My Turban My Pride
When cries rose high in Pahalgam’s night,
And terror dared to dim the light,
We rushed with aid, with heart and hand,
My Turban soaked in blood and sand.
When Tiger Hill roared with fire and fate,
I stood tall beneath a sky of hate—
Wearing my Turban, wrapped in grace,
A Sikh, with valor carved on my face.
When laws of truth were brought to light,
And RTI rose to defend the right,
In Parliament’s hall, so firm, so bright,
My Turban crowned the voice of might.
When plans for India’s rise were drawn,
And dreams of progress kissed the dawn,
The Planning Chair bore my name,
With a Turban that shone like a flame.
When Beas ran cold and fear ran deep,
And retreat was whispered in the soldier’s sleep,
I stood alone with thunderous will,
And pushed the war till Lahore’s hill.
In seventy-one, when surrender came,
And pride of foes lay down in shame,
I stood, my Turban never bowed—
Their pistol dropped, my silence loud.
In sixty-two, with courage grand,
We stood like rocks across the land—
No fear could touch our sacred thread,
We wore our Turbans—unbowed, unsaid.
Before the dawn of freedom’s birth,
When exile chains gripped the earth,
In Kala Pani’s depths of pain,
Our Turbans bore that burning strain.
At Jallianwala, where bullets rained,
Our blood was spilled, our faith unchained.
Through every cry, through every gun,
Our Turbans bore what can’t be undone.
When Afghans charged with fire and blade,
And shadows danced across the glade,
Maharaja stood—no need to speak,
His Turban roared for every Sikh.
When daughters cried in darkest plight,
We rode like storms, we fought that night.
Hari Singh Nalua’s soul burned high,
With Turban blazing in the sky.
When I left this land for distant shore,
With aching heart and dreams galore,
My Turban held me firm and true,
In lands where no one ever knew.
From birth to death, from womb to grave,
This cloth of honor wraps the brave.
You reach for it with silent hand—
I see the move. I understand.
But know this, O friend! I’ll never bow.
This Turban lives—then, now, and how.
The world has learned what it means to me,
Your judgment, O Judge, changes no decree.
For if we know to tie it right,
We surely know to stand and fight.
So raise your gaze, and know this well—
My Turban holds a thousand tales to tell.
Not just in war, but in pain and grief,
We stand for love, we bring relief.
