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The Gurus of the Faith 1469–1708

It was a time of turmoil and terror, and of conquests, cruelties and despair, with the constant spectre of more calamities ahead. If fifteenth-century Hindustan had already seen centuries of invasions and indignities, it had also been moved—even if peripherally—by the mystical outpourings of Sufi scholars who presented the humane side of Islam’s unpredictable and capricious rulers. The Afghans Mahmud of Ghazni and Muhammed of Ghor, Tamerlane of Samarkand, and other invaders from the north-west had destroyed cities, towns and temples and plundered their immense wealth. But the five hundred years from the tenth to the fifteenth century were witness to surprising self-certainties as well, which found expression in two appealing movements of spiritual quest and humanitarian concerns.

Each was rooted in the great religions of Hinduism and Islam which were on a collision course in Hindustan. Whilst the Bhakti movement evolved from its Hindu origins, the Sufis were Muslim. The doctrine of Bhakti, or devotion to a personal deity, originated in southern India in the thirteenth century and was further propagated in the next by a new sect in Benares, which made no distinction of caste or creed. A more extreme version of it was evolved by a Muslim weaver named Kabir, who ridiculed all institutional religion, ceremony, asceticism and learning, addressing his teaching to the most humble people. Sufism, a school of Islamic mysticism which reached the climax of its development in the eleventh century AD, included among its adherents many of the finest Persian poets. Enthused by the mystical and philosophic content of Hinduism and Islam respectively, and preferring a liberal, humane and broad-minded interpretation of them, Bhaktism and Sufism drew inspiration from each other without sacrificing their identities or loyalty to their parent faith. Each was in thrall to the divine being, not to the rituals and symbols of religious power. The two movements were enthusiastically received in Punjab—gateway to India and the land of five legendary rivers³—whose people had paid such a punishing price in the continuing clash of arms on their soil. The region’s key city—the seat of power—was Lahore, for whoever ruled Punjab did so from here.

The founder of the Sikh religion, Nanak, was born in the village of Talwandi near Lahore, on 15 April 1469. The fifteenth century was a time of comparative peace in northern India, of respite between the barbarous invasion of Tamerlane at the end of the fourteenth century and the conquest by Babur, founder of the Mughal Empire,⁴ in the next. Rare stability at the time of Nanak’s birth was provided by the rule of the Afghan nobleman Bahlol Khan, founder of the Lodhi dynasty (1450–1526).

Nanak’s destiny was shaped as much by his own extraordinary qualities of head and heart as by those eventful times. The very location of Talwandi, on the direct route of invading armies which kept pouring in through the majestic mountains of the Hindu Kush, toughened its inhabitants and made them remarkably resilient; just as often as their village was razed to the ground, they rebuilt it. To move away was unacceptable. Another inescapable fact of life was the mutually destructive struggle for supremacy between warring Hindu kingdoms, clans and castes, which was largely responsible for Hindustan’s dominance by outsiders. Their internecine warfare had also led to the country’s increasing colonization by Muhammadans, not that that prevented other Muslim adventurers, lured by the subcontinent’s riches, from invading India. Nanak’s awareness of the prevailing religious, political and social forces was shaped by this welter of violence. And by the conciliatory promise of the Sufi and Bhakti movements, although in his own spiritual quest, and its final achievement, he would go far beyond their confines.

Nanak’s father, Kalyan Chand, of a Hindu family of the Bedi branch of the Kshatriyas, kept revenue records for a prosperous landlord and Rajput convert to Islam named Rai Buler. In Talwandi, where Hindus and Muslims lived side by side, a Muslim midwife brought Nanak into the world. Since the birth of a son called for much rejoicing, Kalyan Chand’s friends gathered to celebrate the joyful event at which both Pandit Hardyal, the family’s Brahmin priest, and the midwife agreed that the child had an exceptional aura. The horoscope prepared by Hardyal predicted that Hindus and Muslims alike would acknowledge Nanak as a philosopher-teacher and that he in turn would make no distinction between them. So not very surprisingly one of Nanak’s earliest observations:

There is no Hindu
There is no Mussalman

GURU GRANTH SAHIB RAG BHAIRON, P. 1136

whilst acknowledging the distinctive beliefs and nature of each, stressed the fact that in the eyes of the divine being all are equal, and that appreciation of this central truth was important if humanity was to surmount the barriers that divide people.

These insights, extraordinary for one so young, were greatly helped by the happy household in which Nanak grew up. His mother Tripta and sister Nanaki doted on him, whilst his father quietly nursed high hopes for a prosperous future in business for him. But when he took his son to the village school at the age of seven, the teacher soon realized he had a very unusual pupil on his hands. Within days of starting school Nanak would write verse on his slate tablet, and not only was the structure of his poems impressive, but their content possessed a sensitive feel for nature and its many moods. And Nanak had a mind also given to probing the metaphysical.

But his father worried. He couldn’t understand his son’s lack of interest in business. A change of teachers didn’t help either, although Nanak did learn Sanskrit from his second instructor and Arabic and Persian from the third. In the chronicles of his life, the Meharban Janamsakhi, his second instructor is quoted as saying: “He is a blessed one . . . he grasps instantly what he hears once.” Both instructors saw in his contemplative nature and inquiring mind, which included a facility with languages, a potential for scholarship and spiritual quest. Even more astonishing was his tendency to question the logic of traditional practices.

This he did at eleven, an age when boys of the twice-born castes have to don the janeu, or sacred thread of the Hindus, consisting of strands of cotton woven into a thin cord which is looped from the left shoulder around the right hip. Nanak stunned the family’s friends and relations gathered for his initiation by refusing to wear the thread, and asking the presiding Brahmin priest to explain the difference a thread could make. Shouldn’t deeds, merits and actions, he asked, differentiate one man from another? Since he was unconvinced that the janeu created any true distinction, he preferred not to wear it.

As if this weren’t enough, Nanak recited his own composition to a thoroughly baffled Pandit Hardyal and his father’s guests:

Out of the cotton of compassion
Spin the thread of contentment,
Tie the knot of continence, and the twist of virtue;
Make such a sacred thread,
O Pundit, for your inner self.

GURU GRANTH SAHIB ASA, P. 471

His spirited stand against an unacceptable practice set Nanak apart, and marked him for an unusual journey through life; what preoccupied him was far removed from the pranks of his boyhood friends. When grazing his father’s cattle he was given to spending hours on end listening to the mystics, saints and spiritualists who have always been a part of India’s human mosaic, leading lives of self-denial and introspection, and expounding the virtues of their own faith. Nanak heard them with rapt attention, but drew entirely different conclusions—in verse—on tenets long accepted without question. He questioned most of them:

Pilgrimages, penances, compassion and alms-giving
Bring a little merit, the size of a sesame seed
But he who hears and believes and loves the Name
Shall bathe and be made clean
In a place of pilgrimage within him.

GURU GRANTH SAHIB JAPJI, P. 4

He assessed Islamic practices too with the same analytical mind and the same sharp eye for empty rituals and customs, neither challenging nor deriding prevalent beliefs, but posing questions and presenting his own convictions:

Let compassion be your mosque,
Let faith be your prayer mat,
Let honest living be your Koran,
Let modesty be the rules of observance,
Let piety be the fasts you keep;
In such wisdom try to become a Muslim:
Right conduct the Ka’ba; Truth the Prophet;
Good deeds your prayer;
Submission to the Lord’s Will your rosary;
Nanak, if this you do, the Lord will be your Protector.

GURU GRANTH SAHIB ASA, P. 141

Around the age of sixteen Nanak set out for the town of Sultanpur—a hundred miles or so away to the east of the Ravi and the Beas—at the invitation of Nanaki and her husband Jairam. After her marriage his sister had moved there with her husband who worked for Nawab Daulat Khan Lodhi, a relation of Delhi’s ruler, Bahlol, and governor of the region. Daulat Khan was an exceptional man, a powerful official of the Lodhis, builder of fine buildings and superb gardens, and patron of scholars and theologians who were increasingly drawn to him by his interest in their work. He made Sultanpur a great centre of learning.

Jairam was held in high esteem by the nawab, who received him graciously when he took Nanak to meet him. As others had done who had met Nanak, Daulat Khan too took a liking to him, and offered him a job. Notwithstanding his indifference to occupations without a goal, Nanak gratefully accepted, as he was reluctant to impose himself on his sister and brother-in-law for too long. His diligence impressed the nawab, as it did the never-ending stream of people who came to pay their taxes in kind, or draw part of their salaries in kind. Even in the modikhana (the granary and stores), despite the earnestness he brought to his work, his thoughts were never far from the Divine Being. Professor Harbans Singh tells this story: “While weighing out rations one day, [Nanak] was so entranced with the utterance of the figure tera, or thirteen, which is also the Punjabi equivalent of the word ‘thine,’ that he kept repeating it—tera, tera (Thine, Thine, all is Thine, O Lord!)— and dealing out the provisions.”

In the midst of his mundane responsibilities, his mind remained focused on the Creator:

God has His seat everywhere,
His treasure houses are in all places.

GURU GRANTH SAHIB JAPJI, P. 5

And:

If I remember Him I live,
If I forget Him I die . . .

GURU GRANTH SAHIB REHRAS, P. 9

Slowly and intuitively, as he looked for the elusive truth, his unceasing inner search was helping him to develop his unusual mind, on which he preferred to depend more than on tomes written by others:

One may read for years and for years,
And spend every month of the year in reading only;
And thus read all one’s life,
Right up to one’s last breath.
Of all things, a contemplative life
Is really what matters;
All else is the fret and fever of egoistic minds.

GURU GRANTH SAHIB ASA, P. 467

An increasing number of men and women were beginning to gravitate towards him. In a rented house near his place of work, where he lived with two boyhood companions, people congregated for recitations, prayers and contemplation. To Nanaki, an ardent admirer of her gifted brother, this was, however, only one side of his life. The other side, she felt, was incomplete without a wife and children. And since Nanak too believed that “the secret of religion lay in living in the world without being overcome by it,” he was persuaded. Through Jairam’s initiative a match was arranged with Sulakhni, the daughter of a Kshatriya named Mulchand, from the village of Pakhoke near Batala, and Nanak was married at the age of nineteen.

During the next eight years he spent in Sultanpur, his two sons, Srichand and Lakhmidas, were born. Alongside the nawab’s growing respect and confidence, his circle of loving disciples also grew, coming from distant places as news of him spread far and wide. But a restlessness was building up in Nanak, an urge to discover the nature of the world he lived in, to meet and understand different people and their beliefs, to find out what they looked for in their faith. He knew he had to travel far to get the answers. Hard as it was to leave those whose love had sustained him, he had to go if his mission in life was to succeed. He had already established the parameters of his faith.

There is but one God. He is all that is.
He is the Creator of all things and He is all-pervasive.
He is without fear and without enmity.
He is timeless, unborn and self-existent.
He is the Enlightener
And can be realized by his grace alone.
He was in the beginning; He was in all ages.
The True One is, was, O Nanak, and shall forever be.

GURU GRANTH SAHIB JAPJI, P. 1

If he could apply his integrating genius to making the concept of “one god” a reality, he could harness it to serve a strife-torn society, erase divisions and despair, and help people overcome their prejudices and mindless preoccupations. This concept would become central to the Sikh faith.

