When someone asks me to explain the Sikh tradition—or when I see ‘Sikhism’ introduced briefly in educational materials—the most common strategy is to provide some basic historical facts and doctrinal characterizations. ‘The Sikh tradition, the world’s fifth-largest organized religion, originated in the north Indian subcontinent with Gurū Nanak, who was born in 1469, and it developed through the contributions of his nine living successors. Sikhs believe all humans are created equal by One God and that the purpose of human life is to connect with this One through contemplative remembrance, honest labor, and selfless service as revealed in the Gurū Granth Sāhib, the Sikhs’ holy book and the eleventh, eternal Gurū. Many Sikh males, in particular, are visibly identifiable by their unshorn beards and turbans, which protect their long, uncut hair.’
Although certain academics problematize the notion of ‘Sikhism’ as well as its characterization as ‘monotheistic’ or as a ‘world religion,’ the customary spiel is not viewed by most Sikhs as terribly inadequate as an initial response in its broad outlines. That being said, where I do find this type of summary generally does fall very short—even laying aside the charges of conceptual infelicity and anachronism—is in its ability to shed light upon the often implicit, but unstated question, especially as it is posed in a diasporic context: amidst the blandishments and freedoms of twenty-first century life, why belong to a highly visible yet little understood minority? For Sikhs and non-Sikhs alike, an adequately principled response must therefore render intelligible the inner experience owing to which leading a Sikh life—despite its perceived challenges—is pricelessly choiceworthy. Excitingly, an adequate response should prove as valid for the first Sikh in history as for any Sikh living today.
Short of positing an essentialist, transhistorical subjectivity common to all Sikhs, I would nonetheless suggest that Sikh history, tradition, and scripture naturally give rise to a distinctive understanding of the human condition as well as to a characteristic inheritance of commitments, practices, and institutional forms through which Sikhs navigate life. As it occurs to me that much of the confusion regarding ‘Sikhism’ arises from the heterogenous and often contradictory assumptions and constructions different Sikhs have come to adopt for a variety of reasons, I will treat instead the ‘GurSikh’ tradition, employing a term prevalent in GurSikh scripture, centering my exposition on the received endowments of the Gurūs. It is thus my hope that this essay in the elucidation of key elements of the GurSikh ethos and their interrelation—while deeply rooted in my personal experience and understanding of GurSikhī to date—will not prove idiosyncratic.
GurSikhī begins from the recognition there exists something of supreme importance to be learned from the Gurū. This recognition is constitutive of the Sikh, the disciple. As is etymologically implied, the Gurū delivers one from the tenebrous to the luminous; it is the nature of the Gurū to enlighten. Consequently, a GurSikh is a disciple on the Gurū’s path to enlightenment, and GurSikhī is the dynamic nexus where the Gurū’s instruction and the Sikh’s discipleship converge. Today, the Gurū is to be found eternally manifest in the Gurū Granth—the revelatory verses compiled by Gurū Arjan and authoritatively installed by Gurū Gobind Singh as Srī Gurū Granth Sāhib—and in the Gurū Panth—the saintly community of GurSikhs on the Gurūs’ mystical path.
Let us turn to the primary exposition of the GurSikh ethos as found in the Mūl Mantar and first stanza of Gurū Nanak’s Japujī Sāhib. At the head of Srī Gurū Granth Sāhib, the first character of the first Gurū’s essential yet confoundingly untranslatable Mūl Mantar is the numeric ‘One,’ different in kind from the letters that follow, as is the being of the Self-Existent One from all its creations. Beside this One is a form of the long Gurmukhī ‘ō,’ whose received pronunciation is here ‘ōaṅkār,’ denoting the One productive of this Originary Word. Identifying this Originary One whose Name is Reality, Gurū Nanak proceeds to evocatively limn this Wondrous One’s multivalent attributes non-propositionally—inflected, yet uninterrupted by verbs, prepositions, punctuation, or even capitalization and spacing in the original orthography. In the Mūl Mantar, language strains at the limits of its power, marking the liminal frontier where human understanding and divine self-revelation converge. Subtracting my syntactically-necessitated but highly provisional gloss, a hyper-literal translation may be rendered as follows:
‘1ō reality’snamedoingbeingfearlesshatelessbeyondtimeformbeyondincarnationselfexistentbyenlighteninggrace.’
