Mehtab Singh

yea thats another amazing 1...its there in an old Hindi movie...good one...

Waheguru ji ka Khalsa Waheguru ji ki Fateh Here is an Urdu composition I heard as a kid. I don’t know who composed it, but I have had it memorized in my head for years. Just wanted to share it. Please forgive any shortcomings in the translation. Thanks for reading

many many happy returns of the day sis may Gurujee bless u with the best always

i been seeing it on aaj tak and sahara news totally messed up punjab police cops, so called sikhs beating up little 8 yr old girls disgusting

Reminds me of a sakhi. Long ago I read in a book a story about Sri Chaitanya Mahaprabhu, a very devoted bhagat of Bhagwan Shri Krishn, and who was from West Bengal. Once someone came to him and complained to him about one of the saints in their group who would hold his tongue while relieving himself. When asked as to why he did so, he said "My tongue can't stop doing simran, and so I don't feel right when it continues doing simran while I $h!t, so I just hold it so that it stops, and still it doesn't!" Personally, I feel that blessed are such bhagats whose tongues do not stop doing simran NO MATTER WHAT!!!

i m juz wondering if Pir Budhu Shah was a Shia Pathaan? what other examples in history do we have of Sikhs having friendly relations with Shia Muslims? i do remember reading there was some scuffle once in Amritsar during the rule of Maharaja Ranjit Singh, but what about relations during the times of the Gurus?

Today, upon a bus, I saw a girl with golden hair. and wished I was as fair. When suddenly she rose to leave, I saw her hobble down the aisle. She had one leg and wore a crutch. But as she passed, a smile. Hey Waheguruji, forgive me when I whine. I have 2 legs, the world is mine. I stopped to buy some candy. The lad who sold it had such charm. I talked with him, he seemed so glad. If I were late, it'd do no harm. And as I left, he said to me, "I thank you, you've been so kind. It's nice to talk with folks like you. You see," he said, "I'm blind." Hey Waheguruji, forgive me when I whine. I have 2 eyes, the world is mine. Later while walking down the street, I saw a child with eyes of blue. He stood and watched the others play. He did not know what to do. I stopped a moment and then I said, "Why don't you join the others, dear?" He looked ahead without a word. And then I knew, he couldn't hear. Hey Waheguruji, forgive me when I whine. I have 2 ears, the world is mine. With feet to take me where I'd go. With eyes to see the sunset's glow. With ears to hear what I'd know. Hey Waheguruji, forgive me when I whine. I've been blessed indeed, the world is mine