And so in the summer of 1496 Nanak’s travels began. The first phase took him eastward to Hardwar, Benares, Kamrup (Assam) and Jagannath (Orissa), and to southern India and Ceylon, and the second to Tibet, Kabul, Mecca and Baghdad, no small feat considering the times and distances involved. But the saintly Nanak had an iron will, and he knew what he wanted from his exchanges with the scholars, thinkers and mystics he met at each of these great centres of religious learning. The encounters helped crystallize his own ideas and give sharper definition to the contours of the faith he was developing. Faith in one God. Not a God with a physical form but an amalgam of truth, integrity, courage and enlightened thinking. An inner God present in every person. Not the property of a few purveyors of priestly wisdom but of all living beings. “While [he was] at Hardwar, the Brahmins . . . pointed out the advantages of sacrifices and burnt-offerings, and of the worship of cremation-grounds, gods and goddesses. The Guru replied that the sacrifices and burnt-offerings of this age consisted in giving food to those who repeated God’s name and practised humility.”

In the course of his travels Nanak not only studied the religious beliefs and practices of others but preached his own developing faith, in any venue he could find, Hindu temple, mosque or in the open. In many of the traditional anecdotes about his life, the janam-sakhis, it is related how he would call at people’s houses and join with them in the singing of hymns he had composed. An anecdote from one such source illustrates Nanak’s fearless criticism of high-caste power and privilege. In Sayyadpur (now Eminabad in the district of Gujranwala) he stayed in the house of a carpenter named Lalo. Hearing of Nanak’s reputation, a high-caste official of the region invited him to a banquet he was giving for holy men. Nanak at first refused to go, saying he cared for the company only of the low-born. But at last he did accept, declining, however, to eat. Asked why he did so when, a holy man of Kshatriya descent, he had not declined to eat a carpenter’s food, he replied to the official: “Your food reeks of blood, while that of Lalo, the carpenter, tastes like honey and milk.” And further, when asked for explanation: “Lalo earns with the sweat of his brow and out of it offers whatever little he can to the wayfarer, the poor and the holy, and so it tastes sweet and wholesome, but you being without work, squeeze blood out of the people through bribery, tyranny and show of authority.”

Nanak’s travels lasted twenty-eight years, until he finally settled down at a peaceful spot on the Ravi above Lahore for the remaining fifteen years of his life. Here he built a village called Kartarpur, which soon exercised a magnetic pull on persons of the new faith as it developed into a community of learning and shared beliefs. It was a perfect setting for the distillation of Nanak’s experiences and, most of all, his inner search for a new direction for mankind. The pastoral environs provided a serene backdrop to his endeavour to translate his ideas and ideals into the new faith of Sikhism.

Most of Nanak’s converts came from the Hindu farming population of Punjab among whom Nanak naturally moved, with occasional Muslims, among whom was Nanak’s close confidant, Mardana, who accompanied him on his travels. The high-placed urban mercantile Khatri caste was the origin of many of Nanak’s and later Gurus’ disciples and closest associates, while the ranks of the widespread Jat caste of village cultivators came to make up a sizeable proportion of the Sikh community.

The word “Sikh” evolved from the Sanskrit term shishya, a disciple or devoted follower, and the name was appropriate since Nanak’s followers gravitated in increasing numbers to idyllic Kartarpur. His daily involvement in the activities of the community made a profound impression on the participants as did his prolific writings in verse. In order better to communicate both with his congregations and his more distant followers he used Gurmukhi, since it could best enunciate Punjab’s spoken language. The script that came to be called Gurmukhi— “from the Guru’s mouth”—belongs to the Brahmi family, the script used by the Aryans. Whilst Nanak used Gurmukhi letters for his writings, his successor, Angad, developed the script by giving it new form and precision.

Nanak’s 974 hymns are a significant part of the Sikh scriptures, the Granth Sahib, which the fifth Guru, Arjan Dev, would compile at Amritsar sixty-five years later. The word Guru, incidentally, is a term of respect which really means “teacher,” and Nanak and his nine successors were reverentially addressed by all Sikhs as Gurus.

Guru Nanak’s writings repeatedly revert to the need to wean people from idolatry and the pernicious caste system on the one hand, and from fanatical attitudes which make people destroy temples and idols on the other. The striking symbolism of his verses portrays this continuing concern:

If you believe in pollution at birth, there is pollution everywhere. There are creatures in cow-dung [considered sacred by Hindus] and in wood. There is life in each grain of corn. Water is the source of life, sap for all things. Then how can one escape pollution? Pollution pollutes only the ignorant. The pollution of the mind is greed, the pollution of the tongue lying. The pollution of the eyes is to look with covetousness upon another’s wealth, upon another’s wife and upon the beauty of another’s woman. The pollution of the ears is to listen to slander.

The pollution in which people commonly believe is all superstition. Birth and death are by divine will, by divine will men come and go. What is given to us to eat and drink is pure. They who have arrived at the truth remain untouched by pollution.

GURU GRANTH SAHIB ASA, P. 472

On different occasions Nanak had incurred the wrath of both Hindus and Muslims who resented his philosophic equation: there is no Hindu, there is no Mussalman. When Muslims complained to Nawab Daulat Khan Lodhi of his effrontery in equating the ruling race with the subject people of Hindustan, Nanak’s response—with which the nawab wholly agreed—was characteristically forthright:

It is not easy to be called a Mussalman: If there were one let him be so known. He should first take to his heart the tenets of his faith and purge himself of all pride. He will be a Mussalman who pursues the path shown by the founder of the creed; who extinguishes anxiety about life and death; who accepts the will of God as supreme; who has faith in the Creator and surrenders himself to the Almighty. When he has established his goodwill for all, O Nanak, then will he be called a Mussalman.

GURU GRANTH SAHIB VAR MAG, P. 141

Impressed by the basic compassion of Hinduism and the essential brotherhood of Islam which looked upon the faithful as equals in the sight of God, Nanak emphasized the inconsistencies that detracted from these inspired origins and set the two religions on a course of hatred and intolerance. It has been suggested that the rule of the Lodhi Sultanate and the early Mughals was not characterized by religious violence, and that wherever violence was resorted to, for example, the destruction of temples, it was for political rather than religious reasons. This is a moot point. Destruction of its places of worship cannot denote respect for another religion, it can only signify the ruling race’s arrogance towards the faith of a subject people. The degree of intolerance certainly varied, but not the antipathy.

Alongside his efforts at helping people to reach beyond their prejudices, Nanak brought his clarity of thinking to highlighting the jarring social inequalities then prevailing, especially discrimination against women:

Of woman are we born, of woman conceived, to woman engaged, to woman married. Woman we befriend, by woman is the civilization continued. When woman dies, woman is sought for. It is by woman that order is maintained. Then why call her evil from whom great men are born? From woman is woman born, And without woman none would exist. The eternal Lord is the only one, O Nanak, Who depends not on woman.

GURU GRANTH SAHIB ASA, P. 473

It goes without saying that amongst his own followers Guru Nanak insisted on complete equality between men and women. In this he was far ahead of his time.

Amongst the other reforms initiated by him—formalized by the third Guru, Amar Das—was the institution of langar: the community kitchen in which Sikhs would cook, serve and eat together wherever they congregated. Its deeper purpose was not only to instil a sense of equality in Sikhs, but to help them overcome caste prejudices, which prohibit the higher and lower castes from eating together. The social significance of this had a revitalizing effect on those drawn to Sikhism.

This man of courage, compassion, intellect and tireless pursuit of his goals, who believed that “death was the privilege of the brave,” died in Kartarpur on 7 September 1539. That he died in peace was indeed a privilege for someone as courageous as he, because the times did not encourage dissent, nor favour those who questioned despotism:

The times are like drawn knives, kings like butchers,
Righteousness has fled on wings.
The dark night of falsehood prevails,
The moon of truth is nowhere visible.

GURU GRANTH SAHIB MAJH, P. 145

Nanak’s life coincided with a period of religious renaissance in Europe, Martin Luther (1483–1546) and John Calvin (1509–64) being among his contemporaries. Their emphasis on the sovereignty of God, the supreme authority of the scriptures, and condemnation of idolatry and false rituals paralleled Nanak’s approach. But whilst opposing discriminatory doctrines and practices, he also addressed the question of self-indulgent and corrupt religious and political hierarchies. He wanted to bring those who had been pushed to the fringes of human concerns back into the mainstream. “Religion lies not in empty words. He who regards all men as equal is religious.”

Sikhism went beyond the older established religions of India in its liberal and sensitive concern for the individual. In exalting the concept of caring for every human being irrespective of caste or creed, it replaced dogma and doctrine by a basic belief in truth. It elevated truth to the level of a Divine Being. Sikhism emerged not as a synthesis of established religions but as an alternative to them.

Joseph Davey Cunningham, an official of the East India Company, in his classic History of the Sikhs (1849), provides another perspective on Nanak: “It was reserved for Nanak to perceive the true principles of reform, and to lay those broad foundations which enabled his successor Gobind to fire the minds of his countrymen with a new nationality, and give practical effect to the doctrine that the lowest is equal with the highest, in race as in creed, in political rights as in religious hopes.”

Guru Nanak, instead of appointing one of his two sons to succeed him, chose Lehna, his devout follower and former worshipper of the Hindu goddess Durga who had converted to Sikhism. Born on 31 March 1504 in Sarai Naga, a village ten miles from Muktsar in the present-day Faridkot district of Punjab, he was of the Khatri caste. To emphasize his confidence in him Guru Nanak renamed him Angad, or an “inseparable part” of himself. He lived at Khadur in the present district of Amritsar. A man of extreme religious sensitivity, he was so affected by Nanak’s death that he tried to go into seclusion. It has been suggested by some historians that he was seeking to avoid the hostility of Nanak’s two sons, and alternatively that he was testing the strength of the Sikhs’ faith. The latter would appear the most likely explanation, since withdrawal from the world was not in the spirit of Nanak. Angad was soon persuaded to return to the world, and took up his stewardship with a will.

Angad amply justified Nanak’s confidence. During the thirteen years of his stewardship, the fledgling faith grew with discipline, and norms of personal conduct were diligently upheld. He also made the Gurmukhi script pre-eminent and collected Guru Nanak’s hymns into a book which included 62 composed by himself. His own ethical concerns were in line with his predecessor’s:

Whom should I despise,
Since the one Lord made us all?

GURU GRANTH SAHIB VAR SARANG, P. 1237

One of Angad’s last acts was to ask a wealthy disciple, Gobind, to build a new village on the Beas not far from Khadur, naming it Gobindwal after its builder; eventually the new settlement came to be known as Goindwal. One of Guru Angad’s most devoted disciples, Amar Das, helped to make it a centre of Sikh devotion. When Guru Angad died on 29 March 1552, he had chosen Amar Das as his successor.

This man, also a Khatri, although already in his seventies, was filled with eagerness to consolidate the new faith. The sangats, or assemblies of the Sikhs, now existed in far-flung places as more and more people joined the fold. In order to develop cohesiveness and continuity, Guru Amar Das organized the sangats into twenty-two manjis—the equivalents of ecclesiastical districts. He also institutionalized the langar and all visitors were expected to eat—just as he did—with others. When the Mughal emperor visited him at Goindwal in 1567, he too willingly ate in the community kitchen.

Among his other far-ranging social reforms was the prohibition from practising sati, the self-immolation of widows on their husbands’ funeral pyres. He also stopped women wearing veils, allowed widows to remarry, and broke with tradition by appointing women preachers. Women headed many of the manjis established by Amar Das. The cultural distinctiveness of the Sikhs was underscored by equality between their men and women.

Guru Amar Das also took the first step towards the construction of one of the world’s holiest shrines. Although it took several decades for the symbol of the Sikh faith—the Golden Temple—to be built in the centre of a serene stretch of clear water, the site was chosen by him because of the tranquillity of the forested terrain around it. Hitherto the Gurus had lived in places of their choice: the first in Kartarpur, the second in Khadur, and the third at Goindwal. This place by a pool was destined to become the emblematic core of Sikhism. In the third Guru’s time all it had was a mud hut he had built on the water’s edge for meditation and prayer.

