My horoscope once suggested that I would grow into someone who unites families and communities, someone who stands between worlds and attempts to harmonise them. I do not place blind faith in astrology, yet as life has unfolded I sometimes feel I am quietly living up to that description.
When my predecessor resigned, I was elected by the executive team to become Chairman of the MFT Hindu Staff Network. Many of my Hindu colleagues expressed confidence in me because of my familiarity with Hindu philosophy and Vedantic concepts, and because they felt I approached community initiatives with sincerity rather than symbolism. With a collective team effort from colleagues within the Hindu staff support group, and with exemplary leadership and support from the MFT Chairman, CEO and the Chaplaincy team, we were able to establish dedicated Hindu Sanaatan Mandir spaces within both Manchester Royal Infirmary and Wythenshawe Hospital. Seeing those spaces become a reality, and witnessing the appreciation from the wider community, brought deep satisfaction not only to me but to all of us involved.
I often find myself consciously trying to bring communities together and create spaces where difference does not automatically become distance. It is a role I accepted out of conviction rather than convenience. And yet the experience of identity is not always uncomplicated.
There have been occasions when I have walked into a Hindu temple and sensed a moment of mild curiosity. It is rarely more than a brief element of surprise. A few heads may turn at the sight of a turban in that setting. Familiarity quickly dissolves it, and conversation resumes naturally. One becomes aware that identity is noticed before intention is known, but the moment is light rather than heavy. On the other side, some within the Sikh community question my comfort in Hindu spaces and interpret it as dilution. Between these reactions I have occasionally felt suspended.
In truth, once people come to know me, hesitation disappears. The Hindu community, in my experience, has shown warmth and acceptance that is generous and often unconditional once they understand my sincerity. Many express affection openly. Occasionally, when I enter a new gathering, someone will step forward with a smile and offer a light-hearted introduction, reassuring others that I have been closely involved with the community and its initiatives. I always find the moment gently amusing. Identity, it seems, sometimes needs a friendly bridge before ease follows.
It has also brought visible happiness and satisfaction to many within the Hindu community, especially senior role model leaders, to see a Sikh standing alongside them. For some, it restores hope that civilisational bonds have not completely frayed and that cooperation remains possible. Many accept this wholeheartedly. Others have needed time and conversation before comfort settles in. A few may still carry a quiet residue shaped by historical wounds and religiopolitical clashes, including episodes of separatism that have left scars in collective memory. I do not judge that hesitation. Trust, like fracture, has a history.
Yet I was born in Odisha, the land of Lord Jagannath. One of the Panj Pyare, those five Sikhs first initiated into the Khalsa by Guru Gobind Singh in 1699, was Bhai Himmat Rai from Puri. That fact has always stayed with me. If one of those who stood at the very foundation of the Khalsa emerged from the soil of Jagannath, how can I convincingly accept that Sikh and Hindu identities were meant to exist in sealed compartments?
I was born into a Sikh household that preserved what I regard as the continuing values of Hindu Sikhs in lived continuity. The cadence of Gurbani shaped my early consciousness, yet my upbringing was reinforced by Hindu traditions, Hindu friendships and a shared civilisational culture that did not recognise the sharp divisions later history would emphasise. Festivals overlapped naturally, philosophical ideas flowed easily across settings, and belonging felt layered rather than exclusive.
History, however, gradually hardened what life once allowed to remain fluid.
When Babur defeated Ibrahim Lodi at Panipat in 1526 and established Mughal authority in North India, political sovereignty shifted in ways that unsettled communities and altered their sense of security. It was in this environment that Guru Nanak articulated a vision that addressed both Hindus and Muslims without constructing a sectarian boundary. He rejected hollow ritual yet affirmed devotion and spoke of one ultimate reality and a moral order that stood above communal labels. His message was reformative and integrative.
The execution of Guru Arjan in 1606 marked a decisive shift because spiritual reform alone could no longer secure survival. The Gurus who followed responded to political pressure with organisation and strength. When Guru Gobind Singh founded the Khalsa in 1699, discipline, identity and defence were brought together in visible form. The saint assumed the responsibility of the soldier, not as theological rupture but as historical necessity.
Over time, defence became distinction, and distinction gradually solidified into identity.
The Anglo Sikh wars between 1845 and 1849 ended Sikh sovereignty. British rule introduced systematic restructuring. Through census classification and recruitment policy Sikhs were designated a martial race and increasingly separated from the broader Hindu social framework from which many had historically emerged. What had once been fluid belonging became administratively defined identity. There were ironies in this period. Hindu soldiers in the British army fought against the Sikh kingdom during the Anglo Sikh wars, and later Sikh regiments including those associated with Hodson’s Horse participated in suppressing the uprising of 1857. Communities sharing civilisational roots found themselves positioned on opposing sides under imperial command.
By the time independence arrived identities had already hardened. The violence of the 1980s deepened the fracture further, leaving Sikh consciousness marked by trauma and narrowing trust into suspicion. Narratives of separation intensified and space for nuance reduced.
It is within this layered inheritance that I live.
On a few occasions my Muslim friends invited me to join them at the mosque for prayers, and I went without hesitation. The first time I stepped into the line I noticed a few swift sideways glances and the occasional surprised tilt of the head, as though the presence of a turban required brief adjustment. I stood respectfully, and while they offered their namaz I recited my Sikh ardaas silently. The essence of that prayer rests upon the same uncompromising monotheism that runs through Vedanta, Sikhism and the Abrahamic traditions. Once it became clear that I was simply a sincere and harmless visitor, calm returned and the prayers continued undisturbed.
My connection with Jagannath feels equally natural. The image of Lord Jagannath at Puri has never represented contradiction with my Sikh identity. For me it symbolises the universality of devotion expressed through form. I am aware that there are differing views regarding idol worship. Some insist that divinity must remain strictly formless, while others approach the infinite through image and symbol. I see these not as opposing positions but as stages of understanding. A murti, when approached with awareness, is not a confinement of the infinite but a doorway to it. Form can lead to formlessness. Devotion through image can mature into awareness beyond image.
The metaphysical vocabulary of karma, rebirth, liberation and ultimate reality existed long before formal boundaries were drawn between Sikh and Hindu identities. Sikh scripture refined and redirected that vocabulary but did not arise in isolation. Many early Sikhs came from Hindu backgrounds, and the Gurus spoke in a language continuous with the civilisation around them. Recognising continuity does not erase distinction. It simply acknowledges context.
My intellectual journey has moved through Jain, Vedantic, Buddhist and Sikh thought. Jain philosophy appeals to me for its moral precision, yet its cosmology leaves the question of ultimate ground unresolved for my temperament. Vedantic thought, especially the distinction between Nirguna and Saguna, offers a broader framework in which an unconditioned ground manifests cyclically as conditioned existence.
At the same time, I do not accept the rigid permanence of separate, unchanging individual souls across eternity. My working view is that consciousness is fundamental while individuality is configuration. Configurations arise, dissolve and recombine. Continuity exists but not as fixed personal identity. What we call a soul may be a structured pattern within a deeper field of consciousness so that at death patterