I am onion

1-6-23

These days, thoughts keep arising in my mind again. I often listen to Maharshi Raman on YouTube, sometimes to Jiddu Krishnamurti, and other similar talks in between. And when I listen to them, thoughts begin to form — that is, contemplation and reflection start in my mind.

For example, I am not really “I.” It’s like an onion — layers upon layers covering me.

One layer is that I was born in India, so I am this way.

The second layer — I was born into a Punjabi Hindu family, so I am this way.

The third — I was born into the Sachdeva family, so I am this way.

The fourth — the Sachdeva family had to move here during the Partition of the country, so I am this way.

The fifth — I studied in a Hindi-medium government school, so I am this way.

The sixth — I got married at the age of 19, so I am this way.

The seventh — I married into the Chandna family, so I am this way.

The eighth — I gave birth to four children in quick succession, so I am this way.

The ninth — I never did a job; I have been a housewife, so I am this way.

The tenth — I live in my own house in Dehradun, not in a rented one, so I am this way.

These are the clearly visible layers. But in reality, there are countless others that have made me who I am. Then who is the real me? If all these layers were to change, I too would change. And this is true for everyone — every human being is the way they are because they were born and raised in a particular environment at a particular time.

The Midnight Knock

 

The Midnight Knock

It was a freezing winter night, perhaps around two o’clock. All of us in the family were fast asleep, curled up tightly under our quilts. Suddenly, there came a loud knock at the door.

Our house was attached to the Head Post Office, where Papaji was the Postmaster. Hearing the sound, he got up and opened the door.

In the pitch darkness stood a tall figure holding a gun. In a firm voice, he said their vehicle had broken down and they needed shelter for the night. When we glanced through the main gate outside, we saw more figures — all tall, with their long hair hanging loose. At first, those long tresses made us think some women were among them. A flicker of doubt crossed our minds — could they be bandits? But then again, they were asking for help. Who could tell whether their intention was to loot the Post Office or not?

Papaji calmly said, “Alright, I will arrange something.”

He came inside and woke us children, telling us to vacate our beds. There were five of those strangers. Fortunately, we had one extra bed belonging to our elder brother who was away studying. The rest of us — all eight family members — squeezed into three beds, half awake, half anxious. None of us could stop wondering: Who were these men really?

Our grandmother was with us too. She kept softly chanting “Waheguru, Waheguru.” Papaji stayed awake the entire night, pacing back and forth outside their door like a silent guard.

At daybreak, they quietly got up and left.

And then the mystery of the long hair was solved — they were Sikhs. They have untied thier hair at night after keeping it wrapped all day, as Sikh men usually do.

Even now, the thought still lingers in my mind — were they truly dacoits? But perhaps Papaji’s kindness disarmed them. They caused no harm and left as silently as they had come.

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