http://www.khaleejtimes.com/DisplayArticle...pinion&col= The long wait for justice BY PRAFUL BIDWAI 14 August 2005 NEVER before had independent India witnessed anything like what happened on October 31, 1984: the first assassination of its Prime Minister by two members of a religious minority, and the wreaking of organised ‘revenge’ against the entire Sikh community which was held collectively responsible for their action in violation of all rationality and ethics. The violence was considerably worse than Kristallnacht, the infamous smashing and torching of Jewish homes and shops in Germany, following the assassination of a German diplomat in Paris by a Jew in 1938. Less than 100 people died in Kristallnacht. By November 3,000 Sikhs had been butchered. Delhi witnessed demonic brutality. This writer had just flown from Bombay that morning and saw it from a vantage point. Malicious rumours flew thick and fast about how ‘thousands of Sikhs’ had celebrated the assassination: "They will be taught a lesson". By the evening, systematic killing and arson began at the behest of Congress leaders, who mobilised mobs crying for ‘blood’. Vehicles were stopped to check the passengers’ identity. Soon, Sikh truckers were ‘necklaced’. Lorry-tyres containing kerosene were hung around their necks. They were burnt alive. Officially, 2,733 people were killed, unofficially, perhaps 4,000. Twenty-one years and nine inquiry commissions later, the perpetrators of the carnage haven’t been brought to book. Not one politician or policeman stands convicted. Only 13 people of the thousands who killed, raped and burned, have been held guilty. The Nanavati Commission, appointed by the National Democratic Alliance five years ago, had raised hopes that the perpetrators of the violence, especially its plotters, would be brought to book and adequate corrective action would be taken. Most such hopes lie belied, especially with the Action Taken Report of the Manmohan Singh government. After the fractious debate that followed, the government partially retreated from its cynical stand on the issue. The retreat conforms to a pattern — whether on the Employment Guarantee Act, the swearing-in of Shibu Soren in Jharkhand, BHEL disinvestment, the Pension Bill, or ‘the withdrawal tax’ proposal. However, there is a much deeper significance to the government’s changed stance on the Delhi pogrom, reflected in Manmohan Singh’s public apology and in Jagdish Tytler and Sajjan Kumar’s resignations. If the UPA lives up to its promise of pursuing every individual named credibly as an accused by the Commission and its predecessors, it will gain in stature. This will raise hopes in Gujarat that the ordeals of the victims of independent India’s worst state-sponsored carnage might end. If the UPA fails, it will spread cynicism and despair all over. How good is the Nanavati report? It is an inconsistent, slipshod and remarkably unconvincing document. It holds that the violence was ‘systematic and organised’, and it enjoyed ‘the backing and help of influential and resourceful persons’. But it fails to make causal connections between disparate events and fix culpability. It doesn’t identify these ‘influential’ persons and precisely how, by what means, the carnage was organised. Nanavati accuses the police of ‘a colossal’ law-and-order failure and ‘collusion’ and ‘ineffectiveness’ in stopping the looting and killing. But it recommends no action against any policeman. This despite the fact that an earlier official committee (Kapoor-Mittal) had indicted 72 police officials for negligence or active connivance with violence. Nanavati found the Delhi authorities collectively guilty, but individually innocent — a contradiction! He also held that top officials, including Lt-Governor P G Gavai and Police Commissioner S C Tandon, shouldn’t be prosecuted because they have retired. This makes no sense. All officers are liable for actions committed while they held their office. It is not contested that Gavai ordered Tandon to call in the army in the morning of November 1. However, the army effectively arrived on November 3, by which time hundreds had been killed. Gavai says Tandon was negligent and Home Minister Narasimha Rao ‘hid like a rat’. There was no political will to stop the violence, and later, to punish its perpetrators. Nanavati is unable to weave this into chains of causality. His report thus marks another low in the level of quality and integrity of official inquiries into communal violence. In the 1970s and much of the 1980s, inquiry commissions produced high-quality reports — e.g. Jaganmohan Reddy on Ahmedabad (1969), D P Madan on Bhiwandi (1970), Vithayathil on Tellicherry (1971), the Jitendra Narain on Jamshedpur (1979); and Venugopal on Kanyakumari (1982). More recently, the Srikrishna commission on the Bombay violence of 1993 produced a splendid report. But many recent commissions — e.g. into the Bhagalpur and Meerut violence or the Malegaon riots and the killing of Graham Staines (Wadhwa Commission) are poor in quality. Nanavati’s report is closer to this second category. Even so, it provides a basis for prosecuting a number of people against whom ‘credible evidence’ exists, including Jagdish Tytler, HKL Bhagat, Sajjan Kumar, Dharam Das Shastri, etc. That’s where the UPA showed the greatest timidity. It refused to follow on Nanavati’s reconstruction of individual cases. It originally interpreted ‘credible’ evidence to mean ‘probabilistic’ evidence. But all criminal cases are registered on probabilistic evidence! Only conviction needs conclusive proof. Mercifully, the UPA has corrected course under pressure from friendly parties, especially the Left. It has promised to reopen cases against those named by Nanavati and to pay compensation to the victims. This is welcome, not good enough. Previous commissions too have named others. They all must be formally charge-sheeted and tried in special fast-track courts. The commission’s reports and the hundreds of affidavits of eyewitnesses contain enough material for framing charges. The victims have — indeed the nation has — waited for two decades. At stake is not just justice, but the state’s responsibility to defend the citizen’s fundamental right to life against communal depredations. No state that fails to defend this can be democratic. What is also at stake is the future of the victims of the Gujarat carnage. The Delhi case can set negative or positive precedents for Gujarat. It’s vitally important that the precedent is positive and the message rings out that there will be no impunity for crimes against humanity in India. Praful Bidwai is a veteran Indian journalist and commentator http://www.khaleejtimes.com/DisplayArticle...pinion&col= 72 hours, 21 years BY SHEKHAR GUPTA 17 August 2005 I SUSPECT each one of us who covered the anti-Sikh riots as reporters in November 1984 has a persistent nightmare. Some still wake up in cold sweat as images of half-burnt bodies in Trilokpuri appear again and again. Some cannot shake of the image of helpless widows, their men and children killed, their houses burnt, pleading for help from a police that only looked the other way. I have a couple of mine, too. One is of defiance. A group of Sikh taxi drivers outside Imperial Hotel on Janpath decided to protect themselves as the state had chosen to abdicate all responsibility. They picked up chains, sticks, iron-rods, just stones and decided to take on the mobs. On the afternoon of November 2, I was with a small group of reporters that witnessed this remarkable incident. A mob of several hundred would converge on the taxi stand shouting the by-now-familiar slogan: khoon ka badla khoon, Indiraji hum sharminda hain, tere qatil zinda hain (blood for blood, Indira we are ashamed, your killers are alive). But the small group of taxi drivers, instead of fleeing, challenged them with what looked like a whole motor workshop converted into an armoury. A dozen assaults were mounted, each was beaten back and soon enough many helpless bystanders, including us reporters, were cheering. All it took were a few brave men to keep at bay a mob of the kind that was looting, pillaging and killing in many parts of the city, unquestioned, unchallenged and often helped by a police force that looked more complicit than even Modi’s in Gujarat, 2001. In Gujarat at least the police opened fire several times. Here you found Delhi policemen openly talk of the need to teach the Sikhs a lesson. My other nightmare is a beautiful house at the corner of Chiragh Dilli and Panchsheel Park, next to where the flyover came up later. The house burnt furiously as perhaps no other, even in those three days of arson. There was no provocation, just that word had spread that it was owned by a Sikh family. The family, fortunately, escaped the mob. But the looted house, set on fire, lit the night brutally in what you thought was safe, upper crust South Delhi. I remember that burning house, the towering column of smoke that dominated an already blackening sky, as I drove past it on my Enfield one afternoon, riding the pillion behind me two neighbours — India Today colleagues, one of them expecting her first child soon, as we were expecting our second. Both our boys are twenty now, and final year college students. They represent a whole new generation of Indians born after that dreadful tragedy which has already voted in one state and one national election. But those that suffered in those 72 hours of hell are still awaiting justice. Those that were responsible for it have still escaped the supposed long arm of justice, or retribution. That burning house is my most persistent nightmare. It was never rebuilt. It was believed the owners sold it and migrated to Punjab. Partition, in fact, was the dominant metaphor in the rumour mill. Your next-door neighbour would tell you of trains loaded with Hindu bodies coming in from Punjab. There was talk of mass rape and mutilation of women. Then you asked a few questions on the source of the rumour and the answer usually was, "I didn’t see, but my brother saw a train, or probably my brother’s friend’s neighbour". There was no truth in any of them. No such thing even happened. And to tell the truth, even the most vicious rumours never succeeded in turning Hindus against their Sikh neighbours. Ordinary people like us ignored all rumours and maintained peace. Even when Delhi Police joined the rumour business by giving currency to wild rumours that Sikh militant had poisoned water supplies. In many areas we saw police vans making announcements asking people to avoid municipal water that may have been poisoned. These were no communal riots of the kind you often see, or saw in Gujarat, where neighbours turn on neighbours. In every locality, the killer mobs came from elsewhere. Somebody had got them together, told them where to go and target the Sikhs. Most important, they were promised the police won’t interfere. And that was a promise Delhi Police kept for a good 72 hours. I remember driving around Govindpuri on my motorbike, skirting burning bodies, a hundred fires, big and small, raging around the place, and at the local police station they told you nothing had happened, nobody had died, everything was in control. Or the odd policeman would chide you. What’s wrong with you presswallas? Are you Khalistani sympathisers? Reporters like me had limitations in terms of how extensively one could document all this because I then worked for a fortnightly (India Today). But several newspaper reporters, notably Rahul Bedi, Sanjay Suri and Joseph Maliakan of the Indian Express, did stellar and courageous work tracking and documenting this, day after day. Without their contribution, so many inquiries and commissions would have failed to name even these few names. The points that intrigued me for a long time afterwards were, if mobs had all come from elsewhere, who were these people? Who got them together, and what was in it for them? Finally, how did the killings stop abruptly? It was clear soon enough that the mobs comprised mostly jobless lumpens, collected by political mafiosi on the promise of easy loot and pillage. The killing, however, stopped all of a sudden the moment a few army APCs appeared. No mobs fought with the army, there was very little firing. Just the message that the army was out and police protection no longer available now, and the mobs lost their will. It was not like the Partition, or even Gujarat, 17 years later. This was not the case of a community turning on another in blind fury, willing to face bullets, lathis, anything. This was ‘good-time’ mobs who melted away the moment they saw some challenge. That is why those of us who covered the riots, and many more who carried out relief or citizens’ investigations, believe that what we saw over those murderous 72 hours were not Hindu-Sikh riots but Congress-Sikh riots. Or, rather, Delhi Congress-Sikh riots. Too many small time Congress politicians, who had built their careers organising crowds for Sanjay and then Indira Gandhi, decided revenge was naturally expected of them. If there is one thing that has emerged with the Nanavati Report and its aftermath, it is that political parties have to accept their past will continue to come back and haunt them. They cannot, as in the past, use brute force to sweep all questions under the debris. The Congress is not the only party to have done so. If Advani and Vajpayee, after making such solemn speeches last week, recall what their own party did with the Srikrishna Commission in the Bombay riots of 1992, they will be ashamed too. And, hopefully, they will remember that when Justice Nanavati delivers his findings on Gujarat, 2001. Shekhar Gupta is editor-in-chief of Indian Express and can be reached at sg@expressindia.com