Guru Amar Das’s 907 hymns in the Granth Sahib, in the main deeply devotional, continuously and emphatically reiterate Sikhism’s opposition to the prejudices of caste:

Let no man be proud because of his caste.
For the man who has God in his heart,
He, no other, is the true Brahmin.
So, O fool, do not be vainglorious about your caste.
For vainglory leads to most of mind’s evils.
Though they say there are four castes,
One God created all men,
All men are moulded of the same clay.
The Great Potter has merely varied their shapes.
All men are made of the same five elements,
None can reduce an element in one, increase it in another.

GURU GRANTH SAHIB RAG BHAIRON, P. 1128

With Guru Amar Das’s death on 1 September 1574 when he was over ninety, the mantle of leadership fell on Ram Das (1534–81). This devoted disciple of the third Guru had been selected by him as his successor. His name had previously been Jetha; Amar Das renamed him Ram Das, or Servant of the Lord. He had greatly impressed Amar Das both by his commitment to the principles and purposes of the faith and by his extraordinary industriousness; and he had married the third Guru’s younger daughter. The development of the new site by the pool was taking place under his direction; and Guru Amar Das had seen him dig and built the baoli—a wide well with steps leading down to the water—in Goindwal, which in time would become another place of pilgrimage. The Sikh Gurus, unlike religious heads of some faiths, worked in the kitchens, washed dishes, tilled the fields, cut firewood and lent a hand in all community activities. They did not use their positions to lead privileged lives.

In a move which would prove of great spiritual and political relevance, Guru Ram Das—even before assuming the responsibilities of leadership—chose to live by the same beautiful expanse of water that had appealed to his predecessor. It lay between the rivers Ravi and Beas some fifty miles north-west of Goindwal and a hundred miles east of Lahore. Convinced of its appropriateness as a future centre of the Sikh faith, Ram Das bought the pool and much of the land around it. This is where the Harmandir Sahib (which means “the house of God”), also known as the Golden Temple, fountainhead of Sikh inspiration, would be built, and around it the holy city to which Sikhs would come for the sheer joy of seeing their beloved shrine in the middle of the immortal pool.

In its early years this place of pilgrimage was known by various names, such as Guru-ka-Chak, Chak Guru Ram Das and Ramdaspur, but by the beginning of the eighteenth century the name Amritsar— derived from amrit sarowar—had come to stay. Amrit, in Sanskrit, means the elixir of life or water sanctified by the touch of the sacred, whilst sarowar is a lake or pool.

A colourful human mosaic soon converged on the small settlement by the sarowar. Along with the masons, joiners and other artisans and inspired people, came the bards, balladeers, scholars, savants and mystics; all of them drawn by the excitement in the air, by a sense of purpose. In time they and the many enterprising craftsmen and traders converted the makeshift houses, bazaars and meeting-places into a new city. But in the construction of the spiritual centre the faith’s enduring principle remained constant: the Sikh tradition of voluntary labour and self-reliance. This pride in their ability to sustain their beliefs had in fact made Guru Ram Das decline the benevolent Akbar’s offer to give land to the Sikhs.

Guru Ram Das’s compositions, like his predecessors’, also reflect his unswerving resolve to strengthen the bonds between the faith and its followers:

Even in a gale and torrential rain,
I would go to meet my Guru.
Even if an ocean separates them,
A Sikh would go to meet his Guru,
As a man dies of thirst without water,
A Sikh would die without his Guru.
As parched earth exults after a shower,
A Sikh rejoices on meeting his Guru.

GURU GRANTH SAHIB RAG SUHI, PP. 767–8

These prophetic words foretold the magnetic hold the Gurus— Nanak and his successors and then the Granth Sahib—would exercise on the Sikhs in the coming years, and of their inner urge to be in constant communion with their faith’s founders.

Guru Arjan Dev, who succeeded Guru Ram Das after his death in 1581, was born on 15 April 1563 at Goindwal. The first three Gurus had looked beyond their own line to appoint their successors (although in Ram Das the third Guru, Amar Das, had appointed a son-in-law), choosing one of their followers for their qualities of spiritual authority. The succession of the Sikh Gurus now followed a new principle—that of heredity, though not of primogeniture; for Arjan Das was the third son of Ram Das. Through a hereditary system of succession the Sikhs may have hoped to avoid a disputed succession.

Amritsar’s pre-eminence grew in the fifth Guru’s lifetime, helped greatly by his initiatives in the twenty-five decisive years of his stewardship. The first was to make Amritsar more than a place of pilgrimage. It became the rallying-point for Sikhs, a powerful and indestructible symbol of their pride. The soul of the city would be the Harmandir, the house of God (the complex of buildings around the Harmandir and including it would in later years be known as Darbar Sahib). By the time of his tragic death Guru Arjan Dev had made Amritsar the seat of Sikh religion.

The natural pool had been widened by Guru Ram Das in 1577. Guru Arjan Dev now lined it with bricks, with steps going down to the water on all sides, because bathing in the sarowar had become customary even before 1559—the year work on the Harmandir began. Its foundation-stone was probably laid in 1588, though historians cannot agree on who actually laid it. Some say it was Guru Arjan Dev, whilst others assert that Mian Mir, a Qadirite Sufi saint of Lahore, laid it on the Guru’s invitation. With the destruction of valuable written records in the unending battles fought over the Darbar Sahib, oral tradition is the source of most information of this period.

Guru Arjan Dev’s role in constructing the first phase of the Darbar Sahib was crucial, even though the complex is not the work of a single designer or master builder. Nor was it all built at a given point in time. It evolved over the centuries, as successive generations lavished their wealth, time and devotion on it. Guru Arjan Dev’s continuing emphasis on the spiritual rather than the material led him to build a modest structure—in brick and lime, in the centre of the “pool of nectar”—so that its design and construction mirrored the logic and coherence of Sikh beliefs. The symbolic significance of the design is striking. The Harmandir’s location in the water is a synthesis of nirgun and sargun— the spiritual and temporal realms of human existence. And with its base situated lower than the surrounding land, the building emphasises the faith’s inner strength and confidence, which does not depend on lofty, awe-inspiring structures. In further contrast to the traditional design of temples, with only one entrance, the Harmandir has four— one on each side. Its doors are thus open to all four castes, since Guru Arjan Dev was convinced that “the four castes of Kshatriyas, Brahmins, Shudras and Vaishyas are equal partners in divine instruction.”

Quite a few buildings of that age, it must be remembered, were monuments to monarchies, celebrations of the power and riches of the church, or extravagant statements by wealthy merchant princes, like the ornate structures built by India’s Islamic and Hindu rulers, or Europe’s Renaissance architecture with its overstated ornamentation and scale. The attitude of many religious orders towards extravagant buildings was outlined on his deathbed in 1455 by Nicholas V, the first Renaissance Pope: “A faith sustained only by doctrine will never be anything but feeble and vacillating . . . If the authority of the Holy See were visibly displayed in majestic buildings all the world would accept and revere it. Noble edifices combining taste and beauty with imposing proportions would immensely exalt the chair of St. Peter.” But the philosophy of the Sikh faith was diametrically opposite to this. People had to be drawn to it by the nobility of the idea that all human beings are equal in the eyes of God, not by the majesty of the buildings built in His name.

So the place of worship built in ordinary bricks and mortar by the side of a small pool in a place called Amritsar was not obsessed with scale. Nor was it built with plundered wealth, despotic levies, or riches appropriated from other countries. What it had was simple materials and the élan of its worshippers.

By 1601 the core of the complex had taken shape with the completion of the Harmandir and the causeway, and the levelling of the ground around the pool for parkarma or circumambulation. Either through fortunate chance or a highly sensitive feel for scale, the visual relationship between the Harmandir and the pool as seen from the parkarma, creating a mood of serenity, certitude and unruffled calm, is remarkable.

Guru Arjan Dev now took his momentous decision. Based on his conviction that the dynamic in the relationship between the Sikhs and the centre of their faith could not be sustained by an empty structure, he set about making the Harmandir synonymous with wisdom and learning; a repository of rational thought and sound judgement; a place which elevated and inspired in an age of uncertainty and despair. Those who came to the Harmandir, he felt, must return whence they came more resolute and enriched. With this in mind his work on compiling the Sikh scriptures, which he had already begun, now took on a new dimension. If, on their completion, he were to instal these scriptures, with their magnetic pull, in the Harmandir, they would accord it the sanctity and status impossible without them. It was, moreover, irrational for a religion that stressed rationality to sustain its momentum in a vacuum, or try to impress its followers with empty buildings. So Guru Arjan Dev’s compilation of the inspired thoughts and insights of that age was as logical a move as his decision to make them the focal point of the Harmandir.

He had worked ceaselessly on this anthology, which not only included the writings of the first four Gurus and his own, but also those of Hindu and Muslim scholars and saints like Farid (twelfth century), Namdeva (thirteenth century), Sain (fourteenth century), Kabir (fourteenth and fifteenth centuries), Ravi Das (fifteenth century), and many others. They represented a cross-section of the culture and talent of India: men who spoke out against religious and social injustice. As Kabir, a Muslim weaver, put it:

The images are all lifeless, they cannot speak:
I know, for I have cried aloud to them.
The Purana and the Quran are mere words:
Lifting up the curtain, I have seen.

And again:

What makes you a Brahmin
And I merely a Sudra?
If blood runs in my veins
Does milk flow in yours?

GURU GRANTH SAHIB RAG GAURI, P. 324

By his inclusion of the writings of others besides the Sikh Gurus, Guru Arjan Dev gave a clear message: anyone who showed compassion and concern for his fellow humans would be honoured by the Sikhs. Once completed, the scriptures were set to the ragas (the classical system of Indian music) so that the rationality of thought was rendered lyrically. What emerged at the end of Arjan Dev’s prodigious efforts was a Granth Sahib (Granth means compilation of sacred scriptures, Sahib is a term of respect), of 1,948 pages containing more than 7,000 hymns. Of these, 2,218 were his own. The writings of the Gurus were compiled in chronological order followed by the works of saints and sufis. In setting the entire volume in 31 ragas, an exacting method was followed, making the compositions correspond to the time of day and different moods and occasions. For a balanced outlook, the joyous and the sad were subtly interwoven with moods of yearning and rejoicing. These scriptures compiled by Arjan Dev are known as the Adi Granth (or the “original edition”).

The final shape to the Adi Granth was given by Guru Gobind Singh, the tenth and last Guru, who added hymns of his father Tegh Bahadur to it. Just before his death in 1708, he enjoined his followers to look to the Granth Sahib as their supreme guru, to worship wisdom and knowledge and not an individual. And with that ended the tradition of living Gurus.

The elevation of the Granth Sahib to the status of a guru was to introduce a unique concept of leadership which has worked admirably over the centuries, since the scriptures have provided spiritual direction to the Sikhs ever since. They have turned to them in tragedy or triumph, rejoicing or grief, for guidance or calm and intelligent insights, and found philosophical answers to many questions. With print technology overtaking the art of calligraphy, the size of the Granth Sahib has been fixed at 1,430 pages for every single copy, anywhere in the world. The original Gurmukhi script is kept, even where the original hymns were in medieval Punjabi, Hindi and other languages of the time.

Guru Arjan Dev crowned his achievements by installing the Granth Sahib in the Harmandir on 16 August 1604, three years after its completion. From that date till now the Granth Sahib has been ceremoniously carried from the place where it is kept each night to this sanctum sanctorum before the break of dawn each day. Passages from it are then read throughout the day, interspersed with the singing of excerpts, so that those who come to listen leave enriched by the words of their spiritual forefathers.

