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May 17, 2009

I Remember
April 30th, 2009 by Inni Kaur
India has a strange hold on me.
It is not my birthplace,
It is in my soul.
I hear the bell of Krishna;
I hear the call of Muhammad;
I hear the chant of Buddha;
I hear the Shabad of Guru Nanak.
I have knelt on its soil;
I have kissed its ground.
I yearn
To be mingled with its dust.
The Pogroms of 1984
Shattered this love.
Instantly, I grew up.
I saw my mother-in-law, a strong, brave woman,
crumble as images from India filtered through our television in Fairfield, Connecticut, U.S.A.
Her memories of the Partition came rushing back. Memories that she had tucked deep within gushed out.
It was 1947 all over again for her.
I heard her stories;
I witnessed her tears;
I thought I understood, but I was wrong.
I could not have understood, because I did not experience it.
In March of 1985, I flew from New York to India, to be with my mother.
She was visiting her sister in Janakpuri, a suburb of Delhi.
Delhi was tense.
The mood was sombre.
People stayed indoors.
One evening at around 9 pm, there was pounding at my aunt's door.
Her Hindu neighbours had heard that busloads of goondas (thugs) were being brought into Janakpuri to burn down Sikh homes.
What transpired after that was surreal.
My grandmother and I were assigned to a Hindu home in the neighbourhood.
My mother and her sister went to another Hindu home. The rest of the family was scattered in yet other Hindu homes.
That night will forever be etched in my DNA.
My grandmother and I were put behind a tall steel cupboard in a pitch-black room.
She was clinging to her large black handbag (into which she had stuffed her gold jewelry) and was saying her prayers.
I just sat dazed.
From time to time, we would hear loud voices coming from the street.
My grandmother would tense up and hug me even closer.
I can't remember saying much.
But I remember vividly what happened next.
My grandmother very calmly said:
"Inni, if that door opens, I will kill you first and then I will kill myself."
She took out a knife from her black handbag and showed it to me.
I never uttered a word.
There was nothing to say.
We sat quietly together and waited out the night.
The mob did not come.
It was a false alarm.
The next morning, my mother insisted I leave Delhi.
I flew to Bombay that evening.
Back home in Connecticut, I allowed myself to revisit my Delhi experience.
But it was too painful.
I could not comprehend it and so, I kept silent.
Years flew by.
From time to time, the memories would awaken and tears would flow.
I was still unable to grasp the depth of my emotions.
The 20th anniversary of the 1984 massacre: 
I started to write.
More tears flowed.
Many pages were filled.
Finally, the piece was done.
I read it.
Tears of gratitude flowed.
The healing had taken place;
I could see it in my writing.
I sent the finished piece to my family and friends.
Their response astounded me:
"Why are you going there?
What is the use?
Forget about it!"
To say that I was shocked would be an understatement.
I felt that someone had stabbed me with a knife.
I sent it to Sikh and Indian magazines.
No one published it.
I died a thousand deaths during this process.
Every rejection was a stab.
Gurumustuk Singh from sikhnet was the brave one who put it on his website.
My voice had found a place.
They say:
Do not write;
Do not speak;
Forget about it.
 If I agree,
Then In my silence Lies my guilt.
 As long as I draw breath,
As long as there is strength within me,
I will write,
I will speak.
For I remember ...  
 I Remember...
The year is 1739.
Hindustan is in terror.
The cruelty of the Mughals
Is felt everywhere.
 Nadir Shah is in Delhi
Looting the treasures,
Carting away twenty-two hundred Hindu women
For his private harem.
 The news spreads like wildfire
Across this great land.
Helplessness and confusion
Reign supreme.
 Sardar Jassa Singh,
Commander of the Sikh army,
Hears of this atrocity,
Vows to take a stand.
The Sikhs are a minority;
The Mughals have the upper hand.
Despite this disparity,
A midnight attack is planned.
The Mughal camp is asleep;
The Sikhs wait in silence.
At the stroke of midnight,
They begin the attack.  
Kirpans are in the air;
The Mughals are caught off-guard.
The women are freed
And safely brought back.
In Hindu households,
Sighs of relief are heard
As the women rush back
To the arms of their loved ones.
 There are Sikh casualties,
But there are no tears;
To uphold a woman's honour
Is the Sikh dharam.
From that day on,
A pattern emerged:
The Sikhs struck at midnight
To free the captured women.
 Every night, the women prayed
For the safety of the Sikhs.
Mothers told their daughters,
"Trust only a Sikh."
 Hindu mothers, with love,
Made their first-born sons Sikhs.
A sacred trust existed
Between a Hindu and a Sikh.
 Through the centuries,
This trust and love continued,
Until the forces of evil
Raised their ugly head.
 The year is 1984,
The unthinkable happened:
Our Hindu brothers
Turned on us.
Sikh women were raped;
Their fathers, husbands, Sons and brothers
Butchered in front of their eyes.
 The country was in shell-shock
At the brutality of this massacre;
Yet, no voice rose
To speak against this massacre.
 I ask my Hindu sisters:
"Where were you?
Did your hearts not bleed
At the rape of your sisters?"  
Twenty five years have gone by.
The pain has not diminished.
There are no answers
To what happened in 1984.
To my Hindu sisters,
I have one request:
Tell your sons, husbands and brothers
The sacrifices of the Sikhs.
 To my Sikh brothers,
I need not remind you:
You are bound by our Guru
To protect the weak.
 No Sikh hand will rise
Against any woman;
Be she a Hindu or a Muslim,
She has the protection of a Sikh.
My Ardaas:
Let the winds be gentle;
Let there be peace on this land;
Let this shattered trust
Be given a chance to grow.
But ask me not to forget,
For I remember...
On this 25th anniversary of the Pogroms of 1984,
I reflect on the courage of the non-Sikhs who protected the Sikhs.
You are our unsung heroes.
I salute your bravery;
I salute your goodness;
I salute your morality.
But ask me not to forget,
For I remember...