http://www.khaleejtimes.com/DisplayArticle...tinent&col= Three Sikhs forced to cut hair in Malaysia (PTI) 18 August 2005 NEW DELHI — Eighteen Indian workers from Punjab were reportedly subjected to humiliation by their employer in Malaysia who allegedly forced three of the Sikh workers to cut their hair and forbade them from wearing turban, the Lok Sabha was informed yesterday. The workers escaped from further abuse of the employer and took shelter in a gurdwara in August last year, Minister of State for External Affairs E. Ahamed said in a written reply, adding 11 of them have since returned to India. The 18 workers had been recruited by a company 'JUJU Power Sdn Bhd' and had reached Malaysia in April last year, he said adding they were subsequently sub-contracted to another company 'PSEB Electronics Sdn Bhd'.

Thanks to those amazing college bus drivers here, I've had near death experiences at a daily basis for around half an year now

I second that. Here there is a Gurdwara in Dubai managed mostly by Taksali Singhs. I heard that Pathaans do sewa there. Even the Arab cops (who visit if there is some panga...lol) take off their shoes and caps, cover their head with a rumaal and then enter. On the level of common man who just wants to live in peace and happiness, I don't think there is any animosity between followers of any religion. Its only when fanatic haters start spitting venomous words that we develop scars, and those scars lead us to contracting that contagious disease of hatred as well.

check the news for more

atleast finish 100 posts babbeyo oh and did u say middle east? where u gonna come in the middle east? :twisted:

yup those are really amazing ones

they call me "Rabbi Shergill" in college...say i m his lookalike ...at times some random ppl started singing the song when i was around... ...but i'd prefer to be called rabbi shergill rather than daler mehndi :evil:

http://www.sikh-history.com/literature/stories/sardarji.html Written in Urdu by Khwaja Ahmad Abbas ji Translated by Sardar Khushwant Singh ji published in an excellent book named Land of five rivers Sardarji[/font:a90c8a8829] MY NAME IS SHAIKH Burhanuddin. When violence and murder became the order of the day in Delhi and the blood of Muslims flowed in the streets, I cursed my fate for having a Sikh for a neighbour. Far from expecting him to come to my rescue in times of trouble, as a good neighbour should, I could not tell when he would thrust his kirpan into my belly. The truth is that till then I used to find the Sikhs somewhat laughable. But I also disliked them and was somewhat scared of them. My hatred for the Sikhs began on the day when I first set my eyes on one. I could not have been more than six years old when I saw a Sikh sitting out in the sun combing his long hair. Look as I yelled with revulsion, a woman with a long beard!" As I got older this dislike developed into hatred for the entire race. It was a custom amongst old women of our household to heap all afflictions on our enemies. Thus for example if a child got pneumonia or broke its leg, they would say a long time ago a Sikh, (or an Englishman), got pneumonia: or a long time ago a Sikh, (or an Englishman), broke his leg". When I was older I discovered that this referred to the year 1857 when the Sikh princes helped the feranghee— foreigner—to defeat the Hindus and Muslims in the war of independence. I do not wish to propound a historical thesis but to explain the obsession, the suspicion and hatred which I bore towards the English and the Sikhs. I was more frightened of the English than of the Sikhs. When I was ten years old, I happened to be travelling from Delhi to Aligarh. I used to travel third class, or at the most in the intermediate class. That day I said to myself, Let me for once travel second class and see what it feels like" I bought my ticket and I found an empty second class Compartment I jumped on the well-sprung seats; I went into the bathroom and leapt up to see my face in the mirror; I switched on all the fans. I played with the light switches. There were only a couple of minutes for the train to leave when four red-faced tommies burst into the compartment, mouthing obscenities: everything was either a bloody or a damn. I had one look at them and my desire to travel second class vanished. I picked up my suitcase and ran out. I only stopped for breath when I got into a third class compartment crammed With natives, But as luck would have it it was full of Sikhs-their beards hanging down to their navels and dressed in nothing more than their underpants. I could not escape from them. but I kept my distance. Although I feared the white man more than the Sikhs, I felt that he was more civilized. he wore the same kind of clothes as I. I also wanted to be able to say a damn", 'bloody fool -the way he did. And like him I wanted to belong to be a ruling class. The Englishman ate his food with forks and knives I also wanted to learn to eat with forks and knives so that natives would look upon me as advanced and as civilised as the whiteman. My Sikh-phobia was of different kind. I had contempt for the Sikh. I was amazed at the stupidity of men who imitated women and grew their hair long. I must confess I did not like my hair cut too short; despite my father's instructions to the contrary, I did not allow the barber to clip off more than a little when I went to him on Fridays. I grew a mop of hair so that when I played hockey or football it would blow about in the breeze like those of English sportsmen. My father often asked me "Why do you let your hair grow like a woman's?" My father had primitive ideas and I took no notice of his views. If he had had his way he would have had all heads razored bald, and stuck artificial beards on people's chins. That reminds me that the second reason for hating the Sikhs was their beards which made them look like savages. There are beards and beards. There was my father's beard, neatly, trimmed in the French style, or my uncle's which went into a sharp point under his chin. But what could you do with a beard to which no scissors was ever applied and which was allowed to grow like a wild bush fed with a compost of oil, curd and goodness knows what And, after it had grown a few feet, combed like hair on a woman's head: My grandfather also had a very long beard which he combed, but then my grandfather was my grandfather and a Sikh is just a Sikh. After I had passed my matriculation examination I was sent to the Muslim University at Aligarh. We boys who came from Delhi, or the United Provinces, looked down upon boys from the Punjab; they were crude rustics who did not know how to converse, how to behave at table, or to deport themselves in polite company. All they could do was drink large tumblers of buttermilk. Delicacies such as vermicelli with essence of kewra sprinkled on it, or the aroma of Lipton's tea was alien to them. Their language was unsophisticated to the extreme, whenever they spoke to each other it seemed as if they were quarreling. It was full of Aussi, tussi, saadey, twhaaday",—Heaven forbid" I kept my distance from the Punjabis. But the warden of our hostel, (God forgive him), gave me a Punjabi as a room mate. When I realised that there was no escape, I decided to make the best of a bad bargain and be civil to the chap. After a few days we became quite friendly. This man was called Ghulam Rasul and he was from Rawalpindi. He was full of amusing anecdotes and was a good companion. You might well ask how Mr. Ghulam Rasul gate-crashed into a story about the Sikhs. The fact of the matter is that Ghulam Rasul's anecdotes were usually about the Sikhs. It is through these anecdotes that I got to know the racial characteristics, the habits and customs of this strange community. According to Ghulam Rasul the chief characteristics of the Sikhs were the following: All Sikhs were stupid and idiotic. At noon-time they lost their senses altogether. There were many instances to prove this. For example, one day at 12 o'clock noon, a Sikh was cycling along Hall Bazaar in Amritsar when a constable, also a Sikh, stopped him and demanded, Where is your light?" The cyclist replied nervously, ~Jemadar sahib, I lit it when I left my home; it must have gone out just now". The constable threatened to run him in. A passer-by, yet another Sikh with a long white beard, intervened brothers, there is no point in quarrelling over little things. If the light has gone out it can be lit again". Ghulam Rasul knew hundreds of anecdotes of this kind. When he told them in his Punjabi accent his audience was left helpless with laughter. One really enjoyed them best in Punjabi because the strange and incomprehensible behaviour of the uncouth Sikh was best told in his rustic lingo. The Sikhs were not only stupid but incredibly filthy as well- Ghulam Rasul, who had known hundreds of them, told us how they never shaved their heads. And whereas we Muslims washed our hair thoroughly at least every Friday, the Sikhs who made a public exhibition of bathing in their under-pants poured all kinds of filth, like curd into their hair. I rub limejuice and glycerine in my scalp. Although the glycerine is white and thick like curd, it is an altogether different thing—made by a well-known firm of perfumers of Europe. My glycerine came in a lovely bottle whereas the Sikh's curd came from the shop of a dirty sweetmeat seller. I would not have concerned myself with the manner of living of these people except that they were so haughty and ill-bred as to