The recent death of a young Delhi boy who was run over by a careless bus driver was terrible to even think about. He was a good, bright, clean-hearted kid, says everyone who knew him. He was sixteen, but still with the bloom of innocence, not one of those over-smart “chaalu” city kids one encounters all too often. One of the most heartrending moments at the prayer meeting was when his parents hugged his young friends, one by one, as they filed past on their way out. A number of these little boys were Sikhs. I found a curious link with the child. A Tamilian like I, apparently he used to love hanging out at the same gurdwara that I like visiting — and he loved the karah prasad. His Sikh friends, like mine, used to tease him that he would become one some day. In fact, they’re organising another prayer meeting for him at their gurdwara. From the troubled faces of the people gathered at the prayer meeting, it was obvious that a great well of remembered grief was churned up. Everyone carries emotional baggage and sudden, senseless deaths like this, especially of a young child full of hope and promise, triggers awful feelings of rage at Fate for its unfairness. As we trickled out I’m sure all of us were praying that the family, whose life is now changed forever, should be blessed with strength. A child’s pain, its loss, will never stop hurting. It is a fierce and merciless pain like no other and one wouldn’t wish it on one’s worst enemy. The sanatani mandir where the prayer meeting was held is right next to this very gurdwara. I saw my old granthi at the meeting, nodding sadly next to the local UP-wala panditji and the Tamil archaks from the Kamakshi Amman temple in Delhi. Staring up at the bright, alluring kesar of the Nishaan Sahib (the gurdwara’s flagpole), I found myself remembering Dhanna Bhagat. It seems Dhanna (1415-1475 CE) was born into a poor family of Jat peasants in the Tonk region of Rajasthan, near Jaipur. Three of his hymns are included in Sikh scripture. I got this Dhanna story at age sixteen from Mrs Bahl, a kind auntie from my youth: One day, Dhanna Bhakt, or Bhagat, had finished harvesting his fields. He began counting the sacks of grain so that he could load his cart and take it to the market. Starting from ‘Ek’ he got as far as ‘Baarah’ (twelve). When he got to ‘Terah’ which means both ‘thirteen’ and ‘yours’, his soul opened suddenly to the Mystery. “Terah! Terah!” he kept saying, sack after sack, and even when he ran out of sacks, he exclaimed “Yours! Yours!” in a trance, to God. Everything belongs to God, I guess: who gives and takes away.