As I read this poignant, soulful heart welled up with tears...

3000+ People Died in the Sikh Massacre, A violent and murderous reaction by Goons of a Political Party, Hindus over the Murder of then Prime Minister of India by Sikh separatists.

25+ Years on..There is no shred of justice done..

Justice may never be done..for whats lost can not be undone..and whats salvaged will be so trival and small compared to this void in thousands of families...and all humanity..

but let's not ask  ourselves to forget the pain...the wounds on the hearts of our sikh brothers and sisters in such casual disdain....

may we learn to understand what an impulse of hatread and indifference can much far and wide fire that it can cast over this world...

may we walk in their feel the fire still burning in their hearts..may it rinsed by the tears from our heart and from our love, by the genuine care and brotherhood.


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Posted: May 17, 2009 1:41am
May 5, 2009
Look As If For the First Time

We look at things always with old eyes. You come to your home; you look at it without looking at it. You know it ― there is no need to look at it. You have entered it again and again for years together. You go to the door, you enter the door; you may unlock the door. But there is no need to look.

This whole process goes on robot-like, mechanically, unconsciously. If something goes wrong, only if your key is not fitting into the lock, then you look at the lock. If the key fits, you never look at the lock. Because of mechanical habits, repeatedly doing the same thing again and again, you lose the capacity to look; you lose the freshness to look.

Remember the last time you looked at your wife. The last time you looked at your wife or at your husband may have been years ago. For how many years have you not looked? You just pass, giving a casual glimpse, but not a look. Go again and look at your wife or at your husband as if you were looking for the first time. Why? Because if you are looking for the first time, your eyes will be filled with a freshness. They will become alive.

They say nothing is new under the sky. Really, nothing is old under the sky. Only the eyes become old, accustomed to things; then nothing is new. For children everything is new: that is why everything gives them excitement. Even a colored stone on a beach, and they become so excited. And everything is a new world, a new dimension.

Look at children's eyes ― at the freshness, the radiant aliveness, the vitality. They look mirror-like, silent, but penetrating. Only such eyes can reach within.

Anything will do. Look at your shoes. You have been using them for years, but look as if for the first time and see the difference: the quality of your consciousness suddenly changes. This technique is just to make your eyes fresh ― so fresh, alive, radiantly vital, that they can move within and you can have a look at your inner self.

If you are freed from the past and you have a look that can see the present, you will enter existence. And this entry will be double: you will enter into everything, into its spirit, and you will enter into yourself also because the present is the door. All meditations in one way or the other try to get you to live in the present. So this technique is one of the most beautiful techniques ― and easy.

Osho The Book of Secrets
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Posted: May 5, 2009 4:49am
May 5, 2009

Inner Peace

Serenity flows from the depths of my soul. I am immersed in peace.

Sitting beside a clear stream, I relax and watch as a slender fish faces the oncoming current head-on. Instead of struggling against the rushing water, the fish remains peaceful and calm, allowing the current to run past its body. Barely moving, it has become one with the stream.

This simple observation is a message of peace for me. I realize that I can escape the rush of daily activity. I become still and feel the quieting effects as serenity flows from the depths of my soul. Immersed in peace, I am one with God and experience a tranquility that restores me. Relaxing further into the presence of God, I am both recharged and refreshed.

I can reexperience this sacred moment at any time. Centered in the peace of God within my soul, I am calm and serene.

Daily Word
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Posted: May 5, 2009 4:48am
May 5, 2009

Miracle Maker

The power of miracles is available to us at every moment.

There are many practical steps you can take to connect with this power. They all involve finding excitement and beauty in the permanent and lasting gifts of the Creator.

a.. Begin the day with gratitude
b.. Realize that life itself is a miracle.
c.. Recognize the precision and wonder of nature.
d.. Seek the Light in every person you meet.
e.. Identify the Light in all things.
Exercise these five steps today and you will have the power of miracles on your side. Create the unthinkable - for yourself, for your loved ones, and for the world.

This email was sent by:

The Kabbalah Centre International
1100 Robertson Blvd
Los Angeles, CA 90035, USA
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Posted: May 5, 2009 12:06am
May 4, 2009

This was a Poet — It is That
Distills amazing sense
From ordinary Meanings —
And Attar so immense

From the familiar species
That perished by the Door —
We wonder it was not Ourselves
Arrested it — before —

Of Pictures, the Discloser —
The Poet — it is He —
Entitles Us — by Contrast —
To ceaseless Poverty —

Of portion — so unconscious —
The Robbing — could not harm —
Himself — to Him — a Fortune —
Exterior — to Time

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Posted: May 4, 2009 10:36pm
Apr 14, 2009



Ordinary Miracle ~ Sarah McLachlan

 Vid :


It’s not that usual when everything is beautiful
It’s just another ordinary miracle today

The sky knows when its time to snow
You don’t need to teach a seed to grow
It’s just another ordinary miracle today

Life is like a gift they say
Wrapped up for you everyday
Open up and find a way
To give some of your own

Isn’t it remarkable?
Like every time a raindrop falls
It’s just another ordinary miracle today

Birds in winter have their fling
And always make it home by spring
It’s just another ordinary miracle today

When you wake up everyday
Please don’t throw your dreams away
Hold them close to your heart
Cause we are all a part
Of the ordinary miracle

Ordinary miracle
Do you want to see a miracle?

Its seems so exceptional
Things just work out after all
It’s just another ordinary miracle today

The sun comes up and shines so bright
It disappears again at night
It’s just another ordinary miracle today

It’s just another ordinary miracle today


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Posted: Apr 14, 2009 10:40pm
Nov 16, 2007

When beingness is unfolding
in a heart expanding to its full glory,

A heart
embracing the light within;
Ceasing to limit itself
to the boundaries set by the mind
it does something.....

it does something to the many hearts
that witness this glory,

Igniting the fire of spirit
and the rhythm of love,

the wild, intoxicating fragrance of freedom
is passed on from one heart to another
that dance in unison.