consider themselves as good warriors as the Muslims- It is known over the world that one Muslim can get the better of ten Hindus or Sikhs. But these Sikhs would not accept the superiority of the Muslim and would strut about like bantam cocks twirling their moustaches and stroking their beards. Ghulam Rasul used to say that one day we Muslims would teach the Sikhs a lesson that they would never forget. Years went by. I left college. I ceased to be a student and became a clerk; then a head clerk. I left Aligarh and came to live in New Delhi. I was allotted government quarters. I got married. I had children. The quarters next to mine were occupied by a Sikh who had been displaced from Rawalpindi. Despite the passage of years, I remembered what Ghulam Rasul had told me. As Ghulam Rasul had prophesied, the Sikhs had been taught a bitter lesson in humility at least, in the district of Rawalpindi. The Muslims had virtually wiped them out. The Sikhs boasted that they were great heroes; they flaunted their long kirpans. But they could not withstand the brave Muslims. The Sikhs' beards were forcibly shaved. They were circumcised. They were converted to Islam. The Hindu press, as was its custom, vilified the Muslims. It reported that the Muslims had murdered Sikh woman and children. This was wholly contrary to Islamic tradition. No Muslim warrior was ever known to raise his hand against a woman or a child. The pictures of the corpses of women and children published in Hindu newspapers were obviously faked I wouldn't have put it beyond the Sikh to murder their own women and children in order to vilify the Muslims. The Muslims were also accused of abducting Hindu and Sikh women. The truth of the matter is that such was the impact of the heroism of Muslims on the minds of Hindu and Sikh girls that they fell in love with young Muslims and insisted on going with them. These noble-minded young men had no option but to give them shelter and thus bring them to the true path of Islam. The bubble of Sikh bravery was burst. It did not matter how their leaders threatened the Muslims with their kirpans, the sight of the Sikhs who had fled from Rawalpindi filled my heart with pride in the greatness of Islam. The Sikh who was my neighbor was about sixty years old. His beard had gone completely grew Although he had barely escaped from the jaws of death, he was always laughing, displaying his teeth in the most vulgar fashion. It was evident that he was quite stupid. In the beginning he tried to draw me into his net by professions of friendship. Whenever I passed him he insisted on talking to me. I do not remember what kind of Sikh festival it was, when he sent me some sweet butter. My wife promptly gave it away to the sweepress. I did my best to have as little to do with him as I could. I snubbed him whenever I could. I knew that if I spoke a few words to him, he would be hard to shake off. Civil talk would encourage him to become familiar. It was known to me that Sikhs drew their sustenance from foul language. Why should I soil my lips by associating with such people. One Sunday afternoon I was telling my wife of some anecdotes about the stupidity of the Sikhs. To prove my point, exactly at 12 o'clock, I sent my servant across to my Sikh neighbor to ask him the time. He sent back the reply, two minutes after 12". I remarked to my wife "You see, they are scared of even mentioning 12 o'clock" we both had a hearty laugh. After this, many a time when I wanted to make an ass of my Sikh neighbor, I would ask him "Well, Sardarji has it struck twelve?" The shameless creature would grin, baring all his teeth and answer, "Sir, for us it is always striking twelve". He would roar with laughter as if it were a great joke. I was concerned about the safety of my children. One could never trust a Sikh. And this man had fled from Rawalpindi. He was sure to have a grudge against Muslims and to be on the look-out for an opportunity to avenge himself. I had told my wife never to allow the children to go near the Sikh quarters. But children are children. After a few days I saw my children playing with the Sikh's little girl, Mohini, and his other grand-children. This child, who was barely ten years old, was really as beautiful as her name indicated; she was fair and beautifully formed. These wretches have beautiful women. I recall Ghulam Rasul telling me that if all the Sikh men were to leave their women behind and clear out of the Punjab, there would be no need for Muslims to go to paradise in search of houris. The truth about the Sikhs was soon evident. After the thrashing in Rawalpindi, they fled like cowards to East Punjab. Here they found the Muslims weak and unprepared So they began to kill them. Hundreds of thousands of Muslims were martyred; the blood of the faithful ran in streams- Thousands of women were stripped naked and made to parade through the streets. When Sikhs, fleeing from Western Punjab, came in large numbers to Delhi it was evident that there would be trouble in the capital. I could not leave for Pakistan immediately. Consequently I sent away my wife and children by air, with my elder brother, and entrusted my own fate to God. I could not sent much luggage by air. I booked an entire railway wagon to take my furniture and belongings. But on the day I was to load the wagon I got information that trains bound for Pakistan were being attacked by Sikh bands. Consequently my luggage stayed in my quarters in Delhi. On the With of August, India celebrated its independence. What interest could I have in the independence of India! I spent the day Iying in bed reading Dazum and the Pakistan Times. Both the papers had strong word to say about the manner in which India had gained its freedom and proved conclusively how the Hindus and the British had conspired to destroy the Muslims. It was only our leader, the great Mohammed Ali Jinnah, who was able to thwart their evil designs and win Pakistan for the Muslims. The English had knuckled under because of Hindu and Sikh pressure and handed over Amritsar to India Amritsar, as the world knows, is a purely Muslim city. Its famous Golden Mosque or am I mixing it up with the Golden Temple!—yes of course, the Golden Mosque is in Delhi. And in Delhi besides the Golden Mosque there are the Jamma Masjid, the Red Fort, the mausolea of Nizamuddin and Emperor Humayun, the tomb and school of Safdar Jang—just everything worthwhile bears imprints of Islamic rule. Even so this Delhi (which should really be called after its Muslim builder Shahjahan as Shahiahanabad) was to suffer the indignity of having the flag of Hindu imperialism unfurled on its ramparts. My heart seemed rent asunder. I could have shed tears of blood. My cup of sorrow was full to the brim when I realised that Delhi, which was once the footstool of the Muslim Empire, the centre of Islamic culture and civilisation, had been snatched out of our hands. Instead we were to have the desert wastes of Western Punjab, Sindh and Baluchistan inhabited by an uncouth and uncultured people. We were to go to a land where people do not know how to talk in civilised Urdu; where men wear baggy salwars like their women folk, where they eat thick bread four pounds in weight instead of the delicate wafers we eat at home! I steeled myself. I would have to make this sacrifice for my great leader, Jinnah, and for my new country, Pakistan. Nevertheless the thought of having to leave Delhi was most depressing. When I emerged from my room in the evening, my Sikh neighbour bared his fangs and asked "brother, did you not go out to see the celebrations"? I felt like setting fire to his