Yes, this is Prof. Puran Singh's 3 volume meditational expression reflected onto paper of his experience with Sikhi - written between 1927 and 1930. The forward to Part I eloquently describes:
Spirit of the Sikh, as its title would indicate, is the author's expression of devotional passion arising out of the teachings of the holy Gurus, the religious history of Sikhism and his understanding of the ideals underlying the practice of Sikh faith.....
As the theme of Spirit of the Sikh is the expression of fervent devotion to the holy Gurus in lyrical outbursts in prose charged with deep emotion, it time and again becomes fragments of prose poems.....
I just read
Otpreka Singh's blog in which he shared a modern westerner's view of saint-warrior. Then I remembered a piece from
Spirit of the Sikh. I had glanced at this poem/prose-poem of Prof. Puran Singh a while ago. Something in it had stuck with me. Maybe it was:
"I am born of the flash of the Sword. And my speech is thunder; I do not compromise with darkness, I tear its belly with my rapiers of lightning;"
Or then again, maybe it was:
Put a sword in the belt of the Sikh youth,
And give him the draught stirred with the Guru's dagger,
And let his soul shine as sharp as the edge of lightning.
And he should stand up alone in the universe to match the
strength of his arms with the arms of the Sun.
But anyway, I thought I should type out the poem in its entirety. His words are fascinating. In almost all his writing he includes
bani, tavarikh, and
rahat (scripture, history and discipline). And as some of you know I always insist that in order to understand
gurmat it is imperitive to do a multi-dimensional analysis of the subject from these three angles (
bani, tavarikh, and
rahat).
Enjoy and Carhdi Kala!
---------------
The Song of the AkaliBy The Swordsman that goes before the Sun
I am God's Temple,
Brother of the Way! Let me kiss
Your feet, let me rub on
my forehead the dust
of your path.
Over us is God, Brother! Over us is He:
Are you thirsty?
I shall run to the well, throw the bucket in, slipping a long hemp line with
speed and draw it up full of water for you;
I shall bring you the draught, sweet and cool to refresh your soul by my
humble love-perfumed service;
You shall drink and rest and lie quiet under the shade of a road-side tree;
I shall massage your tired limbs, and kiss you in my soul as you sleep by the roadside!
Over us is God, Brother! Over us is He.
* * * * *
Are you hungry?
I have a handmil, to grind for you wheat, I will knead the flour,
and bake it into bread for you.
There is plenty, Brother, there is plenty.
Are you naked?
My mother and sister and wife have gathered the cotton of Punjab,
they ginned it and spun it and wove this yarn of love into cloth for you.
Wear them and be glad.
They were made for you!
There is Guru's Plenty, Brother, Plenty!
* * * * *
The fingers of the Sikh man and woman work --
Work work, work ceaselessly.
We create wealth, it is the product of our labour in the love of the Guru's commonwealth.
And know, all is added unto us.
There is Guru's Plenty, Brother, Plenty!
* * * * *
I am of the Country of Man,
I was born in the Heart of Man,
This is my native land!
Come Brother of the way, come;
I am on way to Hari Mandir.
I see you are the Temple yourself.
O Disciple of the Guru!
What golden domes resound in you!
I hear the song of eternal comradeship in you.
Who are you? I feel you are a brother to me, born of the same
mother, that have met me after an age-long separation!
* * * * *
Come, Brother, come.
Do not be fettered here with mere dreams;
there yonder is the Hari Mandir, around which the blue lakes of nectar wave
day and night;
There is the song of the Guru! whose echoes are in me.
Come, Brother! come.
I am on way to the Golden Temple.
* * * * *
"I see the nectarean lakes in your eyes,
You are the music of fellowship."
I see the light of God on your face.
Slacken your pace,
Let me behold you,
Be with me for a while, O strangest of strange Men!
Good-bye. Remember me when you get weary of collecting
poppies and staining your hands with their blood.
Remember me! I am of the City of Joy.
My name is -- "Blessed be Guru Gobind Singh".
All other names are illusions, conventions, self-deceptions.
Remember this one Hymn--the Name has in it the secret of life.
This is a star burning day and night in my eyes.
Look at the star,
Follow the gleam.
And passion, O brother of the Way.
Life is a glorious passing away.
I am born of the flash of the Sword.
And my speech is thunder;
I do not compromise with darkness, I tear its belly with my rapiers of lightning;
Terrible is the sight of the dazzling tangle of the flashes of my
rapless, striking right and left and destroying.
You are not born of steel?
No!!
The sheen of steel is of the colour of the soul.
And lighting of the Sword-flash is of the gleam Unknown.
* * * * *
Only little birds quiver, their eyes are dazzled and they hide in
their nests when the sword-like moves on the face of the
restless blades of lightning;
But I tell you the smiting scimitar has in it the white sparkle of
the bow of God.
Put a sword in the belt of the Sikh youth,
And give him the draught stirred with the Guru's dagger,
And let his soul shine as sharp as the edge of lightning.
And he should stand up alone in the universe to match the
strength of his arms with the arms of the Sun.
* * * * *
We fell as a rain of Kirpan-flashes on the ghosts of darkness;
Do you remember when the invaders from the North came and
laid chains on the tender wrists of hundreds of Hindu
Punjabi wives and daughters and marched them as
bondwomen bound for Kabul?
When on the banks of the Chenab the miscreants met the Sword-
Tempest of the Khalsa, and the seperated birdmates were
rescued from the claws of the birds of prey, and they met
again, those from whom they had been cruelly separated!
* * * * *
This life is a theatre of war,
And I am strangely excited when singing war-songs,
And when I die, there too I fight my way through a host of black
ghosts yonder to the shining ones;
As long as a single man has the way of the ferocious tiger and
the wolf in him still unforgot, I cannot lay down my Kirpan,
nor unstring my bow.
God is a little child and I have to fight saving Him from all
harm that comes from these tigers (who) prowl on the earth in
the guise of men.
I do not sleep and dream when I am on the battlements,
And when I die, I die to save my God who is a little child.
* * * * *