Thus; this dance from within a single heart
is spread across the entire universe.
inspiring every fiber of every being
an awakened state of living,

It all stars with one heart...
Its Your Heart's call.


About the Poem..

Its about how a single heart inspires the entire universe into being complete..(while everything is complete beyond the paramters of time it adds to the completeness, expanding it further, fuller, making it more wholesome..

Its a strange and weird concept..and you'd say.he is too but I am speaking from a certain knowingness of heart..

All things perfect and have a scope of being more so..and are inspired, channelled by the love and light thats realised in hearts.

The unisverse expands as we claiming our light and love..hence nothing is insignificant..every hug, every smile, every wave, every kind word spoken in openess, realistion of true love..adds to this expansion..(far simplistic view of love..although this expansion is more diverse and dynamic but stating the A, B, C. )

And whats expanded this way..adds new dimensions into our being.

I wonder if we everyone knew the power of love..and what a single step of love can this wide universe.

Much Love & Hugs,


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Posted: Nov 16, 2007 5:37am
Nov 15, 2007

 To my fellow swimmers,
 There is a river flowing now very fast.

 It is so great and swift that there are those
 who will be afraid.

 They will try to hold on to the shore.
 They will feel that they are being torn
 apart and will suffer greatly.

 Know that the river has its destination.
 The elders say we must let go of the shore,

 push off into the middle of the river, keep
 our eyes open and our heads above the water.

 And I say “See who is in there with you and

 At this time in history we are to take
 nothing personally, least of all ourselves.

 For the moment that we do, our spiritual
 growth and journey comes to a halt.

 The time of the lone wolf is over.
 Gather yourselves!

 Banish the word “struggle” from your vocabulary.
 All that we do now must be done in a sacred manner
 and in celebration.

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Posted: Nov 15, 2007 5:41pm
Nov 15, 2007


Most terribly cold it was; it snowed, and was nearly quite dark, and evening-- the last evening of the year. In this cold and darkness there went along the street a poor little girl, bareheaded, and with naked feet. When she left home she had slippers on, it is true; but what was the good of that? They were very large slippers, which her mother had hitherto worn; so large were they; and the poor little thing lost them as she scuffled away across the street, because of two carriages that rolled by dreadfully fast.

One slipper was nowhere to be found; the other had been laid hold of by an urchin, and off he ran with it; he thought it would do capitally for a cradle when he some day or other should have children himself. So the little maiden walked on with her tiny naked feet, that were quite red and blue from cold. She carried a quantity of matches in an old apron, and she held a bundle of them in her hand. Nobody had bought anything of her the whole livelong day; no one had given her a single farthing.

She crept along trembling with cold and hunger--a very picture of sorrow, the poor little thing!

The flakes of snow covered her long fair hair, which fell in beautiful curls around her neck; but of that, of course, she never once now thought. From all the windows the candles were gleaming, and it smelt so deliciously of roast goose, for you know it was New Year's Eve; yes, of that she thought.

In a corner formed by two houses, of which one advanced more than the other, she seated herself down and cowered together. Her little feet she had drawn close up to her, but she grew colder and colder, and to go home she did not venture, for she had not sold any matches and could not bring a farthing of money: from her father she would certainly get blows, and at home it was cold too, for above her she had only the roof, through which the wind whistled, even though the largest cracks were stopped up with straw and rags.

Her little hands were almost numbed with cold. Oh! a match might afford her a world of comfort, if she only dared take a single one out of the bundle, draw it against the wall, and warm her fingers by it. She drew one out. "Rischt!" how it blazed, how it burnt! It was a warm, bright flame, like a candle, as she held her hands over it: it was a wonderful light. It seemed really to the little maiden as though she were sitting before a large iron stove, with burnished brass feet and a brass ornament at top. The fire burned with such blessed influence; it warmed so delightfully. The little girl had already stretched out her feet to warm them too; but--the small flame went out, the stove vanished: she had only the remains of the burnt-out match in her hand.