In less than two years after the Granth was placed in the Harmandir, the dedicated existence of this peaceable community ended in the turbulence that marked the beginning of the reign of Jahangir, son of Akbar and fourth in the line of Mughal Emperors. Ironically, Jahangir’s father had not only visited Guru Amar Das at Goindwal, he had also offered Guru Ram Das a gift of land for their shrine. But Jahangir was made of inferior stuff. Lacking Akbar’s vision, one of the first promises he made on ascending the throne was to protect the Muhammadan religion; the powerful lobby of the Ulema in fact demanded it in exchange for their support in the succession crisis Jahangir was then facing.

Sheikh Ahmed, the revivalist head of the Naqshbandi Sufis of Sirhind in eastern Punjab, was one of the fanatics who had Jahangir’s ear. He was of the view that “the glory of Islam consists in the humiliation of infidelity and the infidels.” Another one of his kind was Chandu Shah, a Brahmin Dewan in the service of Lahore’s Mughal Viceroy, the extent of whose contribution remains controversial. His personal role aside, he is certainly seen as representing the opposition of orthodox Hindus to the Guru. Whilst Sheikh Ahmed bitterly resented Akbar’s insistence on religious tolerance, he—along with several others—was also resentful of the independent ways of the Sikhs. Sheikh Ahmed “had no sympathy for those who believed that Ram and Rehman were the same.” Nor was the upper-caste Hindu view any different, since Sikhism was anti-Brahminical in character. So both the Ulema and the Brahmins around Jahangir were opposed to the Sikhs. These two elements seized the opportunity—when the Guru was produced in Court—“to institute new proceedings against him on the old charge of having compiled a book which blasphemed the worship and rules of the Hindus and the prayers and fastings of the Muhammadans.” Jahangir came round to their view. “So many simple-minded Hindus, nay, even foolish Muslims too had been fascinated by the Guru’s ways and teachings . . . many times the thought had been presenting itself to my mind that either I should put an end to this false traffic, or that he be brought into the fold of Islam,” he wrote in his memoir, Tuzuk-i-Jahangiri.

Matters came to a head over the emperor’s eldest son Khusru. Sir Thomas Roe, the English ambassador, described Khusru as a man who favoured “learning, valour and the discipline of war, abhorring all covetousness and . . . [other] base customs . . . [of] his ancestors and the nobility.” Although the people rose against Jahangir in favour of Khusru, he was defeated and captured in Punjab, and Jahangir stamped out the rising with utmost cruelty. He had two of his son’s principal supporters sewn up in raw hides which contracted in the sun, and three hundred of the rebels impaled in front of Khusru, who was later near-blinded with a hot iron. Another of those on whom the vengeful emperor visited his anger was Guru Arjan Dev, since he had met Khusru, just as Nanak had met his grandfather Babur, and Amar Das had received his father, Akbar. Primed with hate by those around him, Jahangir had the Guru arrested, and as he recorded in his memoir: “I ordered them to produce him and handed over his houses, dwelling places and children to Murtaza Khan, and having confiscated his property commanded that he should be put to death with torture.”

The torture was savage. The Guru was seated on a hot iron plate whilst burning sand was poured over him. He was immersed in near-boiling water as well and eventually drowned in the River Ravi. Amongst his last words, to his Sufi friend Mian Mir, were: “I bear all this torture to set an example to the teachers of the True Name, that they may not lose patience or rail at God in affliction.” Sheikh Ahmed Sirhindi, who had influenced the emperor’s actions, recorded his satisfaction at “the execution of the accursed kafir . . .”

In the words of Professor Harbans Singh, “The event marked the fulfilment of Guru Nanak’s religious and ethical injunctions. Personal piety must have a core of moral strength. A virtuous soul must be a courageous soul. Willingness to suffer trial for one’s convictions was a religious imperative.”

The event also turned a peaceful movement of reconciliation and reform into the most militant ever witnessed in India. Because of this senseless murder the towering rage of the Sikhs carried them into bitter battles with Mughal and other Islamic forces for over 150 years. It also left an indelible impression on Sikh minds, bringing them face to face with the concept of martyrdom, and imbuing them with a resolve to take an implacable stand against tyranny. A new orientation was now added to the Sikh sense of mission and purpose.

The parting message Guru Arjan Dev wanted delivered to his son Hargobind was: “Not to mourn or indulge in unmanly lamentations, but to sing God’s praises.” He also advised him to “sit fully armed on his throne and maintain an army to the best of his ability.” Born on 19 June 1595, Hargobind was only eleven when he succeeded his father in September 1606. The task before him—of canalizing the burning rage of the Sikhs into a formidable military community—was daunting. But he rose to it. He sent far and wide for the finest horses and weapons, and started intensive training camps for swordsmanship, archery and physical endurance. These were now seen as an integral part of Sikh ideals, since skills and valour in combat were necessary if the religion was to be saved from those wanting to destroy it.

Out of this awareness emerged Hargobind’s concept of meeri and peeri, meaning equal time for temporal (meeri) and spiritual (peeri) matters. After the crime against their beloved Guru, this distinction—and equation—was to become a cornerstone of Sikh faith. But even as the importance of worldly concerns was brought home to the community, the search for spiritual grace continued to be paramount. Whilst the expanding Sikh communities’ spiritual needs were served with unflagging dedication, the looming conflict with the Mughals—more temporal than spiritual—was also faced with exemplary determination. While the Harmandir reigned supreme in all matters, purely material concerns were dealt with by the Akal Takht, seat of temporal authority. Representatives of the Sikhs, assembled before the Akal Takht, which literally means “the Almighty’s throne,” took all major decisions. This emphasis on consensual decision-making was a rare assertion of democratic rights in feudal times.

In order of importance, the Akal Takht ranks, in fact, a fraction below the Harmandir. Located across a wide open space opposite the causeway to the Harmandir, it was only an earthen embankment in Guru Hargobind’s time, with a raised platform of bricks for him to sit on and receive those who came with their aspirations, hopes, fears and feuds. It also became an open-air forum for discussions and decisions taken by the community in its epic struggles. In time the square onto which the Akal Takht looked was paved with inlaid marble and the Takht itself raised to five storeys with a gold-leafed dome on top. But in 1609 this was a distant dream.

Jahangir was increasingly disturbed by Guru Hargobind’s raising and equipping of a body of troops. Since this was a radical change of course for what till then had been a purely religious movement, he sent a force to arrest and detain the Guru at Gwalior fort. He was released after a few months, but not before he succeeded in freeing some of the many Hindu feudal chiefs detained there: “The Guru’s imprisonment does not seem to have dampened his military ardour in any way, and there is evidence to show that he continued the same old policy which he had adopted at the beginning of his pontificate.” According to the Mughal chronicler of that period, Mohsin Fani, “the Guru had 800 horses in his stables, 300 troops on horseback and 60 men with firearms were always in his service.” Jahangir’s son Shah Jahan proved even more implacable than his father. Within a year of his ascending the throne in 1627, contingents of the imperial army clashed with the Sikhs—the first of many, increasingly bloody encounters.

The first showdown took place in 1628 over the ownership of a hawk. Shah Jahan and the Guru had been hunting in the vicinity of each other near Amritsar, and a dispute between their followers—each of whom claimed the rare white hawk—led to the encounter. An annoyed emperor dispatched a detachment of troops under Mukhlis Khan to arrest the Guru. In the clash of arms which lasted two days the imperialist force was beaten and Mukhlis Khan killed in action. The die was cast. “Though successful in his first struggle, [Hargobind] had the sagacity to perceive that the anger of the king would only be appeased by his own overthrow and death.” Being aware of the consequences of this challenge to Mughal authority, Hargobind decided to leave Amritsar rather than endanger the sacred Harmandir in the next round of hostilities. He would never see Amritsar again.

In the next two clashes between Mughals and Sikhs, at Lahira in 1631 and Kartarpur in 1634, the Mughals were defeated and their commander Painde Khan killed at Kartarpur. The historical importance of these battles did not lie in their scale, but in the fact that the aggressor’s writ was rejected and his power scorned. A mood of defiance was generated against the Mughals and an example set for others.

Hargobind’s life away from Amritsar was nomadic, marked by military actions between small bodies of Sikh troops on the one hand and the Mughal army on the other. But he also undertook extensive tours to communicate Sikh beliefs in different centres of pilgrimage and learning in the country. As he moved from place to place attending to the affairs of his religious ministry and inspiring an increasing number of new entrants to join the faith, the fighting qualities of his men were also honed. He instilled a valorous spirit into those who fought by his side and helped establish a tradition which changed the ideology of the Sikhs and Sikhism forever. Towards the end of his life Guru Hargobind lived in the distant foothills of the Himalayas in eastern Punjab. Here he built the settlement of Kiratpur, which in later times became famous as Anandpur Sahib, home of another major Sikh shrine. His death on 3 March 1644 marked the end of a life during which, aside from ceaselessly contributing to the spiritual goals set by his forebears, he also highlighted the ongoing importance of striking back at those who dared raise their hand against Sikh beliefs. He transformed the passive Indian mood of servility into one of confident defiance of autocratic rulers, and a fierce pride in Sikh prowess.

The gurdwara, the Sikh house of piety and prayer, is yet another abiding legacy of Guru Hargobind. It was for the Sikhs what the mandirs, masjids, churches and synagogues were to followers of other faiths. The Sikhs’ places of congregation before Hargobind’s time were known by many names, dharamsala, dharam-mandir and such, which meant places where those with shared beliefs, or similar spiritual and social concerns, would meet. But after the Guru Granth Sahib’s consecration in the Harmandir, the gurdwara took form as the Sikh place of worship. It literally means “the door to the Guru,” or “the Guru’s house,” or “the abode of the divine being.” It was Guru Hargobind who made it not only inseparable from Sikh religion, but the enduring symbol of Sikh faith.

The gurdwara has provided the Sikhs, from the seventeenth century onwards, with the most intense and elevating moments of their lives. A large high-ceilinged hall with lime-washed white walls—bare, since idols and depictions are antithetical to Sikhism—the gurdwara is the magnetic core of the Sikh faith. On a wide raised platform at one end of it is a pedestal draped with many pieces of fine silk on which rests the Guru Granth, the large volume which contains the sacred writings of the Sikhs. Seated cross-legged on the ground before it, a priest reverently reads passages from the Granth Sahib. Singers also sing excerpts from it so those who visit the gurdwara are elevated by the totality of their experience in its sacred environs.

The congregation sits on the floor at a level lower than the pedestal on which the Guru Granth rests—on carpets covered with freshly laundered white cotton sheets to add to the mood of serenity. The atmosphere in the gurdwara is further enhanced by the respectful silence which attends all readings from the scriptures. At the end of the day the Guru Granth is closed with deep reverence and wrapped in rich layers of silk and muslin before being opened again with ceremony and enthusiasm early the next morning.

Guru Har Rai succeeded his grandfather as the seventh Guru. Born at Kiratpur on 16 January 1630, he was a saintly man immersed in the scriptures who, whilst he did not compose any hymns himself (there are none by him in the Guru Granth), travelled extensively to spread the word of Nanak and bring people into the Sikh fold. His emissaries travelled across eastern India to Rajasthan, to Kashmir and Kabul, as well as to all corners of Punjab. His kindly interest in a poor young lad, Phul, led the boy eventually to found the families that later ruled the princely states of Patiala, Nabha and Jind. Although there were no major military engagements between Sikh and Mughal troops in his time, Har Rai did incur the displeasure of Aurangzeb, son of the reigning Mughal emperor, Shah Jahan, because he had received his elder brother, Dara Shikoh, heir apparent to the throne that Aurangzeb coveted. When in 1659 this ruthless and bigoted man ascended the Mughal throne, he instructed Amber’s Raja Jai Singh to bring Guru Har Rai to Delhi, his ire having been fanned by courtiers resentful of the Sikh faith in the same way as his grandfather Jahangir had been led to persecute Guru Arjan Dev.

