Dear Guru Tegh Bahadur Sahib Ji,
How do I write to you, Guru Ji, when my heart is overflowing—when my soul trembles at the mere thought of your sacrifice? How do I find words to speak of a love so deep, of a gratitude so vast, that no language can hold it?
Today, as I sit in the warmth of my home, safe, free, able to pray as I wish, able to breathe without fear—I think of you. I think of you standing tall, unshaken, knowing full well that your own life was slipping away, yet choosing, without hesitation, to give it for others. My Guru, you did not die for glory. You did not seek praise. You did not think of yourself even in your final moments. You stood in the darkest of times and became the light that would guide us forever.
How could you do it, Guru Ji? How could you watch the suffering of the helpless and take it upon yourself? How could you see the Kashmiri Pandits—broken, pleading, trembling with fear—and simply decide that their pain would end with you?
You could have turned away. You could have walked a safer path. But no. You chose to bear the burden of an entire nation. You chose to stand before Aurangzeb, before an empire that sought to erase faith itself. You chose to be the voice of the voiceless, knowing it would cost you everything.
And when they dragged you to Delhi, shackled like a criminal, you did not bow. When they tortured your beloved Sikhs—when Bhai Mati Das was sawed in half before your eyes, when Bhai Sati Das was burned alive, when Bhai Dayala was boiled to death—you did not flinch.
You did not break.
Guru Ji, what was in your heart in those final moments? When they placed you in chains, when they told you to convert or die, when the sword hovered above your neck—what did you feel? Was it fear? No, my Guru, I know it was not. I know that you stood with the same grace, the same calm, the same unwavering faith that you had taught us all along.
"Jo nar dukh mai dukh nahee maanai. Sukh sanayhu ar bhai nahee jaa kai kanchan maatee maanai."(The one who, in sorrow, does not grieve... who is not attached to happiness nor afraid of loss, who sees gold and dust as the same...)
You lived these words, Guru Ji. Even as you walked toward your execution, you were at peace. You had already won. They could take your body, but they could never touch your spirit. And when that sword finally fell at Chandni Chowk, when the sky wept and the earth trembled, the world changed forever. The empire thought they had silenced you, but they had only made you eternal.
Guru Ji, do you know how much we owe you? Do you know that we live because of you?
That every Sikh, every free soul who breathes without chains, every heart that prays in peace, does so because you gave your life for them?
And yet, even in our gratitude, even as we bow at your feet, we are still so small before your love. We still chase happiness, we still fear pain, we still cling to what is temporary. But Guru Ji, today, I want to surrender. I want to let go of fear, let go of attachment, let go of the chains that hold me back.
I want to live as you lived. I want to love as you loved. I want to see the world as you saw it—with no difference between gold and dust, no difference between joy and sorrow. I want to walk in your footsteps, to feel your presence in every breath, to know that no pain, no suffering, no loss is greater than the faith you have given us.
Guru Ji, I close my eyes, and I see you standing there—calm, fearless, radiant. I feel the warmth of your sacrifice, the love in your silence, the power in your surrender. And for the first time, my heart is still.
For the first time, I understand.
Guru Ji, thank you. A million times, thank you.
With all the love in my soul,
A Child Who Will Never Forget
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