Why I Returned to Punjab After Fifteen Years

Here's an excerpt from my book's introduction:

The last time I visited India was in 2001 with two college friends. We had vague but ambitious travel plans—to see as much of the country as we could in three weeks. We hired a driver in Delhi; he took us to Agra’s spectacular Taj Mahal and the majestic forts of Rajasthan. We flew down to Bombay and spent a wonderful week on Goa’s beaches, then we took a two-day train ride north, back to Delhi. From there, we took a bus three hours northwest to the state of Punjab, nearly at the northernmost tip of India, bordering Pakistan, Kashmir, and Jammu.

In Punjab, my friends and I went our separate ways to visit family. I spent time with my paternal grandfather in Jalandhar whom I hadn’t seen since I was ten years old. I was a grown man now, but he recognized me instantly at the bus depot and gave me a tremendous bear hug. He took me to Amritsar to see the unforgettable Harmandir Sahib, the gold-leafed Sikh holy temple, and then I left for Panipat to visit my mother’s family. There wasn’t much sightseeing there, just plenty of late nights drinking beer. My friends and I reunited in Delhi and flew home. Three weeks hadn’t been long enough; I vowed to return soon.

But life happened, and just like that, fifteen years rolled by: work and play, failed aspirations, and unexpected victories. Also, passion and heartbreak. I fell in love with a woman, but she wanted me to convert to Christianity. While I wasn’t a devout, practicing Sikh, it still somehow felt wrong, even unethical, to renounce the faith I was born into. Our parents never forced Sikhism on us, but they taught us Sikh history and to read and write Punjabi. They tried to instill Sikh values in the midst of our otherwise all-American childhood in 1980s suburbia, but being Sikh mostly meant celebrating important holidays with other Sikh families, attending gurdwara (Sikh temple) on Sundays, and going to Sikh community events with lots of music, dancing, and food. We also celebrated Christmas, partly because it’s the American thing to do but mostly because no kid wants to be ostracized for not getting a gift from Santa Claus, so my parents spared us the embarrassment. When other kids asked, "What religion are you?”, my answer was always a rehearsed summary because so few of my classmates had heard of Sikhism. In answer to another common question: "Why does your dad wear a turban?” I provided another lengthy explanation, but more often, I had to learn to ignore (or fight) the ridicule that children are so gifted with.

In spite of, or perhaps because of, my muddled relationship to Sikhism, I stubbornly refused to convert to Christianity. My girlfriend persisted, and this schism spelled the end of our relationship. After we broke up, I started to question myself. Had it only been pride and ego that made me so insistent on keeping my parents’ faith? Did I throw away a shot at real happiness out of a knee-jerk loyalty to the religion of my forebears? What did Sikhism even mean to me?

Still reeling from the breakup, I threw myself into a new passion: learning everything I could about the faith I had refused to give up. What were the core principles of Sikhism? Could I build a life on those principles rather than blindly cling to them out of some hidebound devotion to tradition? As I studied, I discovered a religion that resonated deeply with the man I wanted to become: physically, mentally, and spiritually engaged and pushing my perceived limitations. I found myself learning to meditate, as the faith encourages, believing in His universal presence, and praying for my loved ones and for my hopes and dreams. I worked at accepting all people for who they are—regardless of faith, race, gender, or class—as Sikhism urges us to do.

Along the way, I stumbled on another life-changing discovery: the incredible true story of Maharaja Ranjit Singh. In the early 1800s, he united the warring Sikh tribes (Misls) and boldly declared himself the Maharaja of Punjab at the ripe age of 21. He defeated the strongholds of the Afghan Empire in Kashmir, Multan, and Peshawar, creating a formidable empire that stretched from the mountains of Tibet to the valleys of the Khyber Pass. Full of contradictions, Ranjit was a mythic figure who was also a flawed and fascinating mortal. In a time of religious intolerance, Ranjit tolerated all religions, assigning key positions in his empire based on ability and character, a progressive outlook that shaped the foundation of his reign. Beloved by his subjects, Ranjit never resorted to executions to enforce his law, unlike most rulers of his time. He was addicted to alcohol and opium, obsessed with wealth, beauty, weapons, and horses. He lived in a palace, lavished his subjects with wealth, and indulged in his harem, but he also acted like a commoner—he shunned his court’s pomp and grandeur by wearing simple clothes, spoke the common tongue, and walked among his subjects, inquiring about their lives.

Reading about Ranjit’s cinematic reign connected me to Sikhism, and its emphasis on tolerance, equality, and service, but it also had an unexpected side effect: the awakening of long-dormant creative ambitions that I had abandoned in favor of a comfortable career in tech. In my early 20s, I had studied film and loved all of it. I took a part-time tech job to support myself, which became a full-time tech job, and my film dreams faded away. Learning about Ranjit’s life reignited my passion. Before I knew it, I had plunged into a new vocation: screenwriting. I read everything I could get my hands on; I wrote and rewrote; I entered screenwriting competitions and networked. I was determined to bring Ranjit to life on screen. But the dusty recesses of history books could only reveal so much about this legendary figure. I needed to visit the lands he had conquered and the weapons he had once wielded. I needed to follow in his footsteps and see Punjab through his eyes.

But I also needed to see Punjab as it is now—beyond the history and myth. A region rich in culture and heritage, Punjab today stands at a crossroads. Behind its wheat fields, lies a growing crisis: widespread political corruption that undermines local governance, a worsening drug epidemic especially among youth, alarming environmental degradation from unchecked industrialization and depleting groundwater, and an increasingly fraught relationship with the Indian state, including India’s repression of Sikh voices abroad. These tensions, too, are part of the modern Punjabi story.

My last trip to India had been a rambling, youthful pleasure tour: sightseeing, lounging on beaches, drinking too much. This trip would be different. I had only eight days, but I knew exactly where I needed to go: the cities of Amritsar, Anandpur Sahib, Chandigarh, Jalandhar, and Tarn Taran.

And I knew just who to call—my father. More than just a companion on the road; he became my sounding board, helping me fact-check and review the history and details I was weaving into this book. His presence gave the trip depth, anchoring my experiences with memory, accuracy, and perspective. He was the perfect guide and travel partner for a journey to our Punjab, now and then.