Among my earliest memories are nocturnal attempts to form a synoptic cognition of this wondrous One through Gurū Nanak’s revelatory formula—losing myself to sleep—only to wake to fleeting recollections of ever-new realizations transcending utterance. ‘||Japu||’ the next word, thus set off and self-contained by punctuation, literally enjoins recitation. Beyond titling the subsequent Bānī or revelatory utterance of Gurū Nanak, ‘Japujī Sāhib,’ it seems to apply imperatively to the invocatory mantar that proceeds it, the lines that succeed it, and to itself—pointing towards a state of perfect inner absorption. The immediately following lines do not explicitly name a subject, but in their declaration of omnitemporal Truth, they undoubtedly reference the same One object of japu: ‘Primally veracious, across epochs veracious, is indeed veracious: Nanak, [the One] will indeed be veracious.’
Coming to the first pauṛī, or stanza, Gurū Nanak denies the adequacy of four general strategies. ‘A hundred thousand ritual ablutions do not yield a clean mind. Remaining silent, inner quiet is not achieved. Vast material accumulations appease not this gnawing hunger. No clever ploys yield the advantage that ultimately accompanies one.’ Considering these strategies by turn, it becomes evident they are singly and together inadequate for achieving one supreme aim, the realization of which furnishes life’s comprehensive solution. This corresponds to the central human question Gurū Nanak then raises: ‘how does one become righteous?’ The difficulty is underscored by a follow-up: ‘how does one rend asunder the veil of corruption?’ By way of response, the first pauṛī culminates with the instruction to ‘tread [in harmony with] the order of the will [of the One] by which Nanak writes.’
From the loftiest mysteries of the eternally true divine nature, the first stanza calls to our awareness the all-too-accessible recognition of the inescapable restlessness in which we live, and in turn, of the self-defeating folly of our plans for pursuing happiness. Gurbānī—the revelatory verses of Srī Gurū Granth Sāhib that are themselves the Gurū—often liken the five vices (lust, wrath, avarice, infatuation, and hubris) to thieves who deceive us with illusory goods, plundering this precious opportunity to earn the true profit of devotedly serving the One. The moment-to-moment choices we make disclose the objects in which we place our hopes for peace. Past actions shape present inclinations. Even with our efforts to sustain perfect righteousness from moment-to-moment in thought, word, and deed, how many times must we die to our best intentions—only to find ourselves reborn midstream the next moment—even before breakfast! It is self-defeating to seek happiness in opposition to the divine will, for external pleasures, goods, honors, achievements, and relationships are no substitute for inner goodness, whose perfect realization alone is ordained to satisfy our deepest longings. Only in fulfilling our nature can we find lasting fulfillment.
At the heart of GurSikh mysticism is the meditative contemplation of the Wondrous One’s attributes, especially as through Gurbānī Kīrtan, where the One’s praises are mellifluously sung—optimally in the spiritually transformative musical form in which they were first revealed—accompanied by virtuosic melodic and percussive instrumentation. Through the grace of the Gurū, we lovingly worship the One, by whose grace we cast off our demerits and come to be imbued with the divine virtues. A GurSikh must always be prepared for sacrifice, merciful towards the meek, patiently abiding, forgiving of error, attentive in service, equanimous through any fortune, steadfast in righteousness, and modest in victory. From Gurū Nanak onwards, GurSikh tradition affirms the indivisible union of temporal and spiritual sovereignty. A GurSikh of the Khalsā order is complete insofar as he or she perfectly realizes both the spiritual and martial virtues. GurSikhs are responsible for actively participating in the affairs of this world to further the cause of justice, always weighing means on the immutable scales of our divine end, and remaining open to the inscrutable ways of providence. Like a lotus in the pond of the world, the GurSikh must remain pristine. In the daily recitation of Gurbānī, crowning one’s head with a dastār or turban each morning, and affixing fresh dough to the mridang and jōṙī to accompany the singing of the Lord’s praises, a GurSikh’s day is spent—despite all wordly responsibilities—in unbroken japu of the Gurūs’ rich endowments.
