A Tribute to Char Sahibzade​

Between the Walls​

Dr. Devinder Pal Singh​

The late December’s bone-chilling wind swept through the city, carrying the weight of remembrance that Harpreet Singh felt every year during this sacred week. Sadly, his children had naively ignored it over the years.

"Dad! When are we actually going somewhere?" Harman's voice rang through the living room, sixteen years of privilege evident in her casual demand. She didn't look up from her phone, where an endless scroll of vacation photos made her feel as if these were mocking her lame winter. "Everyone's posting from Goa, Dubai and Switzerland. I'm literally just existing here."

Navdeep, fourteen and sprawled across the opposite couch, nodded without pausing his game. "For real. The whole squad's travelling. I look like a loser."

Harpreet paused in the doorway. Tomorrow was December 21st, the beginning of the martyrdom week. His wife Surjeet appeared behind him, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder.

"A trip?" Harpreet entered with measured steps, his navy turban catching the afternoon light. "The annual Gurmat Samagam starts tomorrow at the Gurudwara. Three days of kirtan and katha about the Sahibzaade. This week, from December 21st to 27th, is when we remember their sacrifice. We could attend as a family."

Harman's head snapped up. "Are you serious right now? During our break?"

"Dad, come on." Navdeep finally paused his game. "We know about the martyrdom days. They happen every December. No disrespect, but spending our break in a Gurudwara? That's not happening."

"Why not?" Harpreet settled into his armchair. "You spend three to four hours in theatres watching pure fantasy. Expensive illusions."

"Because it's fun!" Harman's voice rose. "Why is that so hard to understand?"

"That's precisely what concerns me." Harpreet leaned forward. "You've trained yourselves to enjoy what's false. You can sit motionless, consuming illusions, but connecting with something real, something that shaped who you are, that's unbearable."

"Oh my God." Navdeep grabbed his phone, signalling the conversation was over. "Everyone does it. It's not that deep."

Harpreet felt truth deflecting off surfaces too smooth to hold it. He looked at Surjeet. Her slight nod said: Don't push. Not now.

******​

That evening, Harpreet found Surjeet in their bedroom. "They're drowning, and they think they're swimming."

"They're children surrounded by other children doing the same things," Surjeet said gently. "How can we expect them to see differently? Telling isn't teaching. You have to let them discover it themselves."

"When I was their age, my father took me to Fatehgarh Sahib. I saw the wall where..." He couldn't finish. “Even decades later, standing before that spot, I still feel as if it had broken down something in me and rebuilt me differently. It was December 26th. The exact anniversary."

"Then give them that," Surjeet said. "Not a lecture. An experience. You're a good storyteller when you want to be. You just need the right setting."

******​

The next morning, Harpreet approached his children with carefully constructed enthusiasm. "Tonight, after dinner, a special family meeting. A mystery mission. Both of you, living room, 9:30 p.m. sharp."

Harman looked up, suspicious. "What kind of mission?"

"If I told you, it wouldn't be a mystery. But I promise it's not a lecture. And there might be Mom's special cookies involved."

The magic word worked. "Fine," Harman said, trying to sound bored. "But this better be actually interesting."

******​

At 9:15 p.m., Harpreet and Surjeet transformed the living room, dimmed the lights, arranged candles in a pattern, and placed floor cushions in a circle. When Harman and Navdeep entered at nine thirty, both stopped short.

"Whoa," Navdeep said. "This is actually kind of cool."

They settled onto cushions. In the candlelight, they suddenly looked younger.

"I want to start with a question," Harpreet began softly. "Harman, what's your perspective on life? How do you see this whole existence?"

Harman reached for a cookie, buying time. She hadn't expected philosophy. "I mean... you get one life. So live it fully. Have fun, travel, make memories. Post the good moments. Be happy."

"And you, Navdeep?"

Navdeep sat straighter. "Same, mostly. Do everything, work hard, and show off your success. Get a slick car, be like those influencers with millions of followers. Make people jealous of your life."

"Make people jealous," Harpreet repeated softly. "That's an interesting goal." He sipped his chai (tea). "I'm stuck on something. It keeps me awake. Maybe you can help me understand it."

Both teens leaned forward slightly.

"The Chaar Sahibzaade: four sons of Guru Gobind Singh. Baba Ajit Singh and Baba Jujhar Singh, eighteen and fourteen years old. Baba Zorawar Singh and Baba Fateh Singh, nine and six years old. Do you know what happened to them?"

"They died," Harman said quietly. "They were martyred."

"They were," Harpreet nodded. "But here's what puzzles me. These children had everything: wealth, comfort, and palaces. They were heirs to the Gurgadi. Every possibility for long, powerful, celebrated lives stretched before them."

He paused, letting the image settle. "And yet between December 21st and December 27th, in the year 1704, this exact week we're living through right now, they chose to give it all up."

The room grew still.

"The older brothers, teenagers like you, Harman, they rode into battle at Chamkaur Sahib on December 22nd, knowing the odds. Forty Sikhs against thousands of Mughal soldiers. They could have stayed back. They asked their father for permission to fight, knowing there could only be one outcome. And they fought with such courage that centuries later, we still remember their names."

