The Saint of Anandpur

The sun over Anandpur was a merciless eye, gazing down upon the besieged city. Dust and the cries of battle mingled in the air, a constant taste of sorrow and struggle. Yet, amidst the clang of steel and the shouts of men, a silent figure moved with unwavering grace.

This was Bhai Kanhaiya, a devout Sikh whose white robes seemed to carry a stillness all their own. His hair was neatly tied in a turban, but his face, serene and gentle, belonged to no single side in this conflict. In his hands, he carried a large leather water-skin, known as a mashak.

He moved across the scorched earth, not towards the warriors in their prime, but towards the fallen. He knelt beside a crumpled figure in the blue of the Khalsa army, lifting the man’s head with tender care. “Water,” the soldier croaked, his throat thick with dust.

“The Guru’s water,” Bhai Kanhaiya replied softly, pouring a stream of cool liquid onto the parched lips. A sigh of relief, a flicker of life returning to tired eyes, was his only reward before he moved on.

But his next stop was not another blue-robed Sikh. It was a soldier from the Mughal camp, an enemy in the eyes of all others. His leg was wounded, his breathing shallow. He stared in disbelief as Bhai Kanhaiya approached him.

The Mughal soldier flinched, expecting a final blow. Instead, Bhai Kanhaiya’s compassionate eyes met his. Without a word, he offered the mashak. The soldier drank deeply, his suspicion slowly melting into bewildered gratitude.

This did not go unnoticed. A few Sikh soldiers, resting nearby, watched with growing unease. “Brother,” one of them, a young man named Harcharan, called out. “What are you doing? You give water to them? To the very men who seek to destroy us?”

Bhai Kanhaiya paused and looked at Harcharan, his gaze gentle but firm. “I see only a thirsty soul, brother. I see only a child of the same One Creator.” He then continued his work, leaving the soldiers to mutter amongst themselves.

The complaints soon reached the commander, and eventually, the revered Guru Gobind Singh himself. The Guru, seated in his tent, listened patiently to the grievances. His expression was calm, yet his eyes held a universe of wisdom.

He summoned Bhai Kanhaiya. The devoted Sikh walked into the Guru’s presence, his mashak still in hand, his robes dusty from his selfless labour. He bowed low, his heart open and without fear.

“Kanhaiya,” the Guru’s voice was like calming music. “I have heard from my soldiers. They say you give aid and comfort to our enemies. Is this true?”

Bhai Kanhaiya met the Guru’s gaze. “Yes, my Guru, it is,” he answered, his voice clear and steady. “That is what they see. But it is not what I see.”

This reply hushed the tent. The complaining soldiers shifted, their anger now mixed with curiosity. The Guru leaned forward slightly. “Then tell me, Kanhaiya. What is it that you see?”

“O, True King,” Bhai Kanhaiya began, his voice trembling with emotion. “When I look into the face of any man, whether he wears the blue of our Khalsa or the green of the Mughal armies, I see only you. I see your divine light in every pair of eyes.”

He gestured with a hand towards the battlefield beyond. “You have taught us that the One is in all. How then, my Guru, can I refuse water to a vessel that holds you? When I serve them, I am only serving my Guru.”

A profound silence fell upon the gathering. The soldiers who had complained now bowed their heads, their own anger seeming so small, so irrelevant in the face of such expansive love. They saw not a traitor, but a man living the Guru’s highest teaching.

The Guru’s face broke into a radiant smile. His eyes shone with pride and deep affection. He rose from his seat and embraced Bhai Kanhaiya, a powerful gesture that spoke volumes.

“You have understood the true heart of Sikhi,” the Guru declared, his voice ringing with authority and love. “You see no friend, no enemy. You see only the divine spark. In your eyes, we are all one family.”

Then, turning to his attendants, he said, “From this day forward, give Bhai Kanhaiya not only water, but also this healing balm. His work is not merely to quench thirst, but to heal the wounds of division.”

He handed a small pot of ointment to the humble water-bearer. Bhai Kanhaiya accepted it with tears of gratitude, bowing his head in silent prayer.

From that day on, he carried both water and balm. He moved a little slower, perhaps, for now he also cleaned and dressed the wounds of any who needed him, Sikh or Mughal, friend or foe.

He became a sanctuary in the midst of chaos, a walking embodiment of compassion. The soldiers on both sides came to recognize the figure in white, not as an ally or an enemy, but as a saint.

His presence was a quiet lesson. It reminded every soldier that beyond their uniforms and their flags, they were brothers, suffering under the same harsh sun.

The siege would eventually end, and the sounds of war would fade, but the story of Bhai Kanhaiya would echo through generations, a timeless melody of truth and boundless love.

He continued his service for the rest of his days, his mashak and balm a symbol of a heart that refused to build walls, a heart that saw only the divine light in every living being.

In the quiet that followed the storm of battle, his legacy was the gentle breeze that cooled the land, a promise that even in the deepest conflict, the water of mercy can never run dry.