In our first of many blog posts to come we will be looking at many subjects from, Sikh way of life, Current Issues, to events.

AmritVela Rose
Part1

On the way to the Amrit Vela Naam Simran Session, we picked Yoda Singh and the
Vaja ToR kid. Aunty asked my sister to recite the next pauree of Jap Ji:

saachaa saahib saach naae bhaakhiaa bhaao apaar || aakhehi ma(n)gehi dhaehi
dhaehi dhaath karae dhaathaar ||

faer k agai rakheeai jith dhisai dharabaar || muha k bolan boleeai jith sun
dhharae piaar ||

a(n)mrith vaelaa sach naao vaddiaaee veechaar || karamee aavai kaparraa nadharee
mokh dhuaar ||

naanak eaevai jaaneeai sabh aapae sachiaar ||4||

Aunty Jee had just opened her mouth to say something about this pauree when we
saw tiny ~*sparkles*~ coming from her huge bag (remember the one which could run
a small camp). Aunty Jee clapped her hands and exclaimed excitedly, “Oh,
excellent! I have been waiting for this.” We all got excited too. (I even
forgot to worry that she had now taken her hands off from the steering wheel).
She nudged my sister, “Open it and read it quickly! It’s a letter from a
sakhee!”

My sister opened Aunty Jee’s bag and took out a glowing piece of paper which
shimmered incandescently, lighting up the inside of our car. We all just stared
at it. Breathtakingly beautiful, its words glimmered, etched in soft light -
emanating a mellow blend of bright white and sunrise yellow. Even more
astonishing, when my sister read from the letter, its gleaming lights gathered
forming to create miniature characters who played out the scenes described.

My sister read, while we listened (and watched)…

~*~*~*~*~*~

A young girl had been captured and enslaved by 5 cruel masters. At first they
had appeared inviting and seemed entertaining, but once they had lured her into
their trap and caught her fast she knew no mercy. Her life became an unbearable
infliction of horrors. No recourse availed her but to seek escape. Heavy chains
bound her preventing any possibility of flight so she sought sanctuary in an
imaginary garden of her own invention.

One day news came that the King traveled their way. As he passed by, the 5
miscreants threw themselves to the ground - faces pressed into the dirt bowing
in subservience. The girl, seeing opportunity, struggled against her bonds.
She’d heard rumors of the monarch’s mercy and a tiny spark flared in her heart.
Hope of rescue prompted her into action. Dragging her heavy chains, she
attempted to attract attention to her plight.

The kind king did indeed take notice of her effort and commanded that she be
freed and employed in his service. His attendants paid her captors a sum,
removed her shackles and carried her away with them to the royal palace. When
they left her, she found herself in a bare room built into an alcove of a stone
wall. Weary, she sank onto a pallet in a corner and fell into a deep slumber.
Hours later she woke. In another corner she discovered a spinning wheel, a loom,
and a basket of flax. There were plain provisions provided and a pitcher of
water. She ate her simple fare, drank the clear water, washed her hands and set
to work.

She had no idea at first of how to go about her task. The gratitude in her heart
made her determined however, and soon she found she could twist the long flax
stems. With the spindle she fashioned a length of thread which she wound on to
the loom and shuttle. By days end she had woven a bit of cloth. She removed this
and finished the edges. The sun had set. She finished her provisions and slept.

After a few hours she woke to an enchanting fragrance. Enticed, she slipped
through the door of her hut and found herself in a garden. The dark night sky
glittered with stars and the moon shone faintly illuminating the landscape
before her in pale light. A sultry breeze blew gently. As her eyes adjusted she
became entranced for all around her petals opened releasing their scent. Her
heart swelled. Overcome in awe at the beauty she beheld, tears formed in the
corners of her eyes, not tears like those of yesterday’s captivity, but tears of
unfathomable joy. She reached for the scrap of cloth she had woven, pulled it
from her pocket and dried her tears. She sought for and found a perfect rose.
The first rays of morning sun glistened on fresh dew droplets wetting the rose.
She plucked the rose and folded it gently into the cloth she had woven, the
perfumed essence permeating it.

(to be continued in Part 2….)