beard. One morning the news spread of a general massacre in old Delhi. Muslim homes were burnt in Karol Bagh. Muslim shops in Chandini Chowk were looted. This then was a sample of Hindu rule! I said to myself 'New Delhi is really an English city; Lord Mountbatten lives here as well as the commander-in chief At least in New Delhi no hand will be raised against Muslims'. With this self assurance I started towards my office. I had to settle the business of my provident fund; I had delayed going to Pakistan in order to do so. I had only got as far as Gole Market when I ran into a Hindu colleague in the office. He said "What on earth are you up to? Go back at once and do not come out of your house- The rioters are killing Muslims in Connaught circus". I hurried back home I had barely got to my quarters when I ran into my Sikh neighbour. He began to reassure me. "Sheikh Sahib, do not wrorry! As long as I am alive no one will raise a hand against you". I said to myself: 'How much fraud is hidden behind this man s bread! He is obviously pleased that the Muslims are being massacred, but expresses sympathy to win my confidence; or is he trying to taunt me?' I was the only Muslim living in the block, perhaps I was the only one on the road. I did not want these people's kindness or sympathy. I went inside my quarter and said to myself, 'If I have to die, I will kill at least ten or twenty men before they get me'. I went to my room where beneath my bed I kept my double-barrelled gun. I had also collected quite a hoard of cartridges. I searched the house, but could not find the gun. "What is hazoor looking for?" asked my faithful servant, Mohammed. What happened to my gun?" He did not answer. But I could tell from the way he looked that he had either hidden it or stolen it. "Why don't you answer?" I asked him angrily. Then he came out with the truth. He had stolen my gun and given it to some of his friends who were collecting arms to defend the Muslims in Daryaganj. "We have hundreds of guns, several machine guns, ten revolvers and a cannon. We will slaughter these infidels; we will roast them alive." "No doubt with my gun you will roast the infidels in Daryaganj, but who will defend me here? I am the only Mussulman amongst these savages. If I am murdered, who will answer for it?" I persuaded him to steal his way to Daryaganj to bring back my gun and couple of hundred cartridges. When he left I was convinced that I would never see him again. I was all alone. On the mantlepiece was a family photograph My wife and children stared silently at me. My eyes filled with the tears at the thought that I would never see them again I was comforted with the thought that they were safe in Pakistan. Why had I been tempted by my paltry provident fund and not gone with them? I heard the crowd yelling Sat! Sri AkaL.." Har Har Mahadev". The yelling came closer and closer. They were rioters She bearers of my death warrant I was like a wounded deer running hither and. thither, with the hunters' hounds in full pursuit. There was no escape. The door was made of very thin wood and glass panes. The rioters would smash their way in. Sat! Sri Akal..." Har Har Mahadev..." They were coming closer and closer- death was coming closer and closer. Suddenly there was a knock at the door. My Sikh neighbour walked in "Sheikhji, come into my quarters at once". Without a second thought I ran into the Sikh's verandah and hid behind the columns. A shot hit the wall above my head. A truck drew up and about a dozen young men climbed down. Their leader had a list in his hand—Quarter No. "Sheikh Burhanuddin". He read my name and ordered his gang to go ahead. They invaded my quarter and under my very eyes proceeded to destroy my home. My furniture, boxes, pictures, books, druggets and carpets, even the dirty linen was carried into the truck. Robbers! Thugs! Cut-throats! As for the Sikh, who had pretended to sympathize with me, he was no less a robber than they! He was pleading with the rioters "Gentlemen, stop! We have prior claim over our neighbor's property. We must get our share of the loot". We beckoned to his sons and daughters. All of them gathered to pick up whatever they could lay their hands on. One took my trousers; another a suitcase. They even grabbed the family photograph. They took the loot to their quarters. You bloody Sikh! If God grants me life I will settle my score with you. At this moment I cannot even protest. The rioters are armed and only a few yards away form me. If they get to know of my presence.... "Please come in". My eyes fell on the unsheathed kirpan in the hands of the Sikh. He was inviting me to come in. The bearded monster looked more frightful after he had soiled his hands with my property. There was the glittering blade of his kirpan inviting me to my doom. There was no time to argue. the only choice was between the guns of the rioters and the sabre of the Sikh. I decided, rather the kirpan of the old man than ten armed gangsters. I went into the room hesitantly, silently. "Not here, come in further", I went into the inner room like a goat following a butcher. The glint of the blade of the kirpan was almost blinding. "there you are, take your things", said the Sikh. He and his children put all the stuff they had pretended to loot, in front of me. His old woman said "Son, I am sorry we were not able to save more". I was dumb-founded. The gangsters had dragged out my steel almirah and were trying to smash it open. "it would be simpler if we could find the keys", said someone. The keys can only be found in Pakistan. That cowardly son of a filthy Muslim has decamped", replied another. Little Mohini answered back: "Sheikhji is not a coward. He had not run off to Pakistan". "Then Where is he blackening his face?" "why should he be blackening his face? He is in...." Mohini realised her mistake and stopped in her sentence. Blood mounted in her father's face. He locked me in the inside room, gave his kirpan to his son and went out to face the mob. I do not know what exactly took place outside. I heard the sound of blows; then Mohini crying; then the Sikh yelling full-blooded abuse in Punjabi. And then a shot and the Sikh's cry of pain hai. I heard a truck engine starting up; and then there was a petrified silence. When I was taken out of my prison my Sikh neighbour was Iying on a charpoy. Beside him lay a torn and blood- stained shirt. His new shirt also was oozing with blood. His son had gone to telephone for the doctor. "Sardarji, what have you done?" I do not know how these words came out of my lips. The world of hate in which I had lived all these years, lay in ruins about me. "Sardarji, why did you do this?" I asked him again. "Son, I had a debt to pay". What kind of a debt?" "In Rawalpindi there was a Muslim like you who sacrificed his life to save mine and the honour of my family". What was his name, Sardarji?" "Ghulam Rasul". Fate had played a cruel trick on me. The clock on the wall started to strike...1...2...3...4...5...The Sikh turned towards the clock and smiled. He reminded me of my grandfather with his twelve-inch beard. How closely the two resembled each other! ...6...7...8...9...We counted in silence. He smiled again. His white beard and long white hair were like a halo, effulgent with a divine light...10...11...12... The clock stopped striking. I could almost hear him say "For us Sikhs, it is always 12 o'clock!" But the bearded lips, still smiling, were silent. And I knew he was already in some distant world, where the striking of clocks counted for nothing, where violence and mockery were powerless to hurt him.[/font:a90c8a8829]

coz its so easy and there aint anything better to do...LOL

http://www.hindustantimes.com/news/5967_1419556,00160006.htm Sikhs to take part in US Independence Day parade TV Parasuram (PTI) Washington, July 3, 2005 The US Independence Day parade on July 4, 2005 will for the first time witness the participation of Sikhs who are set to enthral spectators with a traditional martial art performance. A float carrying a message on the presence of Sikhs in America for the past 100 years would also be part of the parade in which 60 members of the community would participate displaying the martial art 'Gatka,' Sikh Council on Religion and Education (SCORE) said. "Sikh men and women attired in turbans and traditional dress will display their community's patriotic fervour and their attempt to preserve their own traditions and customs in America. "Many Sikhs are currently serving in Iraq war and also part of the US Armed Forces. After four years of the tragedy of 9/11 which affected the Sikh community, Sikhs will walk with fellow Americans to celebrate the Independence day," it said. The Sikh community in US has faced hate crimes and prejudice in the aftermath of 9/11. A special flyer describing the Sikh martial art and the main principles behind this art will be distributed along the parade route.

I respect Damdami Taksal a lot. Now like after 20 years they have admitted that Sant Baba Jarnail Singh Jee Khalsa Bhindranwale is shaheed, should i look forward to them admitting in the near future that Guru Gobind Singh Jee had only one wife? The big deal here is those Sikhs who want to justify more than one wife for themselves using Gurujee's example, and those non-Sikhs who pinpoint fingers at our Gurus and our history. Baki i fully agree that anyone who truly loves Gurujee will love Him no matter what anyone says. For all i care, i m least bothered about what the actual history of this issue is, because i am no one to question my Guru, because i am no one to try and immitate Him. If He had 1 wife, ok. If He had 3, He had His own reasons which my manmukh mind may never understand. Just like a dog doesn't care how its' master treats it, similarly i am not concerned (sahib ros dharo ke pyaar). But i cannot tolerate Sikh and non-Sikhs making a joke out of our history. i cannot tolerate non-Sikhs comparing Guruji to a mere mortal. i think even a dog won't tolerate someone disrespecting its' master. Other than that, i dont see any big deal.

http://headlines.sify.com/news/fullstory.p...lip~Singh~Saund US Senate agrees to honour Dalip Singh Saund Friday, 01 July , 2005, 07:37 Washington: Dalip Singh Saund, the first Indian-American member of the US Congress, will be honoured by having a Post Office named after him. The US Senate unanimously voted in a bid to perpetuate the memory of Dalip Singh Saund who took the oath of office in 1957 to become the very first Indian-American to serve in the US House of Representatives. ''The 'Dalip Singh Saund Post Office Building' will honour an American who followed his dream to the United States, broke barriers and served as a representative of the people,'' said Congressman Darrell Issa. ''This Act of Congress will preserve Congressman Saund's legacy and honours the success of all immigrants from India and their accomplishments,'' he added. Born in the village of Chhajulwadi in Punjab in 1899, Dalip Saund came to the United States in 1920 to study at the University of California, Berkeley, where he earned a doctorate in mathematics. For nearly 30 years he was a successful farmer in Imperial Valley and during the period, fought for the rights of the immigrant Indians. In 1949, he and other Indians finally earned the right to become US citizens. In 1952, Dilip Saund was elected and served for four years as Justice of Peace in Westmoreland, California, and made history in 1956 when he became the first Asian elected to the Congress. He was elected to the House of Representatives and represented the 29th congressional district during the Eighty-fifth and the two succeeding Congresses. His political career was cut short when he suffered a stroke while campaigning for a fourth term.

?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!

actually, my question on that thread was centered on Guru Hargobind...some ppl got mad as to why r we trying to question or be like the Gurus, although i juz needed more points to silence idiots who pinpoint these things and try to prove Sikhi isn't amazing...but anyways...this is what i said there...and i m gonna paste the same here... Now this is what i found Any "scholars" wanna add anything else about 6th and 10th patshahi before "sentencing me to hell"...LOL

actually i got that from another forum...u can guess which 1...lol

The myth of Guru Gobind Singh je having more than one wife "Why did Guru Gobind Singh have more than one wife? How many marriages did Guru Gobind Singh have? The wrong impression that the Guru had more than one wife was created by those writers who were ignorant of punjabi culture. Later authors accepted those writings regarding more than one marriage of the Guru and presented other important people usually had more than one wife as a symbol of their being great and superior to the common man. Guru Gobind Singh, being a true king, was justified in their eyes to have more than one wife. This is actually incorrect. In the Punjab, there are two and sometimes three big functions connected with a marriage, i.e., engagement, wedding and Muklawa. Big gatherings and singings are held at all these three functions. In many cases, engagements were held as soon as one had passed the baby stage. Even today, engagements at 8-12 years age are not uncommon in some interior parts of the country. The wedding is performed a couple of years after the engagement. After the wedding, it takes another couple of years for the bride to move in with her in-laws and live there. This is called Muklawa. Dowry and other gifts to the bride are usually given at the time of this ceremony to help her to establish a new home. A big befitting function and other joyful activities were held at Anandpur, according to the customs, at the time of the engagement of the Guru. The bride, Mata Jeeto Ji, resided in Lahore which was the capital of the Mughal rulers, who were not on good terms with the Gurus. When the time for the marriage ceremony came, it was not considered desirable for the Guru to go to Lahore along with Sikhs in large numbers. Furthermore, it would involve a lot of inconvenience to the Sangat, young and old, who wished to witness the marriage of the Guru. Therefore, as mentioned in the Sikh chronicles, Lahore was 'brought' to Anandpur Sahib for the marriage instead of the Guru going to Lahore. A scenic place, a couple of miles to the north of Anandpur was developed into a nice camp for the marriage. This place was named Guru Ka Lahore. People going to Anandpur visit this place as well. The bride was brought to this place by her parents and the marriage was celebrated with a very huge gathering attending the ceremony. The two elaborate functions, one at the time of engagement and the other at the time of the marriage of the Guru, gave the outside observers the impression of two marriages. They had the reason to feel like that because a second name was also there, i.e., Mata Sundari Ji. After the marriage, there is a custom in the Punjab to give a new affectionate name to the bride by her in-laws. Mata Jeeto Ji because of her fine features and good looks, was named Sundari (beautiful) by the Guru's mother. The two names and two functions gave a cause to the outsiders to believe that the Guru had two wives. In fact, the Guru had one wife with two names as explained above. There is one more very important function in the life of the Guru and the Sikhs. It took place in 1699 when the Guru founded the Khalsa Panth. For preparation of Amrit, he took a Khanda and a Bata (bowl) and asked Mata Sahib Kaur to bring Patasas (puffed sugar) for adding to the water in the Bata. Thus, Guru Gobind Singh and Mata Sahib Kaur jointly particpated in preparing Amrit. Alongwith firmness like steel, sweetness is another great character of the Khalsa, gifted respectively by Guru Gobind Singh and Mata Sahib Kaur to them. Whereas Guru Gobind Singh is recognized as the spiritual father of the Khalsa, Mata Sahib Kaur is recognized as the spiritual mother of the Khalsa. Again, people not conversant with the Amrit ceremony mistakenly assume that Mata Sahib Kaur was the wife of Guru Gobind Singh. As Guru Gobind Singh is the spiritual father but not the physical father of the khalsa, Mata Sahib Kaur is the spiritual mother of the Khalsa but not the physical wife of the Guru Gobind Singh. Because of their ignorance of the Punjabi culture and the Amrit ceremony, some writers mistook these three names of the women in the life of Guru Gobind Singh as the names of three wives. Another reason for this misunderstanding is that the parents of Mata Sahib Kaur had decided to marry her to Guru Gobind Singh. When the proposal was brought for discussion at Anandpur, the Guru said that he could not have another wife because he was already married. The dilemma before the parents of the girl was that, the proposal having become public, no Sikh would be willing to marry her. The Guru agreed for her stay at Anandpur but without accepting her as is wife. The question arose, as every woman desires to have a child, how she could have one without being married. The Guru said, "She will be the mother of a great son who will live forever and be known all over the world." The people understood the hidden meaning of his statement only after the Guru associated Mata Sahib Kaur with preparing Amrit by bringing Patasas. It is, therefore, ignorant to consider Mata Sahib Kaur as the worldly wife of Guru Gobind Singh."