Each morning, I begin my day by listening to the discourse from Manji Sahib Gurdwara, Amritsar—a practice I hold dear. It anchors me in the morning Hukam (Command) from Sri Harimandar Sahib, lovingly known as the Golden Temple. For five weeks, due to travel, this sacred rhythm was paused.

On 3 May 2025, I returned.

That morning, the Hukam was from Guru Arjan Sahib:

ਸਤਿਗੁਰ ਪੂਰੇ ਭਾਣਾ ॥ ਤਾ ਜਪਿਆ ਨਾਮੁ ਰਮਾਣਾ ॥
When the perfect Eternal Guru wills,
then one contemplates Nam of the Beautiful.

     Guru Granth Sahib 628

The giani’s (scholar’s) discourse struck a deep chord, reverberating through many layers of my being. His words carried the fragrance of Bhai Sahib Bhai Vir Singh ji, whom I lovingly call Pitaji. It was Pitaji who first taught me to notice the place of Shukrana—gratitude—in my life. In this discourse, the giani wove in a story from Pitaji’s journey.

My interpretive rendering of the giani’s reflections follows, interwoven with Bhai Vir Singh ji’s voice and my own.

The Giani Said:

We beings often complain about what we do not receive, and we blame the Giver. Rarely do we consider that the Giver may also reclaim what has been gifted. We simply complain, and we carry on with our complaints.

But complaint builds walls. It creates a separation between the Sikh and the Guru.

Shukrana—gratitude—does the opposite. It draws the Sikh closer to the Guru. When one begins to live in gratitude, it slowly shapes the entire being. It becomes temperament, a way of walking, a rhythm of living. And from that place, shukrana transforms into simran—a deep, continuous remembrance.

What stirs within during such a moment?

When we walk inward again and again, a quiet refinement begins. Habits shift. Perspective deepens. Slowly, this inner turning becomes a gentler way of moving through the world—one that flows in tune with the Guru’s glance and guidance.

But without gratitude, this transformation halts. The relationship with the Guru becomes strained, even negative. It turns dry and distant. The heart hardens. Complaints take root. However, when gratitude is active within, everything begins to shift. A different relationship is cultivated—one filled with reverence, love, and a deep sense of devotion. Gratitude opens the heart. It softens what was rigid. It allows love to flow where complaint once lived.

In truth, many great beings have walked this Earth. Often, they know when their end will come. And yet, they remain utterly calm, like tranquil rivers, like gentle winds that stir even the tiniest pores with quiet grace. Even in that knowing, they remain in alignment with Divine Will. They remain in Raza—Divine acceptance. They dwell in that serenity. They move forward with quiet grace. 

On the other hand, if we knew someone in our family would depart tomorrow or the next day, we would panic and be distraught. But those who walk in Hukam—in surrender to the Divine Will—pass on in peace.

They do not falter. They do not stir panic. They rise.

And Then, the Giani Shared:

Once, the Saint-Poet Bhai Vir Singh ji shared a moment from his life with the sangat (congregation). It felt less like a memory and more like a revelation.

When the Divine guides someone toward the path of righteousness, the reasons are countless and impossible to grasp fully. Some are visible. Others remain hidden. Yet those who walk the path tell us that transformation often begins through the simplest moments.

The devout recognize these moments as compassion, as grace, as forgiveness. A sudden meeting. A sacred dream. The quiet presence of a spiritual being. A single breath of stillness—and something begins to shift.

A path once unknown starts to unfold. Life begins to turn in a new direction.

There are those who once had no connection to the spiritual life, yet today, they are immersed in it. Sometimes, it is the arrival of a luminous being. Sometimes, a dream. A line from a book. A silence that echoes. The shift may begin softly, in stillness—but it moves mountains.

The Giani shared that Bhai Vir Singh ji once said, “There was a time when I had no connection to religion at all. It had no place in my life.”