Navdeep had stopped fidgeting.

"But it's the younger ones that haunt me," Harpreet continued, his voice growing thick. "Baba Zorawar Singh and Baba Fateh were separated from their father earlier during the battle near the Sirsa River. They ended up imprisoned in a freezing tower in Sirhind with their grandmother, Mata Gujri Ji."

He pulled out his worn gutka, holding it like an anchor. "On December 24th, they were brought before Nawab Wazir Khan. He offered them everything: riches, comfort, life itself. All they had to do was convert. Just bow down once. They were children. They were told that their grandmother was begging for their lives. Of course, it was a lie, a pressure tactic for them to convert to Islam."

"What did they say?" Harman whispered.

"Nine-year-old Zorawar Singh said, 'Why would we fear death when we've already found life? Why would we bow to you when we stand with Waheguru?'"​

Harpreet's voice cracked. "For two more days, they refused. Finally, on December 26th, two days from now, exactly 321 years ago, Wazir Khan ordered them to be bricked alive. They were sealed inside a wall while it was built around them. Standing. Watching bricks rise around their small bodies, up to their waists, their chests, their necks."

Surjeet reached over, touched his hand.

"And they recited Gurbani," Harpreet whispered. "They held each other's hands. They smiled. When their suffocated bodies slumped, the wall fell down, and then they were beheaded. On learning it, their grandmother died that same day."

The silence was absolute. Harman's cookie sat forgotten. Tears streamed down her face.

"So here's my dilemma," Harpreet said. "What were they standing for? Where did children… these children…find the strength to embrace death like that? Were they just born different? Or did they understand something about life that we've forgotten?"

Neither teen could speak.

"I don't know," Harman finally whispered. "I don't understand how anyone could..."

"Neither did I," Harpreet said, "until I learned what Gurbani teaches about life and death. That's what I want to share with you tonight. Not to lecture…but to offer. Because I think you're searching for something real beneath all the filters and followers, but you don't know where to find it."

Navdeep looked up, surprised. "How did you..."

"Because I see you. Both of you. Scrolling endlessly, posting constantly, but never quite satisfied. Always comparing, always performing. It's exhausting, isn't it?"

The simple recognition cracked something open.

Harpreet opened his gutka. "Sikhi teaches us something radical. Listen to this line: Jis piaarae sio nehu tis aagai mar chaleeyai. If your love for the Divine is true, then surrender everything before it. Your ego, your fears, your attachments, your need for control. Let them die."

"Let them die?" Harman looked confused. "But we're supposed to be living?"

"Exactly!" Harpreet's eyes lit up. "That's the paradox. That's the secret. Sabad marahu fir jeevhu sad hee taa fir maran na hoee. Let your ego die through the Divine Word, through Gurbani. When your ego dies, your selfishness, your insecurities, and your constant need to compare and compete also die, then you truly live. You're reborn into real life. Eternal life. And then you never really die."

He looked intently at both children. "This isn't a metaphor. This is a literal truth. The ego's death leads to spiritual life. And once you have spiritual life, physical death becomes meaningless."

Navdeep frowned, thinking hard. "But the Sahibzaade physically died. Their bodies were killed."

"Were they?" Harpreet leaned forward. "Think about it. Baba Ajit Singh and Baba Jujhar Singh had already overcome their egos. They'd been raised in the Shabad. Fearlessness, truth, dharma, and complete surrender to Waheguru weren't ideas for them. These were their actual state of being. They didn't fight for glory or recognition. They fought because it was right. Because their souls had already merged with the truth."

"And the younger ones," Surjeet added softly, "had already achieved Shabad marna, ego death, before their bodies were touched. So when their physical forms were attacked, their spirits were already immortal."

"But they're gone," Harman protested, frustration and tears mixing in her voice. "They died. They're not here."

"Aren't they?" Harpreet asked gently. "What's your name?"

"Harman Kaur."

"Kaur. Princess. Daughter of the Khalsa. And who are the Khalsa?"

"The... followers of the Gurus?"

"More than that. The Khalsa carry forward the spirit of the Sahibzaade. Every time a Sikh prayer is recited, they are remembered. Every time someone chooses courage over comfort, they live again. The entire world remembers them. Not as victims. As immortal warriors. As inspiration."

Harpreet's voice swelled with emotion. "They live in you, in every Kaur and Singh who stands up for truth. In every person who surrenders ego to something greater. That is jeevhu sad hee, eternal life. They live forever."

The silence that followed felt different now. Contemplative. Searching.

"Bhagat Kabir Ji says: Kabir jis marne te jag dare mere man anand. Marne hi te paeiya pooran parmanand.' That death which the world fears brings me joy.' Why? Because this death isn't of the body. It's the death of ego, fear, attachment, and ignorance. This death leads to freedom. To pooran parmanand, complete bliss."

"So the Sahibzaade weren't afraid?" Navdeep asked, his voice small.

