The anticipation was not without reason. Surrounding the main building are series of plaques that explain the rich history of the shrine, the people, the construction and the sacrifices entailed to make it a reality. Surprisingly it stirred a feeling of awe, respect and a hint of pride.
Was I experiencing my first sense of belonging?
The thought ran through my mind as I stood at the main door; a few steps separating me and the haloed shrine that housed the holy book. In any other place, the sheen and the tapestry of the sequined cloth that covered the Granth and the huge overhead canopy would have looked loud and gaudy. But it seemed befitting here, adding that required touch of old world mystique you stepped into the moment you crossed the threshold.

The praying area was surprisingly small compared to what I expected. Two spiral staircases on each side leading to the terrace; deliberately open on all four sides to signal openness to all faiths (Hindu temples in those days were strict about who they let into their premises). The first level had the original Granth written by the gurus more than five centuries ago. The pages that held the learnings of the great sages were fragile and yellow with age but held together by the wonder chemicals of the modern era, much like the fabric of the society we live in.
Surprisingly my trigger happy fingers were content to be joined in prayer rather than give in to the urge of capturing the historic manuscript in my lens, lest such an act defile the sanctity of the moment. I was surprised to find myself thinking like this, these were voluntary feelings of restrain and respect that I had not experienced in a long time.
Outwardly I was feeling peaceful and calm. Maybe it was the soothing voice of the 'shabads' the 'raagis' were singing or the sheer joy of time travel that allowed me to touch and feel the centuries of the yore as I ran my fingers over the carvings on the wall while ascending the spiral staircase. But internally I felt the familiar void whenever I tried reaching for what my father called the ‘Vaheguru’ within us. Why was I not able to just close my eyes and give myself up completely like the rest of the people sitting there with that sincere and serenelook you see on the faces of those in complete surrender?

At the entrance to the the clock tower building that houses a museum on the Sikh religion. I chanced upon it while taking photographs from entrance of the clock tower which provides perhaps the best frontal view of the temple and its surroundings. As soon as I saw the board I knew it was the place that would perhaps provide me some of the answers I was looking for.
Seating my mother near the clock tower building I decided to visit the museum. A narrow dark stairway led me to a dimly lit entrance that had a placard nailed on the top
It was not as grand as I had imagined it to be, but maybe visits to museums in some European countries had pre conditioned me. Deciding to put all my biased opinions aside I pushed the swinging doors and stepped into a large room with a high ceiling. The room had large windows letting in angular rays of the sun that bounced off the paintings and artifacts that lined the walls on either side. There was no particular chronological order to the paintings that would help the visitors understand the evolution of the religion and no guides, so I started randomly on my own.
Slowly but surely a pattern of history started emerging, detailing the deeds of a breed of brave and fearless men and how they resisted the onslaught of the maraudering Mughal armies. Paintings depicting feats of impossible valor were brought to life by local artists, one of them being that of a warrior chief jumping from the ramparts of a fort while saddled on his horse escaping from the clutches of his enemy. These were followed by the paintings of the saints like Guru Nanak and their teachings, saints who taught the language of love and the way to the right path.
Down the ages the Sikh faith came across a tolerant and lenient system that absorbed anyone who wanted to find spiritual realization through the path of knowledge, awareness and hard work with a deep-rooted belief in the equality of all. It came across as a loosely defined, not a formalized recognized community that lost its spiritual leaders regularly to some very gory tortures at the hands of the Mughals. The saints led by example that were by and large sacrificial and selfless in nature. That led me to wonder why and how we acquired the aggressive, brave and fearless tag that others perceive us to wear with pride.
The answer came in the form of guru Gobind, the tenth guru of the Sikhs. In the first painting of Gobind was a scene where his father’s head was placed on a tray and sent to him from the battlefield. How’s that for starters? At the tender age of ten he was appointed guru with the burden of leading the community placed on his young albeit determined shoulders. Young Gobind’s initiation into life was triggered by a rather violent episode that perhaps laid the foundation of a leader who was to be the first poet warrior.
The script writer in me started imagining this scene as a great opening to a movie on his life. Visions of a sparkling marquee danced before my eyes with the poster of ‘Gobind - the great poet warrior’. Gobind was scholarly and well versed with the work of the gurus and his contribution to the holy Granth is considerable. After that moment I started viewing the paintings as scenes from the movie...and what dramatic scenes they turned out to be - the formation of the religion to protect the Hindus from the Mughals, people carrying heads of murdered Sikhs on the tips of their spears to claim the gold coins promised by the Mughal emperor for each head, mothers being forced to wear bones of their dead children around their necks, Sikhs being boiled alive in cauldrons because they refused to convert, the guru sacrificing all his four young sons in battle, fighting hundreds and thousands with a handful of battle weary faithful…phew this was a sure-shot Hollywood scale production…a winner all the way. Now only if I could rope in Spielberg
By the time I reached the last room I had touched and felt the handguns and muskets used in the battlefield, seen bows and arrows exhibited in glass showcases, read about the significance of the five symbols of the religion we wear everyday and understood why we worship the holy book instead of deities. I saw gurus being appointed and murdered, soldiers fighting against all odds fully aware of their fate before going into the battle. I saw their resilience, their hopes and above all I felt their unshakable faith
As I walked down the stairway I could not shake away the images. It was as if I could feel the collective pain of the thousands of people who had endured extreme hardships and paid the ultimate price for placing their convictions above everything else. Convictions that ultimately delivered a religion which is the youngest in history, a religion that believed in including others than excluding, preached and practiced equality for all. It felt like coming out of a cinema hall after a good movie that stays with you long after the credits have rolled by.
I had witnessed a violent and gory journey through the times that defined the raison d’ętre of the religion I was born into. I knew what I had seen and felt was just the surface. True understanding would come only by exploring the vast depths of the ocean that I may come back to explore some other day, maybe another lifetime.
It was like someone had dug the ground and the roots, the source that I had been seeking all along lay open in front of me; without any pretensions of being accepted or rejected and without any prejudice of human interpretations.