From page 94 of the book, The Man Called the Siri Singh Sahib, published in 1979 and written by Sarab Shakti Kaur Khalsa, Albuquerque, New Mexico
Not long after you “plucked” me from my mother’s arms, I had a passport picture taken for my “trip” to boarding school in India. I was looking at that picture today, and I had a difficult time relating to it! The fourteen-year-old face of fury, that glared back at me with defiance, couldn’t have been me. Instead of the love I feel growing in me today, there was the beginning of a real hassle.
It’s taken me six very long years to realize, that I honestly would have been messed up without you. How could I hate you? You? My “wise man?” I tried to, through my fear and ignorance Siri Singh Sahib Ji, but your trust, and confidence in me, wouldn’t let me. Your patient guidance, and your hawk eyes didn’t even let me dip my toes in trouble’s stream.
I trust you; I respect you, I fear you and I love you so much that the very vibratory seed of the thought that I’ll (we’ll) one day lose you is enough to send searing pains of sadness through me. I love you so much, that I believe you, when you say you’ll die in slander and anguish. Isn’t that history?
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