Harbans Kaur 1901-1968
Harbans Kaur ‘Kaako Bai’ Bhua ji, this is the picture we got hers when we turned in the paper work for her pension
We have weddings in our family at the end of April and again at the end of May. So, Dari decided to go to the bank and open the safe deposit box to look for the precious jewellery we planned to wear for the occasions. While she was going through the items, she found a long dual gold chain with a beautiful, built-in locket—one with a picture of Guru Nanak Dev Ji engraved on the cute locket. The chain is quite long—possibly 20 to 22 inches or even more—and must be around 150 years old.
Approx 150 year old Necklace decorated and enhanced my Bhua ji personality. It is so nicely crafted that my Mom liked on her tall necked daughter-in-law Dari as if it was customized for her.
Pic of Guru Nanak Dev ji crafted so beautifully, much before Sobha Singh’s famous picture of Guru ji adored every Sikh house hold.
This chain belonged to my beloved Bhua Ji, Harbans Kaur, who was fondly called Kaako Bai. She was younger of my father’s two elder stepsisters, and was as old as my grandmother, Bhabi Ji (Karam Devi). I feel compelled now to write a few memories of my dear Bhua Ji.
She and her elder sister were married to two real brothers—Sardar Ram Singh and Sardar Chattar Singh. Kakoo Bai Bhua Ji was married to the younger brother, Sardar Chattar Singh, an industrial plant engineer who managed massive plants owned by many including one by famous Punj Brothers. Though not formally educated as an engineer, he was extremely skilled and led the engineering department of the plants. Bhua Ji used to tell me how even while sleeping, he could sense what was wrong with a machine. They lived inside the plant premises, and he would wake up, rush out, and fix whatever was needed.
He earned quite a bit for those days, and they lived comfortably until his untimely death. At the time of Partition in 1947, while most of our family moved to the Indian side, he was working in Gurdaspur. After his passing, Bhua Ji continued living alone in a large rented house in Gurdaspur. She had cash in the bank and could afford the rent, so she chose to remain independent, even as most relatives moved to Patiala, New Delhi, or Shimla. My father eventually settled in Panipat with a government job.
Despite everyone urging her to live with family and save money, she preferred solitude. Initially, she would make requests to her brothers asking for money support, and my father and uncle would oblige. Eventually, when her funds dwindled—except for one fixed deposit of Rs 10, 000 —it was decided that she would move in with her brothers.
They arranged a plan: six months in Chandigarh, six months with us in Panipat. But her stay in Chandigarh didn’t go well, and ultimately, it was decided she would live with my father permanently. She arrived with her Philips radio an upscale luxurious item in those days and some modest luggage, and she settled into one of our rooms in Panipat.
She had by now 5,000 Rupees left, which my father immediately invested in a Private Transport company through our friend and uncle S Thakar Singh, yielding 12% interest— thus earning her 50 rupees a month. Alongside that, Papa ji also arranged an old age Government pension of 25 rupees per monthl. So with 75 rupees a month and no other living expenses, she managed comfortably and with dignity.
Though she was of my grandmother’s age, she always treated my father with immense respect, never using his name—always calling him Praji. Even her younger brother, my uncle, was addressed as Pra Ji..
She set up her own little kitchen within the house, bought her groceries, cooked her meals, and often exchanged dishes with my mother. My father used to travel to his court Job in Karnal, about 20 miles away, catching a local train from Panipat around 8:30 AM. He’d leave the house by 7:30, but such was Bhua Ji’s affection for him, she would wake up early, prepare dishes, and offer him a taste before he left. If he approved, she would beam with pride. And if she missed his departure, she felt genuinely upset and would save the dish for him to try later.
She walked with a limp and was quite old, yet never missed these daily rituals. She was deeply devoted.
She often told us stories of her younger days—how she was a good singer and used to perform at plant parties. After singing, the crowd would shout, “Once more! Harbans Kaur!” She’d also tell us how deeply her husband loved her, how he earned so much and made sure she had gold and cash. My mother used to marvel at how such a tall, handsome chief engineer had adored Bhua Ji—she was not conventionally beautiful, but her charm and spirit were unmatched.
She lived in an attached small room passing through the kids’ room, and at night, when she woke up for the bathroom, she’d find us studying. She’d quietly say, ‘Kathan Tapasya’, ‘Kathan Tapasya’—acknowledging the hard work we put in was like penance.
We encouraged her to meditate or recite prayers instead of sleeping all day and night, but she’d simply smile and say, ‘Naam khumari Nanaka, chadi rahe din Raat’—“I am intoxicated with the name of the Divine, remembering Him day and night.”
That long chain we took out to use in the wedding brought all this memories back. When she passed away, she still had around 2,200 rupees and some jewellery left. We donated all of it to the Gurdwara. Papaji asked his brother if he wanted to keep the jewellery, but Chacha Ji wasn’t interested. So Papaji got the items—two pieces, including that big Neck Collar—valued by my friend Diwan Saigal’s father, a jeweller. They were worth 950 rupees, which he then donated that money to our Gurdwara in Khail Bazar, Panipat.
Later, at my ring ceremony, a golden Neck Collar known as Guluband (in Hindi Gulu is neck and band is close) was placed around Dari’s neck. My dad asked Baiji (Dari’s grandmother) if it was alright to repurpose that gold. Baiji was a wise, modern woman who understood the value of antiques but also embraced change. She gave her blessing. We had matching earrings added, and Dari wore them proudly. We still have that set.
Harvinder wearing that Neck Collar (Guluband) at the ring ceremony in Oct 1971
I miss my Bhua Ji dearly. She had no children of her own, yet she poured her love and devotion into our family as if we were hers. Towards the end of her life, she was very ill, bedridden, and needed care. A kind lady from our neighborhood helped her through those final days.
Papaji invited all near and dear ones from the extended family for her ‘Antim Ardaas’ - final rites. After the ceremony, he also distributed money to the relatives who had travelled to attend her last rites—from the amount she had left behind. It was an old cultural tradition, a gesture of gratitude to help compensate for the expenditure they had borne to travel and attend such a solemn occasion. I remember clearly—one relative was reluctant to accept the money, but for the first time ever, I saw Papaji get emotional. With tears in his eyes, he gently insisted, asking him to accept it as a final token of gratitude. That moment revealed something very deep: although she was his step-sister and much older than him, there was a special bond between them—one only Waheguru could have created.
Every year, in the month of November, around the time of Thanksgiving, we make special donations - a tradition initiated by Dari, at the Gurdwara in the name of my father, grandfather, and great-grandfathers. In their remembrance, I always include the name of my beloved Bhuaji as well, alongside my Papa ji and Bibi ji.
Today, as I remember her, I send all my love to her soul. Long live our Bhua ji. Stay blessed in heaven.
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