Each morning, I begin my day by listening to the Hukamnama discourse from Manji Sahib Gurduara, Amritsar, a practice that has become essential to my inner journey. The kathavachaks (individuals deeply versed in the Guru Granth Sahib and Sikh history) bring unique insights and styles to these discourses. Over the years, I’ve learned about our heritage's rich flora and fauna, customs, and traditions and discovered the profound layers of symbolism woven into the Guru's words. As I listen, it’s as if I am transported to those moments, witnessing the teachings unfold, absorbing their timeless wisdom as they echo through my heart and mind.

Bhai Pinderpal Singh ji has been delivering daily discourse for the past few days. During his katha on October 19, 2024, he shared a sakhi (witnessed narrative) that stirred something deep within me. It’s difficult to pinpoint why, but this particular narrative touched me in a way I hadn’t experienced before—it lingered in my heart and mind long after the words were spoken. I found myself returning to the discourse, listening to it repeatedly, as though it had a deeper, more profound meaning waiting to be uncovered. It wasn’t until I began writing about it that I grasped its true impact. Writing is more than an act of expression—it is a process through which the message takes root in my consciousness, transforming into something I can carry.

The sakhi comes from Mehma Prakash and unfolds at Goindwal Sahib during the time of Guru Amardas Sahib. It is also mentioned in Suraj Prakash (Gurpartap Suraj Granth), highlighting its significance in our rich history. At the heart of this narrative is Baba Mohri ji, who is honored in the Guru Granth Sahib as a sunmukh son—one who walks unwaveringly on the Guru’s path.

One day, as Baba Mohri ji was sitting with a few friends at Goindwal Sahib, their conversation, as often happens, drifted toward worldly matters. His friends remarked, “In your father’s darbar (royal court), much maya—wealth and offerings—is given by the sangat (congregation).” Baba Mohri ji replied, “Perhaps much is offered, but it never enters our home. We do not get to use it.”

Historians tell us that this conversation eventually reached the ears of Guru Amardas Sahib. Upon hearing it, a thought arose in the Guru’s mind: “Could it be that a question lingers in my son’s heart? Has the thought crept in that the offerings of coins—silver and gold—made in the Guru’s darbar might somehow be for the personal benefit of the Guru’s family?”

The following day, Guru Amardas Sahib called upon his son, Baba Mohri ji, and said, “I have been reflecting, and I have decided that tomorrow’s offerings in the darbar will be for you. All that is offered, you may take.”

As historians recount, an announcement was made to the sangat, asking all those who wished to be present in the Guru’s hazuri—the divine presence in the darbar—to bring coins (sikke), the currency of the time, as their offering. The sangat arrived in large numbers, bowing before Guru Amardas Sahib and humbly offering their coins. As the evening progressed, a large mound of coins began to form, growing ever higher.

That evening, Guru Amardas Sahib summoned his son again and said, “Beta, here are the coins. They are for your use. You mentioned that you were never given the sangat offerings for your benefit. Today, all of this is yours.” Guru Amardas Sahib continued, “However, there is one condition: you must count each coin yourself before taking them. Only after counting may you collect them.”

Baba Mohri ji eagerly began the task, pleased by his father's words. Throughout the night, he counted coin after coin. The sheer number seemed endless, but he persevered, diligently counting each one. When morning broke, he returned to his father, exhausted but dutiful, reporting, “Father, these are the total coins, the full sum of the offerings.”

Guru Amardas Sahib then asked Baba Mohri ji to show his hands. When he extended them, his fingers were blackened from handling the coins.

With a gentle but deliberate tone, Guru Amardas Sahib said, “Your hands are blackened, my son. Go and wash them, and after they are clean, you may take the coins.”

Baba Mohri ji washed his hands several times. Most of the dirt came off, but traces of grime still clung to his skin. When he returned to his Guru-father, his hands were still not fully clean.

Guru Amardas Sahib said, “My son, you have only counted these coins, and already your hands are blackened. No matter how many times you washed them, the stains have persisted. Now imagine taking these offerings—given by the sangat for the collective good—and using them for personal gain. That dirt would not remain just on your skin but would seep into your being, your consciousness. Once it enters, even lifetimes of effort will not cleanse it away.”

I pause.
I reflect.
I question the nature of giving.

Offerings made to charities or institutions carry a sacred weight. They are meant to serve the community's welfare, not to elevate personal gain or glory. Whether it’s money, time, or energy, these gifts are a form of trust—placed in the hands of those who serve others. When that trust is misused and offerings diverted for personal enrichment, something more than just the individual is affected. The purity of the act itself becomes tainted, and the deeper intention behind the giving is lost.

I find myself asking: When I am entrusted with resources meant for the greater good, how can I be sure that my hands remain clean? Just as Baba Mohri ji’s hands were stained simply by counting the coins, could I, too, find myself marked if I misuse what was intended for the well-being of others? It’s a gentle reminder to pause and reflect: Am I truly honoring the trust placed in me, or am I letting something slip away from its true purpose?

The dirt on Baba Mohri ji’s hands symbolizes something far deeper: the subtle spiritual and ethical stains that appear when what is sacred is misused. It reminds us that even when wealth or resources are not “stolen” in the traditional sense, the misappropriation of what has been entrusted to us leaves a lasting residue—one that lingers, difficult, if not impossible, to wash away completely.

However, this message extends far beyond offerings in a religious context. It touches every area of life where trust is placed—whether in the hands of politicians, media figures, or anyone in a position of responsibility. When those entrusted with power or resources stray from their duty and serve personal interests instead of the collective good, the harm is not just to the individuals involved but to the integrity of the systems they represent. The stains of misused trust tarnish not only actions but also the hearts of those who hold that trust.

It invites all of us to ask: Are we honoring the trust given to us in all facets of our lives, or are we leaving marks that may never fully fade?

The sacred act of giving must remain pure, untouched by greed or self-interest. Whether entrusted with resources as individuals or in leadership positions, may we ensure the dirt of misuse stains neither touches our hands nor our hearts? Only then can the purity of giving, like the purity of our actions—personal or societal—truly uplift and serve the collective good.