Columnists

An Alchemy of The Heart

by MANJYOT KAUR

The other day, I was at a screening of a beautifully-made film on 1984.  It handled these pivotal events of Sikh history with superb sensitivity, deriving much of its impact, in my opinion, from the understated and restrained way it dealt with scenes of wrenching emotion and overwhelming violence.

As I watched a scene in which the title character learns the truth about her origins from her adoptive mother, a searing memory came hurtling across the span of decades into my mind  -  an indelible moment I had once shared with my own mother, of discovering the heritage into which I had been born, and the ways by which I was personally connected to it.

I was seven or eight years old at the time, and had spent the day at a family gathering.  During the course of the afternoon, while being held on the lap of my great-uncle, I noticed a crudely-inked tattoo on his forearm  -  not a colorful and imaginative drawing, just some black numbers.  

When told by him, in response to my childish query, that he got them "in a camp", I fearfully confided my worries to my mother when we returned home, as to whether I, too, would be forced to get such an ugly mark on my own arm when I went off to camp that summer.

Her explanation to me that evening, as to the difference between Uncle Milan's "camp" and the one I would be going to, while naturally geared to a child's limited understanding, was the beginning of my discovery of the Nazi Holocaust.  

Uncle Milan once had a daughter my age, she explained; maybe that's why he seemed to be so fond of my long, beribboned braids.  She had been killed, together with her mother and brother, in the "camp" that Uncle Milan had mentioned, for no other reason than being Jewish.  As I grew up, I learned that many of our relatives bore such tattoos; numerous branches of our family tree had been truncated by the Nazi juggernaut.

Forty years (and countless experiences) later, sitting in that theatre, I wondered  -  is there an alchemy of the heart?  Can Amrit mysteriously transmute to blood?  Have I, as the Panj Piare told me, really been reborn in Kesgarh Sahib?  

I, for one, believe such things are truly possible.  As a non-Punjabi Sikh, whose first visit to the birthplace of my chosen faith is still a tantalizing dream, I can, nonetheless, sense the ties that have materialized. They do not seem at all superficial or ephemeral to me, but firm and real.

In the audience, amongst fellow Sikhs, watching the masterfully-crafted drama play out, I was constantly conscious of being filled with intense feelings of connection.  Over and over, I acknowledged to myself:  "This is my history now.  This is my heritage. These are my people."  

And, as I heard the muffled gasps and barely-repressed sobs all around me, I welcomed the lump in my own throat and the tears welling up in my eyes, and silently gave thanks for the linkage  -  solid and permanent  -  that I have been graced by the Guru to legitimately claim.

I have been blessed with many such realizations of "spiritual siblinghood".  A few, like this one, have come in a theatre, while viewing powerfully-moving films about 1984, Partition, or other major episodes of Sikh history through the centuries.

Some have transpired in the course of discussing various events with people whose families experienced them first-hand. Others happen during solitary reading and study, activities that, for me, always seem imbued with the urgent desire to "make up for lost time".

Then there are those instants of utter mundanity: two arms, kara-to-kara, gripping a crowded subway pole, a nod and a smile exchanged.

Whether they are unforgettable epiphanies or fleeting moments, all have an amazing potency, fueled by the joys of sharing and belonging.  All are replete with the Guru's Grace.

[Images on this page:  Top of the page  -  Poster by Stephen Morris. Bottom, Cartoon strip  -  by Wiley.]

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