What Is a Sikh Boy Learning to Become?

An offering for vichaar

Jun 03, 2026

Excerpt

A Sikh boy is always being taught. He is taught by the home, the gurdwara, the school, the street, the phone, the song, the elder, the committee, the politician, the memory of Punjab, the pressure of Britain, and the silence around Shabad. The question is not whether the next generation is being educated. The question is: what are they being educated into? What is a Sikh boy learning to become?

On Ang 465, in Asa Ki Vaar, Mahala 1, Guru Nanak Sahib says:

ਸਿਖੀ ਸਿਖਿਆ ਗੁਰ ਵੀਚਾਰਿ ॥
ਨਦਰੀ ਕਰਮਿ ਲਘਾਏ ਪਾਰਿ ॥

Sikhee sikhiaa Gur veechaar. Nadree karam laghaae paar.

Plain-English sense: Sikhi is learned through Gur-vichaar. By Nadar and grace, one is carried across.

This must come first.

Sikhi is learned.

It is not absorbed automatically through blood. It is not inherited by surname. It is not kept alive by nostalgia, images on a wall, a khanda on a car, a kara on the wrist, a few Punjabi words in the house, or a yearly visit to the gurdwara.

Those things may have a place.

But they are not enough.

The Sikh child is always learning, even when no class is running.

If we are not bringing the child to Guru, someone else is forming him.

The phone is teaching him. The street is teaching him. The song is teaching him. The school is teaching him. The gurdwara atmosphere is teaching him. The fear of elders is teaching him. The silence around Shabad is teaching him.

So the question is not, “Are young Sikhs being taught?”

They are being taught every day.

The real question is:

What are they being taught to become?

I am a Sikh boy

I am not one boy.

I am a mirror.

I am the Sikh boy in Punjab.

I am the Sikh boy in Britain.

I am the boy in the pind watching everyone talk about Canada.

I am the boy in Birmingham trying to explain my dastaar at school.

I am the boy in Ludhiana scrolling reels late at night.

I am the boy in Amritsar who sees drugs, migration, unemployment, and political slogans.

I am the boy in Leeds who hears jokes about my kesh before I know how to answer them.

I am told to be proud.

I am also told not to stand out too much.

I am told the kirpan is sacred.

But I often hear about the kirpan only when the media attacks it.

I am told Guru is sovereign.

But I watch everything except Guru govern the room.

You may think I am not listening.

I am.

You may think you are not teaching.

You are.

Before I say the hard things

Let me first say what I see in you.

I know some of you carried what I cannot imagine.

I know some of you worked brutal hours.

I know some of you built gurdwaras from nothing.

I know some of you came to countries that did not always welcome you.

I know some of you kept families alive when no one was helping.

I know some of you survived Punjab’s wounds.

I know some of you buried your own pain so that I could study.

I know some of you have done seva quietly for decades and never asked to be seen.

I am not writing to shame you.

I am writing because I am still being made.

And you are still the ones making me.

So hear this as a child speaking to the people he belongs to.

Not as an accusation.

As a question you can still answer.

What I learn from Punjab

If I grow up in Punjab today, I learn from a wounded land.

I learn that many people love Punjab, but many young people are trying to leave it.

I see IELTS centres, visa offices, and families selling land for foreign fees.

I hear that the successful boy is the one who gets out.

So before anyone teaches me Japji Sahib deeply, the land teaches me departure.

Before anyone teaches me that Guru has placed responsibility on me, the market teaches me escape.

Before anyone teaches me seva, the economy teaches me survival.

I see drugs too.

Not first as a statistic.

As a rumour.

A funeral.

A boy from a nearby village.

A cousin who changed.

A mother who no longer sleeps.

A father who says nothing.

A body found too late.

A word spoken quietly: chitta.

Then I hear elders say, “The youth are ruined.”

But I want to ask:

Who was meant to teach them before the dealer taught them?

Who was meant to give them sangat before the gang gave them belonging?

Who was meant to give them Shabad before the substance gave them escape?

