਲੁ ॥੪॥ vijogī ḏukẖ vicẖẖuṛė manmukẖ laheh na mėl. ||4|| Those who separate themselves from the Lord wander lost in misery. The self-willed manmukhs do not attain union with Him. ||4|| ਮਨੁ ਬੈਰਾਗੀ ਘਰਿ ਵਸੈ ਸਚ ਭੈ ਰਾਤਾ ਹੋਇ ॥ Man bairāgī gẖar vasai sacẖ bẖai rāṯā ho­ė. If the mind becomes balanced and detached, and comes to dwell in its own true home, imbued with the Fear of God, ਗਿਆਨ ਮਹਾਰਸੁ ਭੋਗਵੈ ਬਾਹੁੜਿ ਭੂਖ ਨ ਹੋਇ ॥ Gi­ān mahāras bẖogvai bāhuṛ bẖūkẖ na ho­ė. then it enjoys the essence of supreme spiritual wisdom; it shall never feel hunger again. ਨਾਨਕ ਇਹੁ ਮਨੁ ਮਾਰਿ ਮਿਲੁ ਭੀ ਫਿਰਿ ਦੁਖੁ ਨ ਹੋਇ ॥੫॥੧੮॥ Nānak ih man mār mil bẖī fir ḏukẖ na ho­ė. ||5||18|| O Nanak, conquer and subdue this mind; meet with the Lord, and you shall never again suffer in pain. ||5||18|| Sri Guru Granth Sahib Ji -Ang 20
  9. ਗਉੜੀ ਗੁਆਰੇਰੀ ਮਹਲਾ ੫ ॥ Ga­oṛī gu­ārėrī mehlā 5. Gauree Gwaarayree, Fifth Mehl: ਸਾਧਸੰਗਿ ਜਪਿਓ ਭਗਵੰਤੁ ॥ Sāḏẖsang japi­o bẖagvanṯ. In the Saadh Sangat, the Company of the Holy, I meditate on the Lord God. ਕੇਵਲ ਨਾਮੁ ਦੀਓ ਗੁਰਿ ਮੰਤੁ ॥ Kėval nām ḏī­o gur manṯ. The Guru has given me the Mantra of the Naam, the Name of the Lord. ਤਜਿ ਅਭਿਮਾਨ ਭਏ ਨਿਰਵੈਰ ॥ Ŧaj abẖimān bẖa­ė nirvair. Shedding my ego, I have become free of hate. ਆਠ ਪਹਰ ਪੂਜਹੁ ਗੁਰ ਪੈਰ ॥੧॥ Āṯẖ pahar pūjahu gur pair. ||1|| Twenty-four hours a day, I worship the Guru's Feet. ||1|| ਅਬ ਮਤਿ ਬਿਨਸੀ ਦੁਸਟ ਬਿਗਾਨੀ ॥ Ab maṯ binsī ḏusat bigānī. Now, my evil sense of alienation is eliminated, ਜਬ ਤੇ ਸੁਣਿਆ ਹਰਿ ਜਸੁ ਕਾਨੀ ॥੧॥ ਰਹਾਉ ॥ Jab ṯė suṇi­ā har jas kānī. ||1|| rahā­o. since I have heard the Praises of the Lord with my ears. ||1||Pause|| ਸਹਜ ਸੂਖ ਆਨੰਦ ਨਿਧਾਨ ॥ Sahj sūkẖ ānanḏ niḏẖān. The Savior Lord is the treasure of intuitive peace, poise and bliss. ਰਾਖਨਹਾਰ ਰਖਿ ਲੇਇ ਨਿਦਾਨ ॥ Rākẖanhār rakẖ lė­ė niḏān. He shall save me in the end. ਦੂਖ ਦਰਦ ਬਿਨਸੇ ਭੈ ਭਰਮ ॥ Ḏūkẖ ḏaraḏ binsė bẖai bẖaram. My pains, sufferings, fears and doubts have been erased. ਆਵਣ ਜਾਣ ਰਖੇ ਕਰਿ ਕਰਮ ॥੨॥ Āvaṇ jāṇ rakẖė kar karam. ||2|| He has mercifully saved me from coming and going in reincarnation. ||2|| ਪੇਖੈ ਬੋਲੈ ਸੁਣੈ ਸਭੁ ਆਪਿ ॥ Pėkẖai bolai suṇai sabẖ āp. He Himself beholds, speaks and hears all. ਸਦਾ ਸੰਗਿ ਤਾ ਕਉ ਮਨ ਜਾਪਿ ॥ Saḏā sang ṯā ka­o man jāp. O my mind, meditate on the One who is always with you. ਸੰਤ ਪ੍ਰਸਾਦਿ ਭਇਓ ਪਰਗਾਸੁ ॥ Sanṯ parsāḏ bẖa­i­o pargās. By the Grace of the Saints, the Light has dawned. ਪੂਰਿ ਰਹੇ ਏਕੈ ਗੁਣਤਾਸੁ ॥੩॥ Pūr rahė ėkai guṇṯās. ||3|| The One Lord, the Treasure of Excellence, is perfectly pervading everywhere. ||3|| ਕਹਤ ਪਵਿਤ੍ਰ ਸੁਣਤ ਪੁਨੀਤ ॥ Kahaṯ paviṯar suṇaṯ punīṯ. Pure are those who speak, and sanctified are those who hear, ਗੁਣ ਗੋਵਿੰਦ ਗਾਵਹਿ ਨਿਤ ਨੀਤ ॥ Guṇ govinḏ gāvahi niṯ nīṯ. and sing forever and ever, the Glorious Praises of the Lord of the Universe. ਕਹੁ ਨਾਨਕ ਜਾ ਕਉ ਹੋਹੁ ਕ੍ਰਿਪਾਲ ॥ Kaho Nānak jā ka­o hohu kirpāl. Says Nanak, when the Lord bestows His Mercy, ਤਿਸੁ ਜਨ ਕੀ ਸਭ ਪੂਰਨ ਘਾਲ ॥੪॥੨੩॥੯੨॥ Ŧis jan kī sabẖ pūran gẖāl. ||4||23||92|| all one's efforts are fulfilled. ||4||23||92|| Sri Guru Granth Sahib Ji -Ang 183
  10. ਗਉੜੀ ਮਹਲਾ ੧ ॥ Ga­oṛī mehlā 1. Gauree, First Mehl: ਸਤਿਗੁਰੁ ਮਿਲੈ ਸੁ ਮਰਣੁ ਦਿਖਾਏ ॥ Saṯgur milai so maraṇ ḏikẖā­ė. Meeting the True Guru, we are shown the way to die. ਮਰਣ ਰਹਣ ਰਸੁ ਅੰਤਰਿ ਭਾਏ ॥ Maraṇ rahaṇ ras anṯar bẖā­ė. Remaining alive in this death brings joy deep within. ਗਰਬੁ ਨਿਵਾਰਿ ਗਗਨ ਪੁਰੁ ਪਾਏ ॥੧॥ Garab nivār gagan pur pā­ė. ||1|| Overcoming egotistical pride, the Tenth Gate is found. ||1|| ਮਰਣੁ ਲਿਖਾਇ ਆਏ ਨਹੀ ਰਹਣਾ ॥ Maraṇ likẖā­ė ā­ė nahī rahṇā. Death is pre-ordained - no one who comes can remain here. ਹਰਿ ਜਪਿ ਜਾਪਿ ਰਹਣੁ ਹਰਿ ਸਰਣਾ ॥੧॥ ਰਹਾਉ ॥ Har jap jāp rahaṇ har sarṇā. ||1|| rahā­o. So chant and meditate on the Lord, and remain in the Sanctuary of the Lord. ||1||Pause|| ਸਤਿਗੁਰੁ ਮਿਲੈ ਤ ਦੁਬਿਧਾ ਭਾਗੈ ॥ Saṯgur milai ṯa ḏubiḏẖā bẖāgai. Meeting the True Guru, duality is dispelled. ਕਮਲੁ ਬਿਗਾਸਿ ਮਨੁ ਹਰਿ ਪ੍ਰਭ ਲਾਗੈ ॥ Kamal bigās man har parabẖ lāgai. The heart-lotus blossoms forth, and the mind is attached to the Lord God. ਜੀਵਤੁ ਮਰੈ ਮਹਾ ਰਸੁ ਆਗੈ ॥੨॥ Jīvaṯ marai mahā ras āgai. ||2|| One who remains dead while yet alive obtains the greatest happiness hereafter. ||2|| ਸਤਿਗੁਰਿ ਮਿਲਿਐ ਸਚ ਸੰਜਮਿ ਸੂਚਾ ॥ Saṯgur mili­ai sacẖ sanjam sūcẖā. Meeting the True Guru, one becomes truthful, chaste and pure. ਗੁਰ ਕੀ ਪਉੜੀ ਊਚੋ ਊਚਾ ॥ Gur kī pa­oṛī ūcẖo ūcẖā. Climbing up the steps of the Guru's Path, one becomes the highest of the high. ਕਰਮਿ ਮਿਲੈ ਜਮ ਕਾ ਭਉ ਮੂਚਾ ॥੩॥ Karam milai jam kā bẖa­o mūcẖā. ||3|| When the Lord grants His Mercy, the fear of death is conquered. ||3|| ਗੁਰਿ ਮਿਲਿਐ ਮਿਲਿ ਅੰਕਿ ਸਮਾਇਆ ॥ Gur mili­ai mil ank samā­i­ā. Uniting in Guru's Union, we are absorbed in His Loving Embrace. ਕਰਿ ਕਿਰਪਾ ਘਰੁ ਮਹਲੁ ਦਿਖਾਇਆ ॥ Kar kirpā gẖar mahal ḏikẖā­i­ā. Granting His Grace, He reveals the Mansion of His Presence, within the home of the self. ਨਾਨਕ ਹਉਮੈ ਮਾਰਿ ਮਿਲਾਇਆ ॥੪॥੯॥ Nānak ha­umai mār milā­i­ā. ||4||9|| O Nanak, conquering egotism, we are absorbed into the Lord. ||4||9|| Sri Guru Granth Sahib Ji -Ang 153
  11. waheguru ji ka khalsa waheguru ji ki fateh khalsa ji, to answer this question as to why it seems so sweet.....i am not well versed in gurbani at all...so im not sure what guru sahib says about this.... everything is under akaal purakh ji's hukam....which manmukh like me cannot fathom and so cannot give answer to the 'why' question..... i myself am under this trap of maya..where the poison seems sweet to the mind..so im hoping some gurmukh here can answer this question... this is all akal purakh's test.....this entire universe is akal purakh's play....and akaal purakh also created this test of maya....and only through naam and guru sahib's kirpa can it be tamed.... pls would some learned gursikhs give some vichars on this....this question has also been on my mind for quite some time please forgive my mistakes waheguru ji ka khalsa waheguru ji ki fateh ਸਲੋਕੁ ॥ Salok. Shalok: ਕਬੀਰ ਕਸਉਟੀ ਰਾਮ ਕੀ ਝੂਠਾ ਟਿਕੈ ਨ ਕੋਇ ॥ Kabīr kasa­utī rām kī jẖūṯẖā tikai na ko­ė. Kabeer, such is the touchstone of the Lord; the false cannot even touch it. ਰਾਮ ਕਸਉਟੀ ਸੋ ਸਹੈ ਜੋ ਮਰਜੀਵਾ ਹੋਇ ॥੧॥ Rām kasa­utī so sahai jo marjīvā ho­ė. ||1|| He alone passes this test of the Lord, who remains dead while yet alive. ||1||
  12. ੴ ਸਤਿਗੁਰ ਪ੍ਰਸਾਦਿ ॥ ik-oNkaar satgur parsaad. One Universal Creator God. By The Grace Of The True Guru: ਭ੍ਰਮਤ ਫਿਰਤ ਬਹੁ ਜਨਮ ਬਿਲਾਨੇ ਤਨੁ ਮਨੁ ਧਨੁ ਨਹੀ ਧੀਰੇ ॥ bharmat firat baho janam bilaanay tan man Dhan nahee Dheeray. I wandered through countless incarnations, but mind, body and wealth never remain stable. ਲਾਲਚ ਬਿਖੁ ਕਾਮ ਲੁਬਧ ਰਾਤਾ ਮਨਿ ਬਿਸਰੇ ਪ੍ਰਭ ਹੀਰੇ ॥੧॥ ਰਹਾਉ ॥ laalach bikh kaam lubaDh raataa man bisray parabh heeray. ||1|| rahaa-o. Attached to, and stained by the poisons of sexual desire and greed, the mind has forgotten the jewel of the Lord. ||1||Pause|| ਬਿਖੁ ਫਲ ਮੀਠ ਲਗੇ ਮਨ ਬਉਰੇ ਚਾਰ ਬਿਚਾਰ ਨ ਜਾਨਿਆ ॥ bikh fal meeth lagay man ba-uray chaar bichaar na jaani-aa. The poisonous fruit seems sweet to the demented mind, which does not know the difference between good and evil. ਗੁਨ ਤੇ ਪ੍ਰੀਤਿ ਬਢੀ ਅਨ ਭਾਂਤੀ ਜਨਮ ਮਰਨ ਫਿਰਿ ਤਾਨਿਆ ॥੧॥ gun tay pareet badhee an bhaaNtee janam maran fir taani-aa. ||1|| Turning away from virtue, his love for other things increases, and he weaves again the web of birth and death. ||1|| ਜੁਗਤਿ ਜਾਨਿ ਨਹੀ ਰਿਦੈ ਨਿਵਾਸੀ ਜਲਤ ਜਾਲ ਜਮ ਫੰਧ ਪਰੇ ॥ jugat jaan nahee ridai nivaasee jalat jaal jam fanDh paray. He does not know the way to the Lord, who dwells within his heart; burning in the trap, he is caught by the noose of death. ਬਿਖੁ ਫਲ ਸੰਚਿ ਭਰੇ ਮਨ ਐਸੇ ਪਰਮ ਪੁਰਖ ਪ੍ਰਭ ਮਨ ਬਿਸਰੇ ॥੨॥ bikh fal sanch bharay man aisay param purakh parabh man bisray. ||2|| Gathering the poisonous fruits, he fills his mind with them, and he forgets God, the Supreme Being, from his mind. ||2|| ਗਿਆਨ ਪ੍ਰਵੇਸੁ ਗੁਰਹਿ ਧਨੁ ਦੀਆ ਧਿਆਨੁ ਮਾਨੁ ਮਨ ਏਕ ਮਏ ॥ gi-aan parvays gureh Dhan dee-aa Dhi-aan maan man ayk ma-ay. The Guru has given the wealth of spiritual wisdom; practicing meditation, the mind becomes one with Him. ਪ੍ਰੇਮ ਭਗਤਿ ਮਾਨੀ ਸੁਖੁ ਜਾਨਿਆ ਤ੍ਰਿਪਤਿ ਅਘਾਨੇ ਮੁਕਤਿ ਭਏ ॥੩॥ paraym bhagat maanee sukh jaani-aa taripat aghaanay mukat bha-ay. ||3|| Embracing loving devotional worship for the Lord, I have come to know peace; satisfied and satiated, I have been liberated. ||3|| ਜੋਤਿ ਸਮਾਇ ਸਮਾਨੀ ਜਾ ਕੈ ਅਛਲੀ ਪ੍ਰਭੁ ਪਹਿਚਾਨਿਆ ॥ jot samaa-ay samaanee jaa kai achhlee parabh pehchaani-aa. One who is filled with the Divine Light, recognizes the undeceivable Lord God. ਧੰਨੈ ਧਨੁ ਪਾਇਆ ਧਰਣੀਧਰੁ ਮਿਲਿ ਜਨ ਸੰਤ ਸਮਾਨਿਆ ॥੪॥੧॥ Dhannai Dhan paa-i-aa DharneeDhar mil jan sant samaani-aa. ||4||1|| Dhanna has obtained the Lord, the Sustainer of the World, as his wealth; meeting the humble Saints, he merges in the Lord. ||4||1|| Sri Guru Granth Sahib Ji -Ang 487
  13. ਰਾਮਕਲੀ ਮਹਲਾ ੫ ॥ raamkalee mehlaa 5. Raamkalee, Fifth Mehl: ਕਉਡੀ ਬਦਲੈ ਤਿਆਗੈ ਰਤਨੁ ॥ ka-udee badlai ti-aagai ratan. In exchange for a shell, he gives up a jewel. ਛੋਡਿ ਜਾਇ ਤਾਹੂ ਕਾ ਜਤਨੁ ॥ chhod jaa-ay taahoo kaa jatan. He tries to get what he must give up. ਸੋ ਸੰਚੈ ਜੋ ਹੋਛੀ ਬਾਤ ॥ so sanchai jo hochhee baat. He collects those things which are worthless. ਮਾਇਆ ਮੋਹਿਆ ਟੇਢਉ ਜਾਤ ॥੧॥ maa-i-aa mohi-aa taydha-o jaat. ||1|| Enticed by Maya, he takes the crooked path. ||1|| ਅਭਾਗੇ ਤੈ ਲਾਜ ਨਾਹੀ ॥ abhaagay tai laaj naahee. You unfortunate man - have you no shame? ਸੁਖ ਸਾਗਰ ਪੂਰਨ ਪਰਮੇਸਰੁ ਹਰਿ ਨ ਚੇਤਿਓ ਮਨ ਮਾਹੀ ॥੧॥ ਰਹਾਉ ॥ sukh saagar pooran parmaysar har na chayti-o man maahee. ||1|| rahaa-o. You do not remember in your mind the ocean of peace, the perfect Transcendent Lord God. ||1||Pause|| ਅੰਮ੍ਰਿਤੁ ਕਉਰਾ ਬਿਖਿਆ ਮੀਠੀ ॥ amrit ka-uraa bikhi-aa meethee. Nectar seems bitter to you, while the poison seems sweet. ਸਾਕਤ ਕੀ ਬਿਧਿ ਨੈਨਹੁ ਡੀਠੀ ॥ saakat kee biDh nainhu deethee. Such is your condition, you faithless cynic, which I have seen with my own eyes. ਕੂੜਿ ਕਪਟਿ ਅਹੰਕਾਰਿ ਰੀਝਾਨਾ ॥ koorh kapat ahaNkaar reejhaanaa. You are fond of falsehood, fraud and egotism. ਨਾਮੁ ਸੁਨਤ ਜਨੁ ਬਿਛੂਅ ਡਸਾਨਾ ॥੨॥ naam sunat jan bichhoo-a dasaanaa. ||2|| If you hear the Naam, the Name of the Lord, you feel like you have been stung by a scorpion. ||2|| ਮਾਇਆ ਕਾਰਣਿ ਸਦ ਹੀ ਝੂਰੈ ॥ maa-i-aa kaaran sad hee jhoorai. You continually yearn for Maya, ਮਨਿ ਮੁਖਿ ਕਬਹਿ ਨ ਉਸਤਤਿ ਕਰੈ ॥ man mukh kabeh na ustat karai. and you never chant the Lord's Praises with your mouth. ਨਿਰਭਉ ਨਿਰੰਕਾਰ ਦਾਤਾਰੁ ॥ nirbha-o nirankaar daataar. The Lord is fearless and formless; He is the Great Giver. ਤਿਸੁ ਸਿਉ ਪ੍ਰੀਤਿ ਨ ਕਰੈ ਗਵਾਰੁ ॥੩॥ tis si-o pareet na karai gavaar. ||3|| But you do not love Him, you fool! ||3|| ਸਭ ਸਾਹਾ ਸਿਰਿ ਸਾਚਾ ਸਾਹੁ ॥ sabh saahaa sir saachaa saahu. God, the True King, is above the heads of all kings. ਵੇਮੁਹਤਾਜੁ ਪੂਰਾ ਪਾਤਿਸਾਹੁ ॥ vaymuhtaaj pooraa paatisaahu. He is the independent, perfect Lord King. ਮੋਹ ਮਗਨ ਲਪਟਿਓ ਭ੍ਰਮ ਗਿਰਹ ॥ moh magan lapti-o bharam girah. People are intoxicated by emotional attachment, entangled in doubt and family life. ਨਾਨਕ ਤਰੀਐ ਤੇਰੀ ਮਿਹਰ ॥੪॥੨੧॥੩੨॥ naanak taree-ai tayree mihar. ||4||21||32|| Nanak: they are saved only by Your Mercy, Lord. ||4||21||32|| Sri Guru Granth Sahib Ji -Ang 892
  14. ਧਨਾਸਰੀ ਮਹਲਾ ੧ ॥ Ḏẖanāsrī mehlā 1. Dhanaasaree, First Mehl: ਹਮ ਆਦਮੀ ਹਾਂ ਇਕ ਦਮੀ ਮੁਹਲਤਿ ਮੁਹਤੁ ਨ ਜਾਣਾ ॥ Ham āḏmī hāʼn ik ḏamī muhlaṯ muhaṯ na jāṇā. We are human beings of the briefest moment; we do not know the appointed time of our departure. ਨਾਨਕੁ ਬਿਨਵੈ ਤਿਸੈ ਸਰੇਵਹੁ ਜਾ ਕੇ ਜੀਅ ਪਰਾਣਾ ॥੧॥ Nānak binvai ṯisai sarėvhu jā kė jī­a parāṇā. ||1|| Prays Nanak, serve the One, to whom our soul and breath of life belong. ||1|| ਅੰਧੇ ਜੀਵਨਾ ਵੀਚਾਰਿ ਦੇਖਿ ਕੇਤੇ ਕੇ ਦਿਨਾ ॥