Har Rai refused to go. As he put it: “I am not a king who payeth thee tribute, nor do I desire to receive anything from thee, nor do we stand in the relation of priest and disciple to each other, so wherefore hast thou summoned me?” He sent his son Ram Rai instead, enjoining him “to fix his thoughts on God, and everything would prove successful. He also impressed on him the propriety of not countenancing any objections the Emperor might make to the Granth Sahib . . .” But Ram Rai faltered in the Mughal’s presence and whilst reciting a passage from the Granth Sahib deliberately misread it, possibly because it could be construed as derogatory to Islam. When this was reported to Guru Har Rai he refused to receive his son ever again for daring to alter Guru Nanak’s hymns. He then anointed his youngest son Har Krishan as the eighth Guru before his death at Kiratpur on 6 October 1661. Some tried to exploit Ram Rai’s resentment, but their efforts proved of little consequence.

Born at Kiratpur on 7 July 1656, Har Krishan was five when his father died. Sadly he himself died of smallpox three years later, on 30 March 1664. The comparative calm of the last few years was now nearing its end. A cataclysmic turbulence in Sikh-Mughal relations was already building up, and it would burst forth with full fury eleven years later, driving the avenging Sikhs to change forever the political configuration of India.

Tegh Bahadur, the youngest of Guru Hargobind’s five sons, was born on 1 April 1621 in Amritsar. Legend has it that just before Guru Har Krishan’s death he had uttered the words “Baba Bakale,” “the venerable man of the village of Bakala.” What it meant, his followers felt, was that they should look for the next Guru in the village of Bakala. It was soon evident when they arrived there that the person Guru Har Krishan had in mind was Tegh Bahadur, because after Hargobind’s death his wife Mata Nanaki had taken their son to Bakala where her parents lived. Whilst still in his teens and despite the mystic in him, Tegh Bahadur had earned his spurs in the battle of Kartarpur, greatly impressing his father with his superb horsemanship and bold conduct in battle. Guru Hargobind had predicted that his son, and his son after him, would do the Sikhs proud. For his part Tegh Bahadur, although he had to stay away from his beloved father for many years, was deeply aware of his spiritual and martial heritage. So when the Guru’s mantle was placed on him, he was ready for what would prove to be a momentous period in Sikh history.

Like his predecessors, Tegh Bahadur travelled the length and breadth of India to visit Sikhs settled in remote places. On one of his journeys, after stopping at Delhi, Mathura, Agra, Allahabad, Benares, Sasaram, birthplace of Sher Shah Suri who had defeated the Mughal emperor Humayun at Panipat, and Gaya, he reached Patna which would become one of the five great centres of Sikhism with a gurdwara called the Takht Sri Harmandir Sahib, built on the site of the house in which his only son Gobind—the tenth and last Guru—was born on 22 December 1666.

Leaving his family in Patna, Guru Tegh Bahadur travelled on to Bengal and Assam. Struck by the number of Sikhs in Dacca, capital of present-day Bangladesh, he called it “the citadel of Sikhism,” and it was here that news of Gobind’s birth in Patna—where his wife had stayed on—reached him. Towards the end of 1668, whilst in Dhubri in Assam—which Guru Nanak too had visited 163 years earlier—he started work on the historic gurdwara Damdama Sahib.

His journeys through the easternmost parts of India had many purposes. Aside from visiting Sikh manjis and sangats established across India, he was satisfying his deep philosophical interest in other faiths. To better inform himself of their beliefs he had extensive exchanges with the Mughal emperor Aurangzeb in Delhi, with Brahmin priests in Prayag (Allahabad), Buddhist pilgrims in Gaya (even though the Brahmins had long since taken it over), Sufis in Malda, and with Assam’s Ahom tribesmen regarding their tantric practices.

Guru Tegh Bahadur was reunited with his family at Chakk Nanaki on his return to Punjab in early 1672. Chakk Nanaki, famous today as the redoubtable settlement of Anandpur, had interesting beginnings. Lying in the foothills of Bilaspur State, the land was offered to Guru Tegh Bahadur by its owner, Dowager Rani Champa, in 1665 and he had bought the site—which included the villages of Lodhipur, Mianpur and Sahota—for 500 rupees. On the high promontory of Makhowal, in the middle of this rugged and muscular landscape, ground for the new village was broken on 19 June 1665, and over the following years it grew into a formidable stronghold.

By 1672 the countdown to a tragedy had begun. It was a time of religious intolerance aggravated by the bigotry of Aurangzeb. He found the “infidels” insufferable and made this clear to his provincial governors. According to the chronicler Mustaq Khan (Maasir-i-Alamgir, 8 April 1669): “His Majesty, eager to establish Islam, issued orders to the governors of all the provinces to demolish the schools and temples of the infidels and with utmost urgency put down the teachings and public practice of the religion of these misbelievers.” His injunction did not end with the destruction of institutions, it was also used to exterminate those who refused to embrace Islam. The Mughal governor of Kashmir, Iftikhar Khan, more rabid than most, carried out his emperor’s policy with particular viciousness.

How Guru Tegh Bahadur took up cudgels on behalf of the pandits of Kashmir is best explained by a contemporary Kashmiri historian, P.N.K. Bamzai, in his History of Kashmir: “Iftikhar Khan . . . was using force to convert the Pandits in Kashmir to Islam. Some pious men among the Pandits then met and decided to go to Amarnath and invoke the mercy of Siva there for deliverance from the tyrannies of the bigot. At the Amarnath cave, one of the Pandits saw Lord Siva in a dream who told him to go to Tegh Bahadur, the ninth Sikh Guru, in the Punjab, and ask for his help to save the Hindu religion. He spoke to his companions about the revelation [and] about 500 [then] proceeded to Anandpur where Tegh Bahadur lived.”

The Guru listened long to the pandits’ moving account of the forcible conversions and of the atrocities Aurangzeb’s sadistic satrap was inflicting on the Hindus. After deep deliberation, Tegh Bahadur declared that if the emperor could make him convert to Islam, the pandits too would accept conversion. By throwing down the gauntlet he had decided to demonstrate that a man convinced of the moral purpose of his religious beliefs had the strength to stand up to a despot determined to subjugate people to his will; that the inalienable right of a people to practise their own faith could not be denied to them by bigoted rulers.

Aurangzeb, already enraged by reports of Guru Tegh Bahadur’s sympathetic response to the Kashmiris, ordered him to be brought to Delhi. According to his instructions to the governor of Lahore, he was to be “fettered and detained . . .”

Tegh Bahadur, who had left for Delhi on his own volition, was arrested en route on 12 July 1675 in the village of Malikpur Rangharan near Ropar and taken to Sirhind, then sent to Delhi in an iron cage. He arrived in the capital on 5 November 1675. For the next five days the daily routine of his captors alternated between persuasion to bring him around to Islam and torture on his refusal to do so. His message to Aurangzeb was simple: “The Prophet of Mecca who founded your Religion could not impose one religion on the world, so how can you? It is not God’s will.” On 11 November 1675 the Guru’s three close companions, Bhai Mati Das, Dayal Das and Sati Das, were killed in his presence: the first was sawn into two, the second boiled to death in a cauldron, the third burnt alive. When even this was of no avail, Guru Tegh Bahadur was publicly beheaded on the same day on the spot where the Sikhs—after they captured Delhi years later—built Gurdwara Sis Ganj in Delhi’s Chandni Chowk. Reflecting his own preparation for the ultimate test of his beliefs, these lines composed by him are included in the Guru Granth:

The truly enlightened ones
Are those who neither incite fear in others
Nor fear anyone themselves.

GURU GRANTH SAHIB SLOK, 16, P. 1427

Guru Tegh Bahadur’s head was recovered by his follower Bhai Jaita during a raging storm on the night of his execution, and after a perilous journey brought to Anandpur where his nine-year-old son Gobind received it. It was cremated on 16 November 1675 by the Sikhs, outraged by this murderous act of the Mughal but immensely inspired by their Guru’s resolute character. As the sandalwood pyre was lit by Gobind, the chanting of verses from the Granth Sahib filled the air.

In faraway Delhi too, a man called Lakhi Shah Lubana and his companions had taken his body out of the walled city in the dead of night—during the same storm—to a place called Rakabganj, on the city’s outskirts. Since a formal cremation was fraught with danger, Lakhi Shah reverently placed the Guru’s body in his house, then set the house on fire to avoid detection: a fitting farewell by his devotees to a man who had stirred their imagination by his unique sacrifice.

The full measure of his father’s unrivalled act was not lost on his young son Gobind. As he later acknowledged in his autobiography in verse, “a deed like Tegh Bahadur’s none had dared before.” He was equally clear about why his father had taken the risk:

To protect their tilak and janeu
He performed a heroic deed in the age of Kali.
He gave his head for men of faith without flinching
And chose martyrdom in the cause of righteousness.

BACHITTAR NATAK

Gobind’s early grasp of the concept of martyrdom in defence of man’s essential freedoms—the right to life, to religious beliefs, and to ideals and principles—served him well through the dangerous years ahead. He was clear that the mark on the forehead, the tilak, and the sacred thread, the janeu, which represented upper-caste Hindu customs, had no place in the Sikh faith, but had nevertheless to be respected since countless Hindus venerated them. No less clear was the uniqueness of his father’s deed—a bold defiance of the imperium which demanded that its subjects compromise their beliefs by giving in to its arrogant diktats. In voluntarily setting out for Delhi—while most had to be dragged to their persecutors—Tegh Bahadur had challenged the arrogant assumptions of imperial power, accustomed to having its own way with a shackled people. None of this was lost on Gobind.

The experience of his father’s martyrdom shaped his outlook and actions during the next thirty-three years—between the age of nine, when his father died, and his own death at the age of forty-two. According to J.D. Cunningham, a political official in the East India Company and author of a classic history of the Sikhs: “he resolved upon awakening his followers to a new life and upon giving precision and aim to the broad and general institutions of Nanak. In the heart of a powerful empire he set himself to the task of subverting it, and from the midst of social degradation and religious corruption he called up simplicity of manners, singleness of purpose, and enthusiasm of desire.”

Gobind Singh, it seems clear, was convinced, even at the young age when he had held his father’s severed head in his hands, that the flames lit by Guru Hargobind had to be stoked still further, that the enemy must be made to take notice. Fully convinced that the tyrant’s injustice and cruelty had to be met by armed warriors with an iron will, he set about building up his troops and concentrating on their intensive military training.

He would see to it that whilst there was no deviation from religious or moral goals, the Sikhs would not allow their self-esteem to be compromised. Their foes, who inflicted pain on innocents, would be made to pay for their inhumanity, thereby adding a new dimension to Guru Nanak’s dictum “truth is pure steel.” Steel would now seal the fate of those who mocked the rights of others. His own acceptance of the sword, in effect of steel, as a symbol of the divine being and his will, was neither accidental nor whimsical, as is evident from the Bachittar Natak:

You are the subduer of kingdoms,
The destroyer of evil armies.
You adorn the brave on the battlefield.
Your arm is unbreakable, your brightness dazzling,
Your radiance is like the sun’s.
You bestow happiness on the good,
You terrify the evil, you scatter sinners.
I seek your protection.
Hail! hail to the world’s creator,
I cherish you, the saviour of creation,
Hail to you, O Sword!