I hear 1984 remembered.

Sometimes with reverence.

Sometimes with pain.

Sometimes as revenge.

But do I hear the Shabad that teaches me how to carry memory without becoming hatred?

Do I hear how Nirbhau — without fear — and Nirvair — without enmity — must stand together?

Or do I only learn that a Sikh is someone who remembers wounds and waits for the next argument?

Punjab teaches me beautiful things too.

The sound of kirtan at Amrit Vela.

The smell of langar.

The old grandmother doing paath.

The farmer who still says everything is in Guru’s Hukam.

The granthi who still reads slowly.

The sevadar who cleans without being seen.

The old man who still says, “Puttar, Guru de charnaa naal jurr.”

Punjab is not dead.

But Punjab is wounded.

And if the wound teaches me more loudly than Guru, what will I become?

What I learn in Britain

If I grow up in Britain, I learn another lesson.

I learn that I am visible before I am understood.

My classmates see my patka or dastaar before they know my name.

Some ask honest questions.

Some laugh.

Some call me names they learnt from the internet.

Some think I am Muslim.

Some think I am foreign even if I was born here.

Some say, “It’s only banter.”

I learn that my identity needs explaining.

Then I go to the gurdwara and I am told to be proud.

But sometimes no one sits with me to show me why, Ang by Ang.

I am told to love Punjabi.

Then I am mocked when I speak it badly.

I am told to listen to kirtan.

But no one tells me what the Shabad is saying.

I am told to bow before Shabad Guru Granth Sahib Ji.

Then I watch adults leave Guru’s Darbar and behave as if committee power is higher than Shabad.

I am told Sikhs are humble.

But I see status.

I am told Sikhs are fearless.

But I see fear.

I am told Sikhs are Nirvair.

But I hear contempt.

I am told Sikhs do seva.

But I see people fight over who gets credit for it.

Then the public debate comes.

A crime happens.

The kirpan is discussed on television.

Parliament speaks.

Politicians speak.

Some speak with care.

Some speak with fear.

Some speak as if one man’s crime is enough to place the whole Panth under suspicion.

And I, a young Sikh, am expected to defend the kirpan before I have been properly taught what the kirpan demands from me.

That is not fair.

You gave me the argument before you gave me the formation.

You gave me the controversy before you gave me the Shabad.

You told me to defend the kirpan before you taught me how the kirpan should discipline my hand, my tongue, my anger, my ego, and my life.

What I learn when Sikh adults speak

I also learn when the Panth is under pressure.

I watch how Sikh adults respond.

I watch whether they panic.

I watch whether they shrink.

I watch whether they blame.

I watch whether they begin from Shabad.

If Sikh adults only worry about reputation, I learn public relations.

If Sikh adults only worry about what others will think, I learn fear.

If Sikh adults speak with contempt, I learn contempt.

If Sikh adults speak calmly, lawfully, truthfully, and still remain firm in Gurmat, I learn something else.

I learn that a Sikh can grieve without collapsing.

I learn that a Sikh can condemn a crime without surrendering the kirpan.

I learn that a Sikh can respect the law without letting the law define Sikhi.

I learn that a Sikh can stand in public life and still remain answerable to Guru.

That is education too.

Not the education of a classroom.

The education of example.

The phone is also my teacher

Do not pretend the gurdwara is my only classroom.

My phone is a classroom.

The algorithm is a teacher.

It teaches quickly.

It teaches constantly.

It teaches with sound, image, humour, shame, desire, anger, fear, and comparison.

It teaches me what a man is.

It teaches me what a Punjabi is.

It teaches me what a Sikh is.

It shows me cars, guns, money, women as trophies, caste pride, gangster honour, luxury abroad.

It tells me the louder man is the stronger man.

It tells me the shameless man is the free man.

It tells me the violent man is the respected man.

Not all Punjabi music is this.

Do not lie about our own tradition.

Punjabi music has carried love, folk memory, poetry, longing, pain, humour, and resistance.

The Panth has kirtan, dhadi vaaran, kavishri, and ballads that have carried memory across generations.

But the phone does not always give me the best of Punjab.

The phone gives me what keeps me watching.

And what keeps me watching is often not Shabad.

It is ego.

Desire.

Anger.

Comparison.

The fantasy of power.

Then elders say, “These boys listen to bad music.”

But I want to ask:

What have you given me that is stronger?

Have you given me kirtan with meaning?

Santhia — careful teaching of paath — with patience?

Sikh history without hatred?

Punjabi without shame?

A sangat where I can ask questions?

Elders whose conduct makes me want to become Sikh?

If not, do not be surprised when the phone raises me.

What I learn about being a Singh

I am a boy.

So the world starts teaching me early what a man is.

Do not cry.

Do not be weak.

Do not forgive too easily.

Do not let anyone disrespect you.

Make money.

Build your body.

Be feared.

Be wanted.

Be seen.

Then I hear Sikh words placed on top of the same lesson.

Singh.

Sher.

Soorma.

Khalsa.

Shastar.

Kirpan.

Miri.

Piri.

But if those words are not brought under Shabad, I learn them wrongly.

I learn Singh as ego.

I learn Soorma as aggression.

I learn Shastar as display.

I learn Kirpan as identity.

I learn Miri as power.

I learn Khalsa as superiority.

That is not Gurmat.

That is the world wearing Sikh vocabulary.

On Ang 1427, in Salok Mahala 9, Guru Tegh Bahadur Sahib says:

ਭੈ ਕਾਹੂ ਕਉ ਦੇਤ ਨਹਿ ਨਹਿ ਭੈ ਮਾਨਤ ਆਨ ॥
ਕਹੁ ਨਾਨਕ ਸੁਨਿ ਰੇ ਮਨਾ ਗਿਆਨੀ ਤਾਹਿ ਬਖਾਨਿ ॥੧੬॥

Bhai kaahoo kau det nahi, nahi bhai maanat aan. Kahu Nanak sun re manaa, giaani taahi bakhaan.

Plain-English sense: One who gives fear to no one, and does not accept fear from another — Nanak says, listen, mind: call that person spiritually wise.

This line cuts through false masculinity.

The Sikh does not give fear.

The Sikh does not accept fear.

That is not weakness.

That is not swagger.

That is spiritual wisdom.

So if you want to teach me to be a Singh, do not teach me to be loud.

Teach me not to frighten anyone.

Teach me not to be frightened by anyone.

Teach me not to use Sikh identity to cover insecurity.

Teach me not to use the kirpan as an answer to ego.

Teach me not to confuse courage with anger.

Teach me that the Khalsa is not formed by dominance.

The Khalsa is formed under Guru.

What I learn about the kirpan

If the first serious conversation I hear about the kirpan is after a court case, a media storm, or a political attack, I learn the wrong lesson.

I learn that the kirpan is mainly something to defend.

I learn that my identity becomes important only when someone wants to restrict it.

But the kirpan should have been taught before that.

Teach me that the kirpan is not the Guru.

Shabad is Guru.

Teach me that the kirpan is not magic.

Teach me that it does not purify haumai.

Teach me that carrying it does not make me better than another Sikh.

Teach me that it is not for quarrels.

Not for road rage.

Not for gang display.

Not for settling insults.

Not for social media.

Not for ego.

Teach me that the kirpan makes me more answerable.

My hand must become disciplined.

My tongue must become disciplined.

My anger must become disciplined.

My courage must answer to Deen — faith, righteousness, and the defence of the vulnerable — not pride.

If you do not teach me this, do not be shocked if someone else teaches me that a blade is about status.

The kirpan is not the wound.

But without Shabad, even sacred things can be misunderstood by wounded people.

What I learn from the gurdwara and elders

The gurdwara teaches me even when no one is giving a lesson.

If the paath is rushed, I learn that Gurbani is background sound.

If no one explains the hukamnama, I learn that receiving Guru’s word is ritual, not guidance.

If the Punjabi is too hard and no one helps me, I learn that Gurbani is for other people.

