Bhai Kanhaiya's Waterskin

On a great battlefield in the time of the Tenth Guru, the air was thick with smoke and the cries of wounded men.

Guru Gobind Singh's army of Sikhs fought on one side. The army of the emperor fought on the other. The two sides had been enemies for many days. The earth was wet with blood.

In the middle of all this, a man walked slowly, calmly, carrying a leather waterskin on his shoulder.

His name was Bhai Kanhaiya. His beard was long and white. His eyes were soft and far-seeing.

He stopped beside a wounded soldier and lifted his head gently.

"Drink, brother," he said.

He tipped the waterskin to the man's lips. The soldier drank. He sighed. He closed his eyes in peace.

Bhai Kanhaiya moved on. He stopped beside another wounded man. He gave him water. He stopped beside another. And another. And another.

He did not look at their clothes. He did not look at their faces to see whose side they fought for. He simply gave water to anyone who needed water.

After some hours, a young Sikh soldier came running to the Guru's tent.

"Maharaj," he said, breathless, his eyes wide with anger, "Bhai Kanhaiya is helping the enemy! He is giving water to the emperor's soldiers — the very men who killed our brothers this morning!"

The Guru looked up from his prayers. His eyes were calm.

"Bring him to me," he said softly.

The soldiers brought Bhai Kanhaiya. The old man stood quietly before the Guru. His clothes were stained with dust and the blood of strangers. The waterskin still hung from his shoulder, only half full now.

The Guru looked at him for a long time.

"Bhai Kanhaiya," he said. "Is what they say true? Are you giving water to our enemies?"

Bhai Kanhaiya bowed his head. He thought before he answered.

"Maharaj," he said at last, his voice gentle and low, "when I walk among the wounded, I do not see any enemies. I do not see any friends. I do not see Sikhs. I do not see Mughals. I do not see Hindus. I do not see Muslims."

He paused. His old hand touched the waterskin lightly.

"I see only your face, Maharaj. In every man. In every fallen one. I see only you, lying in the dust, asking for water."

The tent grew very quiet.

The young soldier who had brought the complaint lowered his eyes. His cheeks burned.

The Guru did not speak for a long moment. Then he rose to his feet. He walked to Bhai Kanhaiya. He placed both his hands gently on the old man's shoulders.

"Kanhaiya," he said softly, "you have understood my teaching better than any soldier in my army. You have seen what I have been trying to show. There is one Light in every chest. There is one Beloved looking out of every pair of eyes."

The Guru turned and called for one of his attendants.

"Bring a jar of healing salve," he said. "Give it to Bhai Kanhaiya. From this day, when you carry water to the wounded, also carry this. Pour it on their wounds. Bind them gently. Do not stop. Do not ask whose side they are on. Do not ask. Just heal."

Bhai Kanhaiya pressed his forehead to the Guru's feet. Tears ran into his white beard.

He went back to the field. He carried water in one hand and salve in the other. He walked all that day. He walked the next day. He walked among friend and enemy alike, and gave them the same tenderness, the same cool drink, the same gentle binding of their wounds.

Some of the emperor's soldiers, after he had healed them, threw down their swords. They could not lift a weapon against an army that healed them with such soft hands.

Many years later, in a small village far from any battlefield, a young pregnant woman named Bibi Daya came to know this story. Her grandmother told it to her one evening, while she sat with her hands resting on her round belly.

"Granddaughter," said the old woman, "do you know why I tell you this story now?"

"Why, Naniji?" Bibi Daya asked.

"Because the little one inside you is listening," said her grandmother. "And you, my child, are like Bhai Kanhaiya. You do not yet know who your baby will be. You do not know if your child will love what you love or believe what you believe. You only know that this small one is thirsty for your love, and you are giving it. Without asking. Without measuring. Without conditions."

Bibi Daya pressed her hands to her belly. The baby moved softly inside her, as if it had heard.

Her grandmother smiled.

"That is the truest love," she said. "The love that does not stop to check whose side anyone is on. The love that just kneels down and offers water."

Outside, the evening lamp was lit in the small gurdwara at the corner of the lane. Someone began, very softly, to sing. The sound moved through the dusk like cool water on a wounded shoulder, healing whoever needed to be healed.