In his study The Mantle of the East, Edmund Candler writes perceptively of the sword’s profound significance for the Sikhs: “When Guru Gobind Singh inaugurated the sacrament of steel he proved himself a wise and far-sighted leader. For of all material things which genius has inspired with spiritual significance, steel is the truest and most uncompromising . . . [it] welded the [Sikhs] into a nation; and in the dark days of Muhammadan rule in the middle of the eighteenth century, when the Sikh was slain at sight and no quarter was given, it drove them on to those gallant crusades in which they rode to Amritsar in the dead of night, leapt into the sacred tank and out again, and galloped back through the enemy’s lines purified. Hundreds were slain, but no one abjured his faith or perjured his soul to preserve ‘his muddy vesture of decay.’ ”

Gobind Singh has been described as a “sharp-featured, tall and wiry man,” superbly dressed, wearing a tall plume-topped turban, always armed with a variety of weapons and, when seated on the throne or out hunting, with a white hawk perched on his left hand. Emphasis on military preparedness was only a part of his agenda. At the same time, with intense concentration, he learnt Sanskrit, Braj, Persian, Arabic and Avadhi, and studied the classics in these languages, which helped nurture his own poetic genius and broadened the range of his enquiring mind. Years later, these scholarly foundations would result in literary work which included a book of psalms, a narrative of his times, an autobiography, inclusion of his father’s hymns into the Granth Sahib, and poetic compositions of penetrating insight into the gamut of human existence. The diversity of his interests ranged from astronomy, geography, metaphysics, yoga and botany to Ayurvedic healing and warfare.

Alongside these concerns was his ongoing commitment to Sikhism’s secular principles, laid down by Guru Nanak and reiterated by his successors, most dramatically by Guru Tegh Bahadur. As Gobind Singh observes in his poetic composition Akal Ustat:

Recognize all mankind as one,
whether Hindus or Muslims,
The same Lord is the creator
and nourisher of all:

Recognize no distinctions between them.
The monastery and the mosque are the same,
So is Hindu worship and Muslim prayer.
Men are all one!

The years from 1675–76—from the death of Guru Tegh Bahadur and his own succession as the tenth Guru—to 1685 were a time of preparation for what lay ahead. He knew that following Guru Tegh Bahadur’s martyrdom, the Sikhs had to be inspired by his own exemplary conduct and confidence. And it was not long before his qualities of leadership were put to the test.

The first trouble came from the neighbouring hill states. It was precipitated by Raja Bhim Chand of Bilaspur (also known as Kahlur), who was irked by the increasing number of the Guru’s followers. Resentful of an earlier rebuff when the Guru had refused to give him his elephant and personal canopy, the raja attacked him at Anandpur. His defeat fuelled the resentments of other hill rajas in the neighbouring Kangra Hills who now formed a united front against the Sikhs. To them, as well as to the imperial court, the emergence of a new centre of Sikh power in the remote fastnesses of Anandpur was a disquieting development. And since Sikhism embraced all castes, irrespective of their place in the Hindu hierarchy, the resentments of the upper castes were an added factor to reckon with, alongside the hostility of the chieftains who viewed democratic Sikh doctrines as a threat to their own feudal privileges. The belligerence of these feudatory interests was the immediate concern of the Sikh community at Anandpur, although Mughal anger—frequently fanned by these rajas—would in time pose far greater challenges.

In 1685 Guru Gobind Singh decided to accept a friendly invitation from Raja Medini Prakash of Sirmur State who, disagreeing with the aggressive temper of his contemporaries, was keen to cultivate the Guru. His overture was not entirely disinterested, for he had seen the Sikhs defeat Raja Bhim Chand, and with the hostility of his rival, Raja Fateh Shah of Srinagar, very much on his mind, he saw Guru Gobind Singh as a future ally whose presence in Sirmur could deter Fateh Shah’s forays into Sirmur territory. Whatever the reasons for Medini Prakash’s hospitality, the three years or so that Guru Gobind Singh spent there proved highly rewarding both from the scholar’s point of view and from the soldier’s.

Reluctant to stay for too long as the raja’s guest in his palace at Nahan the Guru chose—at his host’s invitation—a site on a bend of the River Yamuna which he named Paonta, derived from pav, or foot, since his favourite horse had left an imprint on the banks of the river. The setting at Paonta, where an imposing gurdwara now stands, was inspiring with its clear fast-flowing river, the hilly terrain against the backdrop of mountain ranges, and thick forests full of game. Here the Guru’s eldest son Ajit Singh was born to his wife Mata Sundari.

This sylvan existence ended with yet another battle, this time with the combined forces of some of the hill rajas assembled by Bhim Chand and Fateh Shah. The two sides clashed at Bhangani, six miles from Paonta. The bitter and bloody battle had its highs and lows, which saw 500 Pathan mercenaries who had joined the Sikhs cross over to the enemy with another segment of the Sikh force, the Udasis, although their leader Kirpal Das valorously made up for his men’s defection, as did Pir Budhu Shah, a follower of Guru Gobind Singh who joined him with his four sons and several hundred men. At battle’s end the victorious Sikhs and their comrades had accounted for two Pathan leaders and the hill chieftain Hari Chand. The enemy’s casualties in the Battle of Bhangani decisively demonstrated that the Sikhs could not be trifled with.

Returning to Anandpur soon after this, Gobind Singh set about fortifying Anandpur in anticipation of attacks from the humiliated hill rajas. The Mughal forces too, he was sure, would not be long in coming. The forts built at Anandgarh, Lohgarh, Keshgarh and Fatehgarh, on craggy promontories around Anandpur, were a part of his defence plan. A wise plan, as it turned out. Emboldened by Aurangzeb’s prolonged absence from Delhi on military campaigns in South India, the hill chieftains, who had stopped paying their dues to the imperial court, formed a confederacy to challenge Mughal suzerainty. When in 1690 Mian Khan, the Mughal overlord of the region, sent his commander, Alif Khan, to discipline them, two rajas crossed over to him to help bring down their colleague Raja Bhim Chand. The frightened raja, who had twice fought the Guru, now beseeched him for help. Not only did Guru Gobind Singh agree, he personally led his men against Alif Khan. In a decisive action at Nadaun on the Beas river, the routed Khan fled. Within days of this, the devious Bhim Chand once again accepted Mughal suzerainty!

Aurangzeb was becoming increasingly incensed by Guru Gobind Singh’s ascendance. In an imperial edict of 20 November 1693 he announced: “All military commanders concerned [in Punjab] are ordered to prevent him [Guru Gobind Singh] from assembling his followers.” The Guru responded by summoning distant Sikh sangats to Anandpur for Baisakhi (New Year’s Day in the Punjab) at the end of March 1694. They were to come bearing arms, with their beards uncut, so as to leave no doubt in Mughal minds about their identity. After pitched battles with imperial pickets along the way, the huge gathering which assembled before the Guru provided proof of the triumphant Sikh spirit; of its refusal to be daunted by the Mughals.

When told of this defiance of the Emperor’s firman, Dilawar Khan, the Mughal chief for the Kangra Hills, sent a force to chasten the Guru in his fastness at Anandpur. But when the attack at dead of night— designed to catch the Sikhs unawares—was greeted with their war cries and the booming beat of Guru Gobind Singh’s war drum, Ranjit Nagara, the attacking force under Dilawar’s son retreated without joining battle. His livid father next ordered his commander Husain Khan to tame the Guru. As the Khan’s columns headed for Anandpur early in 1695, the same duplicitous Bhim Chand of Bilaspur joined the Mughal force, along with several other hill chiefs, in yet another conspiracy to bring down the Guru. When on his way Husain Khan attacked Raja Gopal of Guler—who could not pay the tribute demanded of him—the latter sought Gobind Singh’s help. The Guru promptly dispatched a troop of horsemen to his aid. In the ensuing battle Husain Khan and Raja Kirpal Chand of Katoch were killed and their forces defeated, but a key Sikh commander, Bhai Sangatia, was also killed.

Now followed a period of respite, although an imperial force under Prince Muazzam, Aurangzeb’s son and successor, was sent to Punjab to teach the recalcitrant hill chieftains a lesson, and to deal with Guru Gobind Singh as well. Whilst Muazzam’s commander, Mirza Beg, took a heavy toll of the rajas, the prince and his commanders felt it prudent to leave the Sikhs alone in their fortified region of Anandpur. As the Sikhs were openly advocating revolt against Mughal misrule, Muazzam’s apparent strategy was to subdue the rajas before taking on the Sikhs. His hesitation, however, could also have been due to a genuine respect for men of religion.

These peaceful years, from 1697 to 1700, were put to good use. Guru Gobind Singh completed the Bachittar Natak and oversaw the translations of many classics including the Upanishads. He also tightened control of the organizational structure of Sikh communities scattered around the country by abolishing the institution of masands. The appointment of these officials had been conceived during the time of Guru Amar Das in order to administrate and take care of Sikh congregations, but they had become corrupted, prone to pocketing offerings at places of worship and acting in ways contrary to the community’s religious principles. They had also tried to create schisms in the fledgling Sikh community which could have weakened it from within. With their abolition each Sikh occupied his rightful place in the scheme of things, needing no intermediaries between him and the founders of his faith.

Gobind Singh’s most dramatic step was to set the Sikh community apart once and for all. He baptized the Sikhs into a brotherhood which he called the Khalsa, or “pure ones.” This innovation aimed at providing every Sikh with cultural distinctiveness, imbuing him with a strong sense of self-esteem and purpose, committed to opposing tyranny and despotism, and the appearance, too, of every Sikh would be emblematic of the Khalsa.

Attitudes to caste, idols, rituals, orthodoxy, priesthood, fanaticism and bigotry had already set the Sikhs apart from Hindus and Muslims, but the time had now come to develop even more assertive Sikh characteristics and to establish a visible and separate Sikh identity. The creation of the Khalsa reflected Guru Gobind Singh’s conviction that Sikhism was a tisar panth, a third religion, distinct from Hinduism and Islam.

The decree that the Khalsa’s unshorn hair would be a proud symbol of this new fraternity was a move of deep psychological significance. The distinctive appearance of each Sikh, a celebration of his individualism, would instil in him the confidence to stand out in a crowd— unself-consciously and confidently. It would set him apart from what Professor Puran Singh would later call “barber-made civilizations.” Each member of the Khalsa would wear five distinctive items, the names of all of which began with a K, which would be the bedrock of Khalsa beliefs. These were kesh (long hair), kanga (comb), kara (steel wristband), kachh (short breeches) and kirpan (short sword). Each had a definite meaning and purpose. The comb—while keeping the hair tidy—symbolized cleanliness; the short breeches were a reminder of the need for continence and moral restraint. The circular steel band protected the wrist that wielded the sword; it also symbolized the circle in Indian thought—the wheel of dharma. The sword was a constant reminder of the Khalsa’s readiness to repel aggression. As Bhai Gurdas, a contemporary and chronicler of several Gurus including Arjan and Hargobind, put it: “The orchard of the Sikh faith needed the thorny hedge of armed men for its protection.”

As a final stamp of distinction and dedication, Guru Gobind Singh gave each Sikh the surname Singh, or Lion—a fitting tribute to a people who had been fighting for their identity for almost 230 years. And because of the distinctive turban which Sikh men tie around their hair each day, they stand out in a crowd and are easy to identify. The turban, of fine muslin, evolved as a means of managing long hair which is left unshorn as a sign of respect for the God-given form; the turban’s colour and its shape when tied are matters of personal preference.