੧॥ ਰਹਾਉ ॥ Anḏẖė jīvnā vīcẖār ḏėkẖ kėṯė kė ḏinā. ||1|| rahā­o. You are blind - see and consider, how many days your life shall last. ||1||Pause|| ਸਾਸੁ ਮਾਸੁ ਸਭੁ ਜੀਉ ਤੁਮਾਰਾ ਤੂ ਮੈ ਖਰਾ ਪਿਆਰਾ ॥ Sās mās sabẖ jī­o ṯumārā ṯū mai kẖarā pi­ārā. My breath, my flesh and my soul are all Yours, Lord; You are so very dear to me. ਨਾਨਕੁ ਸਾਇਰੁ ਏਵ ਕਹਤੁ ਹੈ ਸਚੇ ਪਰਵਦਗਾਰਾ ॥੨॥ Nānak sā­ir ėv kahaṯ hai sacẖė parvaḏgārā. ||2|| Nanak, the poet, says this, O True Lord Cherisher. ||2|| ਜੇ ਤੂ ਕਿਸੈ ਨ ਦੇਹੀ ਮੇਰੇ ਸਾਹਿਬਾ ਕਿਆ ਕੋ ਕਢੈ ਗਹਣਾ ॥ Jė ṯū kisai na ḏėhī mėrė sāhibā ki­ā ko kadẖai gahṇā. If you gave nothing, O my Lord and Master, what could anyone pledge to You? ਨਾਨਕੁ ਬਿਨਵੈ ਸੋ ਕਿਛੁ ਪਾਈਐ ਪੁਰਬਿ ਲਿਖੇ ਕਾ ਲਹਣਾ ॥੩॥ Nānak binvai so kicẖẖ pā­ī­ai purab likẖė kā lahṇā. ||3|| Nanak prays, we receive that which we are pre-destined to receive. ||3|| ਨਾਮੁ ਖਸਮ ਕਾ ਚਿਤਿ ਨ ਕੀਆ ਕਪਟੀ ਕਪਟੁ ਕਮਾਣਾ ॥ Nām kẖasam kā cẖiṯ na kī­ā kaptī kapat kamāṇā. The deceitful person does not remember the Lord's Name; he practices only deceit. ਜਮ ਦੁਆਰਿ ਜਾ ਪਕੜਿ ਚਲਾਇਆ ਤਾ ਚਲਦਾ ਪਛੁਤਾਣਾ ॥੪॥ Jam ḏu­ār jā pakaṛ cẖalā­i­ā ṯā cẖalḏā pacẖẖuṯāṇā. ||4|| When he is marched in chains to Death's door, then, he regrets his actions. ||4|| ਜਬ ਲਗੁ ਦੁਨੀਆ ਰਹੀਐ ਨਾਨਕ ਕਿਛੁ ਸੁਣੀਐ ਕਿਛੁ ਕਹੀਐ ॥ Jab lag ḏunī­ā rahī­ai Nānak kicẖẖ suṇī­ai kicẖẖ kahī­ai. As long as we are in this world, O Nanak, we should listen, and speak of the Lord. ਭਾਲਿ ਰਹੇ ਹਮ ਰਹਣੁ ਨ ਪਾਇਆ ਜੀਵਤਿਆ ਮਰਿ ਰਹੀਐ ॥੫॥੨॥ Bẖāl rahė ham rahaṇ na pā­i­ā jīvṯi­ā mar rahī­ai. ||5||2|| I have searched, but I have found no way to remain here; so, remain dead while yet alive. ||5||2|| Sri Guru Granth Sahib Ji -Ang 660
  15. waheguru ji ka khalsa waheguru ji ki fateh khalsa ji pls dont thank me for anything....im a big fraud and hypocrite for posting Gurbani on forums...when i myself am thug of thugs.... only thank Guru Sahib for blessing us with this Divine Treasure....which manmukhs like me take for granted with each breath..... Guru Sahib/Akaal Purakh is the Doer of all things and is the Cause of Causes....so all thanks should only be directed to that Supreme Being please forgive my mistakes waheguru ji ka khalsa waheguru ji ki fateh
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