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A principle in life to remember is to travel light.
You are traveling all the time.
Travel light, live light, spread the light, be the light.
– Yogi Bhajan
Khanaiya
by Guru Fatha Singh Khalsa
[from my book "Five Paragons of Peace: Magic and Magnificence in the Guru's Way"]
The year was 1705. The Guru's contingent had been holed up for months in their Anandpur fort, in the wooded foothills of the Himalayas. Encircled by the armies of the Mughals and their allies, the brave saint-warriors ventured out in little raiding parties at night to ambush their adversaries and take for themselves as much of the enemy's provisions as they could carry.
Each day, the situation became more desperate. The fighting grew more and more intense. The Mughals enjoyed a constant supply of food, medicine and materials of war, while the defenders had less and less.
Under those extreme circumstances, every mouthful, every blanket, every arrow, held a vital significance. Every resource and each effort was measured with the greatest of care. Sometimes, an air of dread seriousness hung over the Guru's fighting men, struggling to keep free, to keep the enemy at bay and themselves alive.
They were a mixed assortment of men. Before joining the Guru's camp, they had been involved in all the fields of life. There were farmers and businessmen, craftsmen and scholars.
As the Guru's men, they had developed a rare camaraderie. Overcoming their differences of caste and region, they were united to a man, dedicated to their new calling, devoted to their Guru and the remarkable life he had given them.
To a man, they lived for the Guru and his mission. Already, many of them had proven their love, sacrificing life and limb on the testing ground of battle. Live or die, they considered themselves the Guru's own, and the Master was generous with his affection.
For all their brotherly spirit, the saint-warriors were also, each of them, fearsome individuals in their own right, willful, daring, not easily contained. Among them, one Khanaiya was an especially regarded, but enigmatic figure. Whenever there was a large clash of arms, he would rove the field among friend and foe, fearless, undaunted, resolute. The Mughals marveled at him.
Many of the great Guru's Sikhs also marveled, but some grumbled. They petitioned the Master, protesting their brother's high-minded tactics.
The Guru's handsome, bearded face was a picture of calm majesty. From a low stool, he presided over this impromptu gathering, his disciples spread around him, respectfully seated at his feet. The Master's body sleek and powerful, his eyes playful and filled with quick intelligence, he sat at ease and scanned the faces of these men who loved him as their father. Most of them wore the badges of their dauntless spirit - bruises here and there, healing wounds casually dressed, missing fingers on the sword hand.
"And who has something to say against Brother Khanaiya? Speak your peace now and let yourself be heard," spoke the Master, his words clear and elegant, supple like a morning breeze.
"With all respect, I have seen Khanaiya Ji wasting our precious water. He goes out with a goatskin of water from our spring and gives it away to everyone he meets. I have never seen anything like it! He gives water to our wounded and to the hated Mughals!
"That's what bothers me! I say let the Mughals die of thirst, if it comes to that. If they are already wounded, then let them die! There are so many thousands of them. We don't need to help their wounded recover so they can rise up and kill us another day. I tell Brother Khanaiya this, but he won't listen!"
Bhai Khanaiya sat motionless, his eyes to the floor, as his accusers leveled their charges against him.
Another of these men, another member of that spiritual brotherhood, confined together under such trying circumstances, raised his voice, "Brother Khanaiya, why do you do it? Don't you understand that they are our enemy? They have come here for no other reason than to kill us, to wipe us out. They would love to finish us all, to put an end to us today. Why do you go and help them? Leave them lie. Just let them die! Let them go to their warrior's paradise. Leave them alone! Don't you go keeping them alive!"
There was truth in what the accusers said. Under the harsh Mughal Emperor, there were many restrictions on people of other faiths, whom he called "infidels", while his own Muslim community, and anyone who would convert, was granted many liberties and privileges. Hundreds of temples had been methodically razed to the ground and mosques erected in their stead. Even moderate Muslims might fear for their lives from the fanatic Emperor and his dreaded enforcers, the tax collectors, the police, the judges and jailers and dealers of death.
The Master remembered well how, when he had been just nine years old, and his father was Guru, a group of Hindu holy men had pleaded that something needed to be done to stop Aurangzeb's bloody campaign of persecution. He had prayed for his father when he left Anandpur to challenge the tyrant Emperor.
It was common knowledge how the Guru had withstood each protracted torture and every silver-sweet temptation. Six months later, a lone disciple returned from the Emperor's capital with a gruesome treasure. Wrapped in simple cloth was the Master's lifeless head, severed by an executioner's sword.
The living Master addressed Khanaiya, nearly his age, "Well, my son, why do you do these things? Will you answer your accusers?"
For once, Khanaiya lifted his face and gave a world-weary look about him. "Master, it is not out of any ill will that I go into the field with my goatskin filled with water. My only intent is to do good, and good takes no sides.
"Those mercenaries we fight each day are not our enemies. They are ordinary men, with wives and families who have taken up a difficult profession. Through our skill, and by the will of the Creator, we have laid a great many of them at death's door.
"I recognize that there are also some who have come with rancor and pride in their hearts, set on doing evil to us, but by the time they have been knocked out of battle, bleeding and crushed by the wayside, they no longer harbor such foolish animosity. They are humble and pure as babes. How can I refuse them water, if they thirst?
"We have shown them our strength and manly courage in battle. After that, I like to show them another side, the gentle, human touch taught by our Guru. When I serve the wounded, whether they cry "Allah" or "Ram", they are so overwhelmed, they think an angel has come and visited them. Tell me, how can I turn my back to these broken, pleading men and call them "enemy"?"
As Khanaiya finished his defense, a breeze lifted away a screen of clouds. At that very moment, the radiant, amber light of sun shone down, drenching everyone in its warmth and brightness, Khanaiya and his accusers and the noble Guru.
The Master smiled at this transparent dispensation of heavenly grace. For a long moment, nothing was said. Only the sun, the breeze, the rolling clouds, frolicked overhead.
"Khanaiya Ji, your intentions are noble, and so long as we have our own spring inside the fort, we should not fear for lack of water. Rather we should fear, in these aggravated circumstances, that we might lose our precious humanity, that thing which alone distinguishes us from quarreling birds and beasts of the wilderness.
"Brother, well you have understood the philosophy of life, the dictum of the saint-soldier. May you remain true to your dispassionate vision! May your brothers take heart in your mission, where you risk the arrows and abuse of both sides, though you serve impartially. Surely there is a little of God in what you do," and the Master smiled mischievously.
"You are treading a high path. May you be blessed to continue in this way. Our love and prayers will always be with you."
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redesign, April 2007
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