The act of transforming the Sikhs into the Khalsa was a highly dramatic event. It coincided with the Baisakhi festival, a time of celebration in Punjab, heralding a good harvest. In 1699 this date corresponded to 30 March in the Western calendar. (Owing to the divergence between the Christian and Bikrami years, Baisakhi now falls on 13 April.) The gathering of over 80,000 Sikhs at Anandpur that year was especially large.

There was an air of expectancy, because none knew why everyone had been summoned from all over India. Having long meditated on the step he was about to take against the grand backdrop of Fort Keshgarh and the mountains beyond, Guru Gobind Singh, aware of the need to restructure the faith for the exacting times ahead, had very carefully selected Baisakhi for injecting a new vitality into the community. It was the day on which Gautama Buddha too had received Enlightenment, had pledged himself for “the good and benefit of all living things, mortal and immortal.”

What startled the Sikhs that day was the sight of their Guru drawing his sword and demanding that one of those assembled should come forward and sacrifice his head in the honoured tradition of laying down his life for his faith, dharma. For a while the bewildered audience sat transfixed, too shocked to respond. Then a few left, while others, although fearful of this astounding demand, stayed on. Finally Daya Ram from Lahore came forward to offer his head. The Guru took him into an adjacent tent and when he emerged his sword was dripping with blood. The next man, Dharam Das, was from Hastinapur. When the Guru reappeared with his sword even more bloodied than before, and demanded yet another head, Mohkam Chand from Dwarka was the third to volunteer, followed by the fourth, Himmat of Jagannath, and the fifth, Sahib Chand of Bidar.

In an entirely unexpected dénouement, the Guru emerged from the tent with the five reattired Sikhs—dressed in saffron-coloured robes and turbans—and the audience realized that what had been on trial was its mettle. And in those who had fled on seeing the sword with dripping blood, it had been found wanting. It was a singular lesson in overcoming that most debilitating of all emotions—fear. It was also a significant ceremony for the birth of a new and martial race—the Khalsa.

Guru Gobind Singh’s message to the assembled Sikhs was clear. “You are the sons of Nanak, the Creator’s own, the chosen ones . . . You will love man as man, making no distinction of caste or creed . . . You will only bow your heads to your Master. You will never worship stock, stone, idol or tomb. Remember always, in times of danger or difficulty, the holy names of the Masters: Nanak, Angad, Amar Das, Ram Das, Arjun Dev, Hargobind Sahib, Har Rai Sahib, Har Krishan, Tegh Bahadur. I make you a rosary of these names and you shall not pray each for himself, but for the entire Khalsa. In each of you the whole brotherhood shall be incarnated. You are my sons, both in flesh and spirit.”

The emphasis on flesh and spirit was a reiteration of the idea of the fellowship of the Khalsa—not a hierarchical order of the high above and the dispossessed below, but a casteless community of inspired people; a family knit together by its ideals and beliefs. Gobind Singh was to prove the strength of his own belief in this ideal time and again, especially in the face of personal tragedy: he was soon to lose his four sons. When news of the younger two was brought to him, he would tell the assembled Khalsa that even though he had lost four sons, thousands of his beloved ones were still alive.

In a practical demonstration of the fellowship idea he first baptized, in the presence of the entire gathering, the first five members of the Khalsa, the panjpiyare, or “beloved five,” then knelt before them to be baptized in turn—a reaffirmation of the principle of absolute equality. The ceremony of baptism was simple. Into an iron bowl full of clear water he added sugar, then stirred it with a double-edged sword accompanied by recitations from the Granth Sahib. This magical mix of sweetness and steel, which he called amrit, or life-giving ambrosia, was administered to the panjpiyare, as it has continued to be given to all baptized Sikhs ever since. He then recited in a resonant voice a line he had composed for the occasion and which has been a rallying-cry for the Khalsa since then: “Sri Wahe Guruji Ka Khalsa, Sri Wahe Guruji Ki Fateh” —“The Khalsa belong to God, and God’s truth will always prevail.”

The distinguished Sikh scholar Kapur Singh was convinced that Guru Gobind Singh believed in “an aristocracy dedicated and consciously trained—but not by right of birth—[and] which is grounded in virtue, in talent and in the self-imposed code of sacrifice to humanity, [and that] such men should group themselves into the order of the Khalsa . . .” He further suggests that “Guru Gobind Singh clearly seemed to believe that aristocracy is one of the goals of democracy. For what is more basic to democracy than careers open to talent, a doctrine that so clearly presumes that talent is of supreme value? The Guru believed that democracy can justify itself only by including aristocracy as its goal, and because democracy alone cannot guarantee freest scope to talent was, it would seem, the Guru’s reason for having faith in it.”

Proof, if any is needed, of the democratic foundations of the faith is provided by the composition of the first five members of the Khalsa, or panjpiyare, initiated and baptized with a double-edged sword. Of these five one was a Kshatriya, the second a Jat (tiller), the third a washer-man, the fourth a cook and the fifth a Shudra. This reflected an emphasis on equality a century and more before the rest of the world awoke to the idea, and to the need for legislative safeguards to ensure equal opportunities for all.

Although estimates vary, at least 50,000 Sikhs appear to have been baptized during those first few days. The excitement at achieving greater self-definition was palpable. But the exhilaration at Anandpur was in marked contrast to the jealousy of the hill rajas—even more resentful now of Sikh élan. In a petition to the imperial power in Delhi, they wrote: “The Guru [has] established a new sect distinct from the Hindus and Muhammadans, to which he has given the name of Khalsa. He has united the four castes into one, and made many followers . . . he suggested to us that if we rose in rebellion against the Emperor, he would assist us with all his forces . . . we cannot restrain him and have accordingly come to crave the protection of this just government against him. If the government considers us its subjects we pray for its assistance to expel the Guru from Anandpur. Should you delay his punishment, his next expedition will be against the capital of your Empire.”

This craven representation reached Aurangzeb in the South, and on his orders two Mughal commanders, Painda Khan and Din Beg, were sent to settle the Sikh problem, and that of their Guru, Gobind Singh. Not surprisingly the hill rajas joined the Mughals. In the ensuing battle Painda Khan was killed in single combat with Guru Gobind Singh, Din Beg was wounded, the hill rajas fled the field of battle, and the end came with the rout of the Mughal expedition. Soon afterwards, the embittered rajas of Mandi, Srinagar, Kulu, Keonthal and Jammu again joined forces to lay siege to Anandpur, but when Sikh reinforcements arrived from the Majha they were defeated and driven off. Between 1701 and 1704 there was no end to the skirmishes and pitched battles between the Sikhs and the hill rajas, until Ajmer Chand, son and successor to the treacherous Bhim Chand of Bilaspur, travelled to the Deccan to urge Emperor Aurangzeb to put down Guru Gobind Singh and his defiant Sikhs once and for all.

Aurangzeb ordered the Mughal satrap of Lahore to march on Anandpur under the overall command of Nawab Wazir Khan of Sirhind. But the Mughal and Hindu rajas’ forces—the largest ever assembled—were still unable to break Sikh resistance after several bloody battles, and so settled down to a prolonged and meticulously planned siege. The besieged were gradually cut off from their food supplies and despite lightning forays for victuals outside their fortifications the situation worsened, especially when a hill stream which provided water to Anandpur was diverted. At this point Aurangzeb sent a message to Gobind Singh assuring him and his entourage safe passage if he agreed to leave Anandpur. It was a difficult decision. The very thought of walking away from a challenge was alien to the Guru’s nature; but the cost of staying on and seeing his loyal ones die of starvation was equally unacceptable. In the end, with conditions worsening each day, he opted to leave. And so, at the close of 1704, he evacuated the place he had grown up in and which had helped shape his personality, intellect and character. It was the last time he would see it.

The Mughals and the hill rajas, perfidious to the end, did not honour their word. The Sikh contingent, including women and children and the Guru’s mother, two wives and four sons, was attacked soon after reaching the plains on the banks of a small river, the Sarsa. One of Guru Gobind Singh’s ablest commanders, Ude Singh, and several of his men died in a heroic rearguard action aimed at enabling others to get away. As the main body of men and women forded the chilly waters of the river swollen by winter rains, many lost their lives while others were separated from the rest on reaching the opposite bank. Amongst the latter were Mata Gujri, the Guru’s mother, and his two younger sons, Zorawar Singh and Fateh Singh. Guru Gobind Singh’s own group, reduced from 500 to scarcely 40 fighting men including his two elder sons, Ajit Singh and Jujhar Singh, managed to reach the village of Chamkaur several miles away, with a considerably augmented Mughal force in hot pursuit.

The battle of Chamkaur, on 22 December 1704, is seared in every Sikh heart. Here a small band of just over 40 Sikhs took on an enemy vastly superior in numbers. Both Ajit Singh and Jujhar Singh, along with Mohkam Singh and Himmat Singh, two of the original five panjpiyare, were killed in hand-to-hand combat. The Sikhs, by then reduced to the Guru and three others, Daya Singh, Dharam Singh and Man Singh, managed to evade the enemy and head for territory favourable to the regrouping of a resurgent Khalsa.

But this tragic phase was still to reach its nadir. With the break of dawn—after leaving Chamkaur at the dead of night—the Guru found himself separated from his companions and alone in the heart of the Machhiwara forest. He was without food, shelter or his trusted mount, his mind filled with thoughts of Mughal betrayal and the loss of his men and sons; only his iron will sustained him in that bleak hour. As luck would have it his three companions, following the route they had agreed upon, were eventually reunited with him. The four, with the help of loyal Sikhs and at least three friendly Muslims, made their way through the enemy patrols who were searching for them.

They finally reached the village of Jatpura where the Guru was warmly received by the Muslim chief of the area, Rai Kalha. The help of Muslims, who admired Sikhs for their unflinching stand against the tyranny of Islamic rulers, is significant, reflecting the decencies that were observed, even in those troubled times, by people of different faiths. A modern historian of the period comments on Aurangzeb’s mindlessly repressive policy of crushing religious minorities: “Many Muslims, who considered Guru Gobind Singh to be fighting for the cause of truth and justice, supported him . . . the Caliph of Mecca had shown disagreement with the religious policy of Aurangzeb. The Khalifa of Baghdad had even refused to see the envoy of Aurangzeb.”

While Guru Gobind Singh’s two wives, Mata Sundari and Mata Sahib Kaur, had gone to Delhi with a distinguished scholar and contemporary of the Guru, Bhai Mani Singh, the tragic news of his mother and two younger sons, Zorawar Singh and Fateh Singh—separated during the retreat from Anandpur—was brought to him at Jatpura. They had been betrayed by a servant who had offered them shelter and then alerted the agents of the governor of Sirhind, Nawab Wazir Khan, who had them arrested and imprisoned in Sirhind fort. He offered the brothers inducements to convert to Islam, but to his astonishment the two—aged eight and six—refused. He then ordered them to be bricked up alive. When only their heads and shoulders remained above the masonry they were again asked to convert, but they refused. Extricated from the tomb-like structure they were produced before Wazir Khan, who, enraged by their unrelenting stand, ordered them put to the sword. On hearing the news, their grandmother died of shock.

Chroniclers of the period are agreed on the astonishing fearlessness of the two boys on that fateful morning of 27 December 1704. They also agree on the principled—though unsuccessful—intervention by the nawab of Malerkotla, Sher Muhammad Khan, who had tried to prevent the debased act. In Punjab the Sikhs, remembering the Malerkotla chief’s noble stand, have honoured his role to this day and ensured his descendants’ protection.

