It is the 400th birth anniversary of Mata Gujri ji, and the Sikh world is alive with celebration. The air vibrates with devotion, sabads (Infinite Wisdom) echoing in every corner, weaving together the voices of countless hearts. Yet, amidst this joy, I find myself distant, a quiet yearning stirring within. I do not seek just the facts of her life, neatly arranged in a history book. I long for something more profound—a story told not by historians but by the whispers of her spirit.

Seeking solace, I step into the embrace of the crisp autumn air. The ground is a mosaic of fallen leaves, rustling softly beneath my feet. The wind seems restless, alive, weaving through the trees with an urgency that feels otherworldly. It dances across the waters, carrying secrets too old for words, too sacred for time.

And then it comes—a soft yet unyielding voice echoing in the chambers of my innermost being.

“You wish to know my heart? You wish to know me?”

I stop, my breath catching as the world falls silent around me. My heart races, caught between wonder and disbelief. “Who is this?” I whisper, my voice trembling like a leaf in the breeze.

“I am Mata Gujri. I do not speak to recount my life. I speak to awaken what lies dormant within you.”

The words ripple through me like a melody played on strings woven from light. Time bends. Space dissolves. And suddenly, I am no longer standing in the quiet of an autumn evening but transported into a story, not of the past but of eternity itself—a story whispered by the winds, etched in the stars, and pulsing within the rhythm of life.

“I sat for years guarding my Guru-husband as he immersed himself in the silent depths of meditation. In those sacred years, my yearning became a flame, illuminating the path to the Beloved. Simran—remembrance—resonated through my being, dissolving time, dissolving self. Grace descended like the first light of dawn, soft yet infinite, and when it was Hukam, the Command, the universe conspired. A light took form in my womb—a celestial ember destined to awaken the slumbering world. My son, Gobind Rai, emerged not as an ordinary child but as a beacon whose radiance even the ether revered. He was the Supreme’s devotee, born to show humanity how to live with honor, to stand for justice, and to love beyond boundaries.

“I lived a life cloaked in simplicity, yet my existence intertwined with the eternal rhythm of destiny. As the wife of my Guru-husband, Guru Teghbahadar Sahib, I found my anchor and my guide in him. The day the Kashmiri Pandits came to Anandpur, their voices trembled, carrying the weight of despair. Their cries did not echo in vain. He heard them, as did I, for their pain became ours. When my Guru-husband departed for Delhi, I knew—deep within—that his return to me would not be of the mortal kind. And yet, I waited. My being waited, my faith unwavering, for I trusted the Eternal.

“When Bhai Jetha ji brought back the sacred head of my Guru-husband, I gazed upon it, and in that moment, I did not see death. I saw eternity. I cradled his severed head in my hands, and the air around me seemed to shimmer as if the cosmos paused to bear witness. No tears fell, for they were unworthy of his sacrifice. My heart silenced, not in despair, but in reverence. I whispered, “Your sacrifice is not the end. You have done what you were destined for; may I follow in your footsteps.” This was my strength—not mine alone, but a strength bestowed by the Eternal, a force that transcended the confines of the physical world.

“I am Mata Gujri. I am the mother of Guru Gobind Singh, the child to whom I sang the Bani as I rocked him to sleep. My lullabies were sabads, cradling him in both arms and divinity. He would rise as the one to alter the destiny of humanity—not with power alone, but with a sword tempered in compassion, wielded in justice, and guided by love. His sword, like lightning carved from light, was an instrument of transformation, a flame that burned away darkness to reveal the truth.

“I am also the grandmother of four lions, whose roars shook the ethers and silenced the earth. Ajit Singh and Jujhar Singh did not merely face death at Chamkaur—they transcended it, their courage reverberating across the elements. The winds howled in tribute, the sky wept crimson, and the ground where they fell became hallowed forever, graced by their blood. Their Guru-father watched as they embraced their destiny, their bravery etching itself into eternity.

“My younger ones, Zoravar Singh and Fateh Singh were but children in form, yet their spirits rose like ancient mountains, unyielding and eternal. The stars dimmed in awe when they stood before tyranny, for they were witnessing something divine. Though their bodies were small, their voices thundered with truth, and their eyes blazed with the light of the Eternal. No force could break what was unbreakable, for within them burned the fire of the Khalsa—the flame that would never be extinguished.

“Let me tell you of that fateful night by the Sarsa River, where the veil between destiny and betrayal thinned. As we left Anandpur, the world around us dissolved into chaos, shadows mingling with the cold bite of fear. In that darkness, we placed our trust in Gangu, a servant who once bore the guise of loyalty. But greed is a tempest that devours even the most steadfast beings. He succumbed, his spirit clouded, and took the gold I carried—not for myself, but as a provision for our journey. I confronted him not with anger but with words that sought to pierce the darkness in his heart: “If you needed, you could have asked. Why did you steal, Gangu? You’ve hurt yourself more than me.” My calmness was a mirror to his guilt, yet he lashed out, his rage a futile attempt to shield his fall. Betrayal consumed him, and in its grip, he handed us over to those who sought to extinguish the light we carried.