"They had already experienced ego's death of their ego. Their spirits had dissolved into the Divine. So when the moment of physical death came, the world saw tragedy. But they experienced Anand (bliss). Union with Waheguru. The fearlessness that rises from Shabad."

He closed the gutka gently. "This is what I wanted you to understand. Being young isn't about being careless. Being modern isn't about being hollow. The Sahibzaade were your age. They had everything you have. But they chose values over vanity. Courage over comfort. Sacrifice over selfishness. Truth over performance."

"But how?" Harman's voice cracked. "How do you become like that? I can't even get off my phone for an hour."

Harpreet smiled warmly. "You start small. You start by questioning what you're chasing. By reading Gurbani and actually thinking about it. You practice letting your ego die in small ways, choosing one real thing over one false thing, before life asks you to face big tests."

"And you don't have to do it alone," Surjeet said. "That's what sangat is for. That's what the Gurudwara is for. That's what this week of remembrance is for."

Navdeep looked at his father with new eyes. "Is this why you wanted us to go to the Samagam?"

"Yes. Not to sit and be bored. To connect. To feel what I'm telling you. To hear katha from people who've dedicated their lives to understanding these truths."

"I want to go," Harman said suddenly, wiping her eyes. "Tomorrow. I want to understand this."

"Me too," Navdeep said. "But Dad... will you come with us? Help us understand?"

Harpreet felt emotion rise in his throat. "Nothing would make me happier."

******​

The next morning, December 22nd, the anniversary of the Battle of Chamkaur, their car pulled up to the Gurudwara. Two teenagers emerged with new eyes. The building they'd seen a hundred times suddenly looked different.

Inside, the sangat was gathering. The smell of chai (tea) and incense mixed with quiet reverence. Harman and Navdeep followed their parents to sit on the floor, and when the kirtan began, they closed their eyes and actually listened.

The words flowed in Gurmukhi; they didn't fully understand the language, but underneath was something else. A current. A frequency. A call from across centuries.

When the katha speaker began describing the Battle of Chamkaur, speaking of how Baba Ajit Singh and Baba Jujhar Singh fought on this very day 321 years ago, Harman felt it viscerally. These weren't distant heroes anymore. They were mirrors showing what courage actually looked like. What it meant to stand for something real.

Beside her, Navdeep sat with clenched fists, overwhelmed. He thought about all the video games he played as a warrior, where heroism meant pressing buttons. But this was real. Teenagers barely older than him had faced real weapons, real odds, real death, with grace, with purpose, and with faith.

After the program, as they drove home, neither teen reached for their phones. They watched the December streets pass, seeing everything differently, both more fragile and more precious.

"Dad," Harman said quietly, "thank you. For last night. For not giving up on us."

"Yeah," Navdeep added. "Thanks for the mission."

Harpreet caught Surjeet's eye in the rearview mirror. She smiled.

"The mission isn't over," he said. "It's just beginning. Learning to let the false self die so the true self can live. Learning to be fearless, not because nothing scares you, but because you're connected to something greater than fear. We have four more days of the Samagam. Will you come with us?"

"Yes," they said together.

******​

That night, Harman sat on her bedroom floor with her gutka, a gift from her grandmother that had sat unused for years. She opened it carefully, reverently. The Gurmukhi script looked like art. She found a translation app on her phone, the same phone that had enslaved her, and began slowly, haltingly, learning her first shabad.

Down the hall, Navdeep stood at his window looking at the December stars. He thought about the Sahibzaade, about Baba Zorawar Singh and Baba Fateh Singh standing between those rising walls on December 26th, holding hands, reciting Gurbani. About finding something worth standing for. About becoming someone worth being.

Two days from now, on December 26th, they would return to the Gurudwara for the most solemn commemoration. And for the first time, they would understand what they were remembering. Not just a historical tragedy, but a living example of how to truly live.

In the living room, Harpreet and Surjeet sat together in comfortable silence.

"They heard it," Surjeet said softly.

"They felt it," Harpreet corrected. "There's a difference."

The December wind whispered against the windows, carrying echoes of courage from centuries past, the promise of awakening, the invitation to truly live.

Two young hearts had finally heard the call. Not to perfection, they were still teenagers, still learning, still stumbling. But to the purpose. To the truth. To the long, beautiful journey of letting walls become mirrors, and mirrors become windows into eternal light.

The story of the Char Sahibzaade wasn't just history anymore. It was becoming their story too, and that transformation, that awakening, would ripple forward through everything they touched, everyone they met, every choice they made from this December night forward.

Between the walls that confine and the walls that reveal truth, they had found their way.

The mission within had begun.

About the Author

Dr. Devinder Pal Singh is a teacher and author, who has published 24 books in Punjabi and English and about 1200 works in the fields of science, religion and environment. He has telecasted 75 television programs. Which are also available on the internet as YouTube presentations. Being a physicist, he also likes to write stories about science and environment to increase the curiosity of his readers. Today he is serving as the Director of the Cambridge Learning Institute in Mississauga, Canada.

Contact: drdpsn@gmail.com