Guru Gobind Singh’s next significant stay after leaving Jatpura was in Dina, in what would later become Nabha State. Here he wrote the first of his two forceful letters to Aurangzeb around 26 December 1704. Some refer to this as the Fatehnamah, while the second is widely known as the Zafarnamah. In the first he told the emperor: “Your name does not become you, Aurangzeb, since your ways are deceitful.” (Broadly translated, Aurangzeb means “pride of the throne.”) And further: “You are accustomed to conduct your statecraft through deception and diplomacy. I do not approve of what does not accord with ethical principles and the dictates of conscience.”

Written in Persian, the Zafarnamah was a public indictment of Aurangzeb for his breach of faith in allowing his troops to attack the Sikhs after they had vacated Anandpur on a guarantee of safe conduct. The letter stressed the centrality of truth in statecraft, and underscored the importance of rulers abiding by the same moral principles they expected of the ruled. Guru Gobind Singh’s communication to the emperor was a reaffirmation of his own commitment to the democratic ideal of openness and accountability. No less unique for those times was his ethical conviction that integrity of purpose and openness—or “transparency”—were essential in the conduct of relations between the ruler and the ruled. And between states. “He alone is a cultured man, he alone is worthy of being called a human being, whose ‘yes’ is a ‘yes’ and whose ‘no’ means ‘no.’ He who says one thing and means and intends another is subhuman.”

Gobind Singh bluntly accused the emperor and his military commanders and provincial governors of lying when they had offered the Sikhs safe conduct out of Anandpur. He warned the emperor: “Do not wantonly spill the blood of any one, for your own blood as surely will be spilt by death.” Nor did he mince any words in telling him: “I have no faith in your oath . . . you know no God and you do not believe in Muhammad. He who has regard for his religion never swerves from his promise . . . If the Prophet himself was present here, I would inform him of your treachery.”

A contributor to The Sikh Review has recently described this epic missive: “The whole of the Zafarnamah is full of classical Persian allusions and shows a perfect mastery of the history and literature of the Muslims and pre-Muslim Persians, whose language the Mughals had adopted for their courts. The mention of names like Kaikhusrow, Jamshid, Faridun, Bahman, Isfandyar and Iskander gives us an idea of how these non-Muslim predecessors of the Persians glorified themselves in theatres of war and upheld the cause of their country against aggressors. The mention of the name of Sher Shah Suri is more of a political nature as it was he who ousted Aurangzeb’s ancestor, Humayun, from India and obliged him to take refuge in Persia where the state religion was Shiaism, of which Aurangzeb was an arch-enemy. The mention of Sher Shah’s name was to make Aurangzeb realize the truth of history . . . the epistle, as a whole, is a remarkable enunciation of ethics. It is equally remarkable for its poetry and diction.”

Aurangzeb, still in the South, was impressed. After receiving the letter brought to him in Ahmednagar by the Guru’s emissaries, the emperor despatched two officers to Munim Khan, deputy governor of Lahore, instructing him to make peace with Guru Gobind Singh.

Dina became both the rallying point for Sikhs around their Guru and the setting for still more conversions to the faith. The rage of his followers at the recent tragedies endured by Gobind Singh could be easily perceived, even though his acceptance of the loss of his sons and loyal followers was calm and courageous.

The reassembling of the Khalsa and their resurgent mood were not lost on Sirhind’s Wazir Khan, who had emerged as their most implacable foe. In anticipation of his attack, and unwilling to subject Dina to retribution for harbouring him, Guru Gobind Singh moved on to Khidrana (now called Muktsar). Here a pitched battle with the Mughals led to appalling bloodshed on both sides, Wazir Khan’s force being beaten back. On the move again, the Guru and his men reached a forested terrain between Bhatinda and Kot Kapura, where, during a brief respite in the jungle of Lakhi, a sharp revitalization of the faith took place as new entrants joined it. The Sikh community was in the ascendant again.

Gobind Singh now chose to stay at nearby Talwandi Sabo, south of the Sutlej, later renamed Damdama Sahib, which means “place of calm and tranquillity.” It is a milestone in Sikh history for many reasons. Not only because over a hundred thousand people in this rugged region of Malwa converted to Sikhism during the Guru’s nine months’ stay here, but also because the final version of the Granth Sahib was transcribed at Damdama, by Bhai Mani Singh, a childhood friend and confidant of Guru Gobind Singh. To the first copy of the Adi Granth written under Guru Arjan Dev’s direction in 1603–4, the tenth Guru now added Guru Tegh Bahadur’s compositions. This volume is acknowledged as the authorized version of the Granth Sahib.

Many scholars, poets and minstrels, some of whom had been with him at Anandpur, made their way to Damdama, and the Guru likened its appeal to Benares (or Kashi), the Hindu centre of learning. Damdama is often referred to as Guru-ki-Kashi. At this time the art of calligraphy there was at its creative best, and before printing techniques took over, copies of the Granth Sahib prepared in this town were much sought after.

But the Guru’s stay at Damdama was coming to an end. Surprisingly, Aurangzeb, instead of being infuriated by the Zafarnamah, had been moved by the Guru’s vigorous and incisive criticism, and by his forthright enunciation of a new ethic during a time of moral confusion. Intrigued by his courage, since most men he dealt with were craven, he invited him to the Deccan for a meeting. And even though many of his followers opposed the idea, Guru Gobind Singh agreed to go. He wanted to get the measure of the man, who was now ninety-one years of age, to see if he could persuade him to adopt a more humane approach to the social and religious turmoil he had helped create. Leaving the tranquillity of Damdama, he set out for the South in October 1706, and was in Rajputana in February 1707 when news of the emperor’s death in Ahmednagar reached him.

In keeping with the unpredictable turn of events in those times, Aurangzeb’s son Prince Muazzam now sought Gobind Singh’s help in his struggle against his brothers for his father’s throne. Unlike his father, Muazzam was considered a liberal. Several years earlier, when Aurangzeb had sent a force under him to discipline Guru Gobind Singh and the hill rajas, he had left the Guru alone. This was not forgotten. And because of it the Guru sent a detachment of Sikhs under Dharam Singh to help Muazzam’s forces against Azam, the principal claimant to the throne. In the battle of Jajau near Agra in June 1707, Azam was killed, his force routed, and Muazzam ascended the throne as Emperor Bahadur Shah.

Guru Gobind Singh and Bahadur Shah first met at Agra in July 1707. It was a cordial meeting, with the emperor extending every courtesy to his visitor, presenting him with a robe of honour and other gifts. That the Guru too was pleased with their exchange of views is obvious from a recently discovered letter written to the sangat at Dhaul, in which he expresses satisfaction at his talks with Bahadur Shah and his hopes of an early return to Punjab. “When we arrive at Kahlur, the entire Khalsa should come to our presence fully armed.” Clearly, he was taking no chances with the deceitful Wazir Khan, though fate willed otherwise, because at this point Bahadur Shah’s other brother, Kambakhsh, revolted in the Deccan and the emperor decided to deal with him personally.

Guru Gobind Singh agreed to accompany Bahadur Shah. He wanted an enduring settlement of Punjab’s troubled situation and saw opportunities for fruitful discussions during the long journey ahead. Indeed, their many conversations did seem to be bringing them closer. But by the time the Mughal and Sikh contingents reached the southern town of Nander in September 1708, it was obvious that the emperor was avoiding issues that most concerned the Sikhs: Wazir Khan’s violently hostile attitude, the sovereign right of the Sikhs to practise their faith and way of life in peace, and an end to the tyrannical ways of Mughal functionaries. The emperor preferred posturing to taking a principled stand on these issues. Seeing the futility of any further discussion with him, the Guru parted company with Bahadur Shah at Nander, where he once again attracted many converts. Because of this Nander would become a major centre of Sikhism in the South.

One of those the Guru converted in Nander was a man then named Madho Dass Bairagi, a sadhu of some standing, with a following of his own. His men and some of the Khalsa had clashed, and Madho Dass’s followers had been trounced. His conversion was a momentous event for Sikhism. Banda Singh would serve the faith with exemplary dedication and valour, and in the process shake the Mughal Empire to its foundations.

Tragedy was now about to strike the peaceful camp at Nander. One evening, as Guru Gobind Singh rested on his bed after evening prayers, he was attacked by two Pathan assassins sent by Wazir Khan who, fearful of his fate if the emperor accepted Guru Gobind Singh’s charges against him, had despatched the two to murder him. Ingratiating themselves into the congregations around the Guru, they had observed his movements for several days until that fateful evening. Though stabbed near the heart, Guru Gobind Singh ran the first assassin through with his sword, while the second was decapitated by his followers. Although the wound healed well, and the Guru recovered from the attempt, he overexerted himself a few days later, the wound reopened, and he died of excessive bleeding soon afterwards.

But before the end, well aware of the chaos that could follow his death and determined to ensure continuity of the faith he had nurtured with such single-minded devotion, he drew on his formidable reserves of inner strength and assembled his followers, directing them to revere the Granth Sahib as their Guru thereafter. The collective wisdom of the saints and savants, and the philosophic vigour of their work, were to be their guide from then on. Whenever decisions of consequence had to be taken, the panjpiyare would take them. “Wherever there are five Sikhs assembled who abide by the Guru’s teachings,” he said to his followers, “know that I am in the midst of them . . . Read the history of your Gurus from the time of Guru Nanak. Henceforth the Guru shall be the Khalsa and the Khalsa the Guru. I have infused my mental and bodily spirit into the Granth Sahib and the Khalsa.”

This far-sighted move reflected a keen awareness of the human psyche’s susceptibility to resentments, envy and conflicting pressures, and the extent to which these could endanger the cohesiveness and vitality of the movement—unless it was held together by an unbreakable bond. And what could be better for the purpose than the sacred scriptures of the Sikhs containing the divine insights of their Gurus? Who could question the logic and authority of men who had had such an impact on their times, who had founded a new faith on the bedrock of their certainties and their suffering? Whilst decisions on day-to-day matters would be taken by elected representatives, the overall framework of personal and ethical conduct would be provided by the Granth Sahib—or Guru Granth Sahib as it would henceforth be known. Guru Gobind Singh’s injunction to all Sikhs has been recited each day ever since after every prayer:

I have established the Khalsa
by God’s command
To all Sikhs,
this then is the commandment:
Accept the Granth as the Guru.
Acknowledge the Guru Granthji
as the visible form of the Gurus.
Those with disciplined minds
will find what they seek in it.

The degree to which the Granth Sahib has since held the faith together is proof of the far-sightedness of the tenth Guru.

It is doubtful if the Sikhs could have survived their trials and tribulations without the spirit of the Khalsa to sustain and power their drive. On 17 October 1708, at the comparatively young age of 42, Guru Gobind Singh died confident that the Khalsa to whom he had given so much, and invested such high hopes, would not let him down. In his words:

The Khalsa is a reflection of my form,
The Khalsa is my body and soul,
The Khalsa is my very life.
For the many battles won, I am indebted to the Khalsa.
Sikhs owe their spirit of compassion to the Khalsa.
The inspiration for my learning came from the Khalsa.
Our enemies were vanquished by the steadfastness of the Khalsa.
Unlike countless others, we are adorned by the Khalsa.

DASAM GRANTH

The life of this exceptional man is a saga of perseverance and perfect poise. Through ceaseless personal tragedies such as few leaders face in their lifetimes, his sense of mission never faltered. The brutal murders of his father and great-grandfather, the killing of his four sons and of countless comrades-in-arms, did not deflect him from opposing rulers who subjected people to moral and physical degradation. While others were petrified of the paramount power, he publicly accused it of perverse conduct. He also handsomely acknowledged that he owed his achievements to the Khalsa’s loyalty. This inspired involvement of the entire community with Sikh destiny was to show extraordinary results as an exultant Khalsa, proud of what it stood for, performed heroic deeds in the years to come.