There exist certain distinctions the denial of which spells not only the death of reason, but also of civilizations. Consider, for instance, the concepts of ‘civilization’ itself and of ‘barbarism.’ While undeniably barbarous deeds have been committed in civilization’s name, their very barbarousness attests to the need for such words and for their correct application. Try as one might to banish the names, the conceptual differences endure. Even more significantly, such distinctions correspond to markedly divergent conditions of human life. Conflating what is unlike vitiates our capacity to think and choose with clarity and nuance. To lose sight of the distinction between authority and its abuse is to forget that legitimate authority may exist and fulfill an important purpose. At its best, the richness of language powerfully facilitates not only our understanding of the world as it is, but also our capacity for imaginatively articulating what it might become. Our theoretical accounts must be judged against their capacity to support genuine human flourishing.
Of paramount axiological significance to the GurSikh is the distinction between ‘Gurmat’ and ‘manmat.’ Gurmat is the Gurū’s ‘mat’ or wisdom, as enshrined in Srī Gurū Granth Sāhib and exemplified in the historical example of the Gurūs. One is a Gurmukh insofar as one is oriented towards Gurmat. A manmukh, on the other hand, is oriented towards manmat—the mat of his or her own mind—particularly the aspect of it that seeks meretricious gain in clever ploys. Far from an expression of misology and blind subservience—perfect deference to the highest wisdom itself demands sublime judgment—the GurSikh concept of manmat may be considered alongside ‘rationalism’ as critiqued by Hayek and Oakeshott—with antecedents in Smith and Burke—as contradistinguished from ‘reason’ proper. ‘Science’ must likewise be distinguished from ‘scientism,’ as must ‘philosophy’ from ‘ideology.’ Rationalism, scientism, and ideology—in turn—may be profitably analyzed as especially pernicious subspecies of manmat. The transmutation of reason into unreason through its unreasonable—not to forget hubristic—overextension is a failure in both epistemic humility and self-knowledge.
If the occurrence of concepts such as Gurmat and the Gurmukh in Gurbānī offers strong evidence that there exists a distinctively GurSikh approach to human problems, the metaphor and existence of the ṭaksāl—or mint—demonstrates the Gurūs’ provision of institutional forms for ‘coinage’ of the Sabad—the Word—inside the GurSikhs, such that they become ‘Nihāl,’ imbued with the state of supreme blessedness. The GurSikh process of becoming righteous shares features of Aristotelian ‘habituation,’ where virtue is consciously practiced until excellence of character arises spontaneously—which is to say—without the need of conscious exertion. This latter state of ‘sahaj’ bears meaningful similarities with the Chinese concept of ‘wu-wei’ as developed in Confucian and Taoist thought. Recognizing all faiths as expressions of love for this Wondrous One, the Gurūs abjured claims of exclusivism. Crucially, they enjoined the adherents of all spiritual paths to live righteously in loving worship of this One who exists beyond ritual or linguistic encapsulation. The state of rapturous, eternal union with the One is attainable only by the sufficient Grace of the One. Thus GurSikhī is noteworthy for affirming universally necessary salvific conditions satisfiable through a multiplicity of traditions. The GurSikh accordingly welcomes dialogue with diverse spiritual, philosophical, and linguistic communities across time and culture.
By way of conclusion, I submit that the single concept most characteristic of the GurSikh ethos and explanatory of the herculean deeds of GurSikh history is ‘chaṛdīkalā.’ Literally, something like ‘the art of ascending,’ the concept of chaṛdīkalā denotes the state of indomitable fortitude that gave rise to the proverbial equation of a single GurSikh of the Khalsā with 125,000 warriors. As GurSikhī arguably maintains an understanding of the unity of the virtues bearing striking commonalities with Plato’s, a GurSikh must possess all the virtues to fully possess any particular virtue, and to fully possess one is to fully possess them all. A GurSikh in chaṛdīkalā is thus a fearlessly sovereign non-aggressor replete with mercy, prepared to sacrifice his or her life for the victory of righteousness over tyranny. Though a GurSikh may be severely outnumbered, advancing in perfect harmony with the divine will, One is never alone.
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Nihal Singh