She rubbed another against the wall: it burned brightly, and where the light fell on the wall, there the wall became transparent like a veil, so that she could see into the room. On the table was spread a snow-white tablecloth; upon it was a splendid porcelain service, and the roast goose was steaming famously with its stuffing of apple and dried plums. And what was still more capital to behold was, the goose hopped down from the dish, reeled about on the floor with knife and fork in its breast, till it came up to the poor little girl; when--the match went out and nothing but the thick, cold, damp wall was left behind. She lighted another match. Now there she was sitting under the most magnificent Christmas tree: it was still larger, and more decorated than the one which she had seen through the glass door in the rich merchant's house.

Thousands of lights were burning on the green branches, and gaily-colored pictures, such as she had seen in the shop-windows, looked down upon her. The little maiden stretched out her hands towards them when--the match went out. The lights of the Christmas tree rose higher and higher, she saw them now as stars in heaven; one fell down and formed a long trail of fire.

"Someone is just dead!" said the little girl; for her old grandmother, the only person who had loved her, and who was now no more, had told her, that when a star falls, a soul ascends to God.

She drew another match against the wall: it was again light, and in the lustre there stood the old grandmother, so bright and radiant, so mild, and with such an expression of love.

"Grandmother!" cried the little one. "Oh, take me with you! You go away when the match burns out; you vanish like the warm stove, like the delicious roast goose, and like the magnificent Christmas tree!" And she rubbed the whole bundle of matches quickly against the wall, for she wanted to be quite sure of keeping her grandmother near her. And the matches gave such a brilliant light that it was brighter than at noon-day: never formerly had the grandmother been so beautiful and so tall. She took the little maiden, on her arm, and both flew in brightness and in joy so high, so very high, and then above was neither cold, nor hunger, nor anxiety--they were with God.

But in the corner, at the cold hour of dawn, sat the poor girl, with rosy cheeks and with a smiling mouth, leaning against the wall--frozen to death on the last evening of the old year. Stiff and stark sat the child there with her matches, of which one bundle had been burnt. "She wanted to warm herself," people said. No one had the slightest suspicion of what beautiful things she had seen; no one even dreamed of the splendor in which, with her grandmother she had entered on the joys of a new year.




This story is very close to my heart. I had read it as a child and I have cried so many times for this child. About the same time I had read about Anne Frank, the young girl who became a source of inspiration, idol for me..and will continue to be my journey of life..

I feel so lost..when I think of the many children who die..alone. on the up by the world..and the Gods above..and the many dreams that die with them..I also resonated with the story..for just as our love unites us in our does pain..

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Posted: Nov 15, 2007 12:52am
Nov 7, 2007


The call of Deepavali.
Lead me from Darkness to Light, from fear to Love,
Let Peace reign in My heart Forever.
I ask For Your Blessings & Love for Everyone in this world..
Dayaghana(O Merciful), May Everyone be well feed, clothed, 
& have a Nest of Love called Home..
O Gentle One..Let there be Happiness, Prosperity,
Peace, Health & Abundance in Every Home..
Just as Light dispels darkness,
May the Inner Lights of Self-awareness,

Self-Love, Compassion & Understanding
heal the indifference & the hatread in human mind
to bring Peace in this world..
I call for Thee, O Gracious One,
Grant My Prayers, Blessings & Devotion 
with Your Graceful Love.

Dear All,
Happy Diwali!!!
I send My Blessings & Love, With Best wishes for You & Your Loved Ones..
Every season of festival..makes me look inside of me..and at the outside world..
There are celebrations going on, lights are being lit, and in some corner..there is darkness..hiding many harsh realities of our world..
There are constasts even in one colour..maybe this is wishes to pause..before intake of every Joy, happiness..
to reflect, to acknowledge & respect the Joys even more..wishing pleantiful for those who await for Abundance, Health, Peace & Freedom..
We are the same..If its someone's pain..then its my pain..if its my joy & happiness..its equally theirs to claim..
Been waiting for this poem for glad to find the give way to my feelings..
Thank You for Listening,
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Posted: Nov 7, 2007 9:01pm


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Nachi M.
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