If I ask a question and someone shames me, I learn silence.

If I mispronounce a word and someone mocks me, I learn distance.

If committees argue in front of me, I learn that authority means control.

But if sevadars serve quietly, I learn something else.

If a granthi explains with love, I learn something else.

If the sangat makes space for my questions, I learn something else.

I learn that Guru is present and speaking through Shabad.

Respected elders, I am not asking you to be perfect.

I have already said what you carried, and I meant it.

But honour is not silence.

So I ask, with respect:

What are you teaching me now?

When you say the youth are lost, do you ask who was meant to guide them?

When you say the youth do not know Punjabi, do you ask whether Punjabi was taught with love or used as a test of worth?

When you say the youth do not come to the gurdwara, do you ask whether the gurdwara feels like Guru’s school or only like an institution managed by adults?

When you say the youth are too influenced by their phones, do you ask whether you gave them kirtan, history, and Shabad in a language they could enter?

When you say the youth are confused about the kirpan, do you ask whether you taught them what the kirpan is meant to cut in the self?

On Ang 62, in Sri Raag, Ashtpadiyan, Mahala 1, Guru Nanak Sahib says:

ਸਚਹੁ ਓਰੈ ਸਭੁ ਕੋ ਉਪਰਿ ਸਚੁ ਆਚਾਰੁ ॥੫॥

Sachahu orai sabh ko, upar sach aachaar.

Plain-English sense: Truth is higher than everything; higher still is truthful conduct.

The young Sikh does not only learn from your statements.

He learns from your aachaar.

He learns from what you reward, and what you tolerate.

He learns from who is given the microphone, and who is silenced.

He learns from whether Shabad interrupts your opinion, and whether you can be corrected.

He learns from whether you fear the state, the media, the committee, the donor, the faction — or Guru.

You may think you are defending Sikhi.

But what are you teaching the child?

What I learn about Sikh history

History can form me.

History can also deform me.

If Sikh history is taught under Shabad, I learn Deen, Shaheedi, Bhana, and Naam.

I learn that the Guru’s Sikhs stood for the oppressed.

I learn that courage is not hatred.

I learn that sovereignty is not ego.

I learn that memory is not revenge.

I learn that the Panth carries pain without becoming cruel.

But if Sikh history is taught without Shabad, I learn something else.

I learn grievance.

I learn suspicion.

I learn slogans.

I learn that being Sikh means being permanently angry.

I learn that every wound must become identity.

I learn that every enemy must be named while my own haumai stays untouched.

This is not enough.

Do not hide 1984 from me.

Do not hide the disappearances from me.

Do not sanitise Punjab’s pain to make others comfortable.

But do not hand me trauma without Guru.

Do not give me shaheedi without Naam.

Do not give me miri without piri.

Do not give me memory without Bhana.

Do not give me pain without Seva.

Do not give me anger and call it Panthic education.

Bring the wound under Shabad, or the wound will raise me.

Sikh girls are watching too

This piece speaks in the voice of a boy because much of the present crisis is dressed in male language: blades, kirpans, gangs, honour, anger, dominance, and public danger.

But Sikh girls are watching too.

They are learning from the same homes, gurdwaras, phones, songs, and silences.

They learn whether they are heard.

They learn whether their questions are welcomed.

They learn whether modesty is taught as dignity or used as control.

They learn whether seva means spiritual participation or kitchen expectation.

They learn whether men who speak loudly about honour behave honourably.

Their vichaar deserves its own article.

But no elder should imagine that only boys are being formed by the environment.

The whole next generation is watching.

The lesson we did not mean to teach

We did not mean to teach that Punjabi is shame, but some learnt it through mockery.

We did not mean to teach that the gurdwara is politics, but some learnt it by watching adults fight.

We did not mean to teach that the kirpan is mainly a public argument, but some learnt it because we only explained it under attack.

We did not mean to teach that masculinity means dominance, but some learnt it from the music, the reels, and the men we rewarded.

We did not mean to teach that money abroad is the highest success, but some learnt it from what families celebrated.

We did not mean to teach that caste still matters, but some learnt it from surnames spoken with pride.

We did not mean to teach that women are secondary, but some learnt it from who was heard and who was not.

We did not mean to teach that Shabad is secondary.

But some learnt it from every meeting where Shabad did not govern the conclusion.

We did not mean to teach fear, ego, or silence.

But when pressure came, some of us taught fear.

When criticism came, some of us taught ego.

When the young asked questions, some of us taught silence.

The next generation is not only hearing what we say.

It is becoming what we repeatedly show.

Bring me to Shabad

Do not only ask whether I kept my kesh.

Ask who is forming my mind.

Do not only ask whether I wear a kara.

Ask whether my actions are becoming restrained.

Do not only ask whether I can recite a line.

Ask whether I understand what it is asking of me.

Do not only ask whether I come to the gurdwara.

Ask whether I hear Guru there.

Do not only ask whether I defend the kirpan.

Ask whether I know what it demands.

On Ang 943, in Ramkali Siddh Gosht, Mahala 1, Guru Nanak Sahib says:

ਸਬਦੁ ਗੁਰੂ ਸੁਰਤਿ ਧੁਨਿ ਚੇਲਾ ॥

Shabad Guru, surat dhun chela.

Plain-English sense: The Shabad is Guru; the attuned consciousness is the disciple.

This is the answer.

Not the phone as Guru.

Not the politician as Guru.

Not the singer as Guru.

Not the trauma as Guru.

Not the committee as Guru.

Not the state as Guru.

Not the algorithm as Guru.

Shabad Guru.

If you want to save the Sikh child, do not merely protect him from the world.

Bring him to Shabad.

If you want him to understand the kirpan, bring him to Shabad.

If you want him to carry history without hatred, bring him to Shabad.

If you want him to live in Britain without disappearing, bring him to Shabad.

If you want him to love Punjab without being consumed by its wounds, bring him to Shabad.

If you want him to become a Singh, bring him to Shabad.

What repair looks like

Repair will not come from one post, one camp, one speech, or one committee resolution.

Repair begins when Sikh adults ask a harder question:

What are our children learning from us when we are not trying to teach?

But a question is not enough.

So here is where repair can begin.

Not next year.

This week.

Explain one hukamnama, once a week, in language a child can actually follow.

Not only what it says.

What it is asking.

Sit with one young person and listen to one shabad together.

Tell them, plainly, what it means to you.

Let a child ask a question in sangat.

Answer it without correcting their accent or their ignorance first.

Teach Punjabi by reading one tuk together.

Not by testing them and watching them fail.

The next time the gurdwara argues, let one elder say, out loud, in front of the young:

“We got this wrong.”

Make one youth space that is not only entertainment.

Let Shabad be the centre.

Let a question be safe.

None of this needs a budget.

None of this needs a resolution.

It needs one adult, once, choosing formation over performance.

A Sikh child does not need a perfect community.

He needs an honest one.

He needs elders who can say, “We failed here.”

He needs granthis who can make Gurbani heard.

He needs sevadars who model humility.

He needs parents who teach with patience.

He needs history without poison, and Rehat without humiliation.

He needs a sangat that feels like sangat.

He needs Shabad to become louder than the wound.

What will I become?

I am a Sikh boy.

I am learning all the time.

If the phone teaches me more than Guru, do not be surprised by what I become.

If the song gives me masculinity before Shabad does, do not be surprised.

If trauma gives me identity before Naam does, do not be surprised.

But if you bring me to Shabad, something else can happen.

I may learn that a Sikh does not give fear and does not accept fear.

I may learn that truthful conduct is higher than talking about truth.

I may learn that the kirpan is not for ego, and that history is not revenge.

I may learn that Guru is not an idea.

I may learn to become a Sikh.

The next generation will not become what we say Sikhi is.

It will become what our conduct, our institutions, our media, our silences, our music, our wounds, and our Shabad actually teach it Sikhi is.

So ask the question now.