BIRTH OF A STAR

A new-comer, fresh from the white eternity into the world, the eyes of the Khalsa glow with the vision of the Invisible. The whispering millions on the other side of the River of Life mingle their voices and the Khalsa is truly one in many. On the bed of thorns, he lies as if on roses. What matters for him is not the husk or the shell, but the seed or the kernel within. The Khalsa looks at the world from a supreme height, blessing all, helping all, loving all. He has found the common Centre of Life and enshrined God in the temple of his heart.
This world with all its gay gardens is to the Khalsa but a camping ground. He holds the present life to be but a journey and an interlude. Death has no sting for him, nor extinction any terror. If a child is born, he is a “Guru’s soldier come,” if he dies, it is a “Guru’s soldier gone.” The Khalsa sees life as a whole and believes all is good, nothing is amiss. It is, therefore, that when he prays, he utters himself in accents of steel, flint, fire and lightning that move the heavens with him.
The tent of the Khalsa is a temple. The Khalsa is the Dharamshala for all. He gives a drink, and a hymn of the Guru to all who pass by. He has evolved a language whose flaming words reflect the inner glory of national realization, and that of joy which is supreme in its conquest over the sorrows of the world. In fact, the idiom of the Khalsa is as opulent and vast as the amplitude of his soul.