“I watched as they dragged me and my grandsons toward Sirhind. It was not chains that bound us but the world’s ignorance, failing to see the Eternal’s design at work. We were cast into the Thanda Burj, an icy prison where the air bit like wolves at our skin, and the stone walls exhaled the chill of despair. Yet, as I held my grandsons close, I felt a warmth that defied the frost—it was the fire of faith, a sacred flame kindled not by this world but by the Infinite.

“That night, I gathered my grandsons in the circle of my arms and spoke to them of the ancestors. My voice became a thread weaving through time, binding us to the eternal narrative. I told them of Guru Nanak Sahib, whose words roared like thunder against Babar’s tyranny, shaking the foundations of injustice. I recounted Guru Arjan Sahib’s serenity as he embraced the burning hot plate, his being merging with the Ravi River’s eternal flow. I shared the courage of their grandfather, Guru Teghbahadar Sahib, whose sacrifice became a beacon for the oppressed. These stories were not mere tales—they were living light, illuminating the dark corners of our prison. The icy walls seemed to recede, and the night transformed into a sacred tapestry, glowing with the memories of those who had walked this path before us. In those moments, we became invincible, our spirits entwined with the eternal rhythm of Hukam.

“The next morning, the guards came, their heavy footsteps echoing through the cold silence of the Thanda Burj. My grandsons were summoned to Wazir Khan’s court. As they prepared to leave, I embraced them, whispering words that carried the weight of eternity, “Remember who you are.” My arms released them, but my spirit clung to their resolve. I watched as they walked away, their heads high, their backs straight, their presence radiating a divine light that even the shadows dared not diminish.

“At the court, they stood as if carved from celestial stone, unyielding and radiant. They greeted Wazir Khan not with fear but with the thundering salutation, “Vahiguru ji ka Khalsa, Vahiguru ji ki Fatih.” Their voices carried the resonance of the Infinite, shaking the very air of the courtroom. The tyrant tempted them with riches, power, and even kingdoms—earthly illusions glittering like fool’s gold. But their smiles bore the serenity of truth as they declared, “We are the sons of Guru Gobind Singh. We bow only to the Eternal.” Their words were not mere defiance but a celestial proclamation, echoing through realms seen and unseen.

“For two days, the forces of tyranny lashed against their young bodies, hoping to break what could not be broken. Each strike of cruelty only revealed the unshakable core of their spirits, forged in the fire of the Eternal. On the third day, the ultimate test awaited them. They were bricked alive, their innocence encased in the cold grip of stones. Yet, even as the walls rose around them, their voices soared above the din: “We are not being buried in these bricks. We are planting the root of Sikhi. The Mughal empire will crumble, but Sikhi will blossom forever.” Their proclamation was a seed carried on the wind of eternity, destined to flower in the hearts of countless generations.

“When the news reached me, I fell silent, not from despair but from reverence. My body remained in the icy prison, but my spirit ascended to join theirs. At that moment, I felt not loss but union, not sorrow, but the unending rhythm of Hukam. Their sacrifice was not an end—it was a celestial verse, resounding through time, an eternal beacon illuminating the path for all who walk in the light of the Eternal.

“My story does not end with loss; it transforms through the alchemy of faith. Even in the depths of darkness, the Eternal’s light cradled me, guiding each step. I came to understand that suffering is not a defeat—it is the sacred fire that tempers the spirit into an unyielding blade. This is the legacy I offer you: to trust in the Infinite, to endure the storms, and to rise beyond the illusions of pain and despair.

“Do you hear my voice? My life is not distant from yours; it is woven into the same cosmic tapestry. You, too, will encounter tempests, betrayals, and moments of profound loss. But remember who you are. Within you burns the same eternal flame that illuminated our path. The Beloved is with you now, as the Beloved was with me then, walking unseen yet ever present.

“Live with the courage of the Infinite. Stand unwavering in truth. Let your every step be guided by the melody of love for the Eternal. And when the winds howl and the night seems endless, let them carry my story to your heart. Hear it, and rise anew.”

Tears cascade down my face, their warmth a silent acknowledgment of the Divine presence. My breath catches as the winds fall still, the world around me suspended in a reverent hush. My head bows instinctively, receiving this precious gift of grace. Mata Gujri ji’s story now lives within me, her words a beacon of light in the shadowed waters of existence.

As I take my first step forward, I feel her presence enfold me like a sacred shroud. Her courage pulses through my veins, her voice a steady rhythm that aligns my heart with the Eternal’s will. The journey ahead may be treacherous, but I walk it now with her strength as my own.