The Giani reflected: even now, if you open one of Bhai Vir Singh ji’s books—read just two or four pages—something shifts within. The scattered mind finds focus. The hesitant tongue regains strength. The faltering voice begins to return. This is not ordinary. It is the power of Divine remembrance radiating through his words.

He then referenced Sant Prasad, a book by Sant Kartar Singh ji Kamaliawale, son of Sant Sangat Singh ji Kamaliawale. In it, Bhai Vir Singh ji’s transformation is captured with grace and intimacy. He recounts a tender, life-altering moment from his youth.

At fifteen, Bhai Vir Singh ji lived with his grandfather, Giani Hazara Singh ji. A room was set aside for him. His life was simple—school, homework, food, play, sleep. Spirituality was not in view.

One day, he returned home to find an unfamiliar bed in his room. Curious, he asked his grandmother about it. She replied: “Friends of Giani ji have come from Harappa. They are deeply devout. One will be staying here a few days to visit Sri Darbar Sahib.”

The guest visited Guru Ramdas Patshah Maharaj (Golden Temple) that evening. These beings do not linger. They arrive silently, bow in reverence, and slip away without announcement. But something of them remains. Their presence leaves a trace.

That night, as Bhai Vir Singh ji lay quietly in his room, he noticed the guest sitting in simran, softly reciting Sodar Rahras Sahib (evening prayer). He later recalled: “His face began to glow. It was as if the sun had risen in the room. I had never seen anything like it.”

He said nothing. But something inside him stirred. Over the next few days, Bhai Sahib observed quietly. 

At night, even in sleep, the guest would softly recite sacred verses. His simran charged the air. Bhai Sahib began to sit beside him, drawn not by understanding, but by something more profound. Something wordless.

Then, one night, the shift became undeniable.

At midnight, Bhai Sahib awoke to find the guest again immersed in simran. The room shimmered. No lamp was lit. And yet, a golden hue filled the space.

“There was a warmth on his face, a soft brilliance,” he said. “It felt like the rising of the sun—not hot, but glowing with grace.”

His inner resistance dissolved. The skepticism faded. And a soft remembrance took root. The man stayed several more days. Then he prepared to leave.

Bhai Sahib was home when the guest packed his belongings and loaded them onto a tanga (horse-drawn cart). He turned to Giani Hazara Singh ji and said: “Gianiji—Vahiguru ji ka Khalsa, Vahiguru ji ki Fatih!  I will send you a letter. When it comes, do not delay. Come immediately.”

He got onto the tanga, then paused. Returned. Repeated the exact words. And again—a third time—he stepped down, folded his hands, and said once more: “I will send a letter. Upon receiving it, come at once.”

Bhai Sahib didn’t understand the urgency, nor what was truly unfolding. But a few days later, the letter came.

His grandfather read it, rose, and said simply, “The letter has come. I must go.” And with no hesitation, he left.

Only later did Bhai Sahib begin to understand: the guest had known. He had come to prepare his grandfather. And he had come to prepare Bhai Sahib—not just for a parting, but for an awakening.

“Just by being in the presence of one who lived in bandgi—deep devotion—I began to change,” Bhai Sahib said. “Sometimes, all it takes is presence. A few lines from a sacred book. The hush of simran in a darkened room.”

The Giani Concluded:

Years have passed. Generations. And yet Bhai Vir Singh ji’s writings continue to anchor restless minds. Even today, if you pick up one of his books—read just five or seven pages—you’ll feel it.

Stillness. Clarity. A breeze in the storm.

His words settle the mind, steady the spirit. Something within remembers. Because when the True Sovereign bestows Grace, everything changes.

As I listened to the discourse—after five weeks of silence—I felt as though this Hukam had arrived as a gift, perfectly timed with my return.

“When the perfect Eternal Guru wills, then one contemplates Nam of the Beautiful.”

The Nam that once stirred in Pitaji through the presence of one luminous being stirred again in me, through the voice of the giani, the remembrance of Pitaji himself, and the stillness that followed.

May I continue to live in that remembrance.
May gratitude become simran.
May simran become breath.
May Nam grace me.