Sant Jarnail ( A Tribute to a mans pursuit for freedom, liberation, Love of the Sikh Faith & its People) Chosen....a good scholar, a keen listener with an adamant tone, he wasnt tired or elderly, never would listen to or suffer fools and had a strong stance of spirit and heart, a vibrancy that sent shock waves through a corrupt system, no compromise and no cruel intention but paid attention to all that stood in his path, as a devout Sikh he shone, the leader of a never forgotten cause, the tempting lullaby of the corrupt government did sing but he was too much a horse waiting to bolt.... or so they thought..... a scapegoat and envy of the many that still even now bite at their vicious tongues, they dare not touch his sword or look at the face of a better man....death had an inspired point of view for an ever hopeful people, as he fought heracy and moved with the ranks and shifted amongst traitors, he looked to the landscape as Khalistan called as hope of hopes indulged and engulfed his head, as he smiled he refused to be leaned against but held out his arms to Singhs and Kaurs who had fell upon worse times he recalled that when he was passionate about something he would raise his arm, look to the sky and would drown the voices of naysayers and sceptics, he had-had compliments of calmness, wisdom and generosity and he had remembered telling the others as brave as him that when he loved them, he loved them, he was incensed with the army but never hated them because as he put it We all played our parts very well for government deceit and treachery when he was talking to you he was taking you in and absorbing the person he was speaking to, he was focused and gentle he had such a love a great love for many, as he called them his extended Family. He wanted to be the Father of his followers and he said he wanted them to become a family, he respected god but never he wanted to be him, he was a follower, like all before him for his Guru, then, he had spoken about childhood, savage opponents that had surrounded him and all had words he did not hasten to repeat. It was said that he had been arrested for the killing of a man who had power of the pen who had wrote harshly against him but like grains of sand the accusation fell away from him and a sentence on his head was not to be that day, he walked with a knowing, a gentle demeanour, he prayed in solitude even with a room full of people, he spoke with a constant tone only to hasten or quicken sharply with his personal strong view, he sang with a peace that lulled the waters to stillness, giving himself as always, then, with no word would go and lay his head on the bed of reason and stare at the Golden dome in which he called home, his mind would stir with the thoughts of his wife and his children...my children he thought I want them to look freedom in the face, never phased he would dwell upon the thoughts and smile, I have taken upon myself at the asking of no one the task to lead and lead....is my duty, his faithful friend was as ever present, writing speeches of praise with precision, his words would launch fearless attacks on the ones that were without peace and the power of the words were his personal sermons of victory and again referring to his sermons also as his children but a cunning state had once again seized the day and burned his words and he would forever echo into the hearts of Sikh generations, he addressed his anger once again to authority You have burned my children! You have burned my children! he rose with the roar of the pride and as he ached and felt the release, he bowed his head and looked upon quiet shame and in his head repeated the words what can you say of this? I ....the man that speaks a few lines and within those lines is a 1,000 words of truth that fall upon deaf ears within a government of political Liars In the final hours he paced with gratitude, humility and reason, the burning embers of disappointment and betrayal did not pierce his heart or stain his white cloth, he held his trusted spear to his face that had been given to him in the highest of honours, looking out over the haze of calm water, he closed his eyes at the cost and in rough low strained quiet tones repeated lines from his beloved Guru Granth sahib, drank a little water and prayed My Love, My Guru, Waheguru - for you, and as past words drove into him sharply, so did the sound of war and the pain blood shed. He stacked the mountains of guns, that day that would be his last..... and he knew it to be so, he never knew why he had so many but knew it was a clever arsenal for the unforeseen and the cunning, one by one the men without pause collected arms and never softened there aim, for a second he was reminded of his mother and he remembered her tongue was as harsh as the war that was taking its place in history and now its toll at the cost of his khalistan, moving around in every direction, his mood became calm, bold, determined even serene. In the last minutes of his life his laugh grew louder and it bellowed round the halls into the high ceilings and every brick that had been shattered with bullet holes, he knew he was going to look into the face of his master and was happy for this and sang a quiet prayer in his heart, he ran through the long, dark winding corridors and tunnels of the complex like a man forced to play child like hide and seek, then as the blinding light pierced him - he fell fast, no suffering or indignity as the little things that his children had given him still lay in his pockets, he bowed his head at the face of a short transistion of death into the eternal as he lay amongst the fallen, a saint soldier forever, a holy warrior to be named. Sharron J Dunham
Posted on: Fri, 15 Aug 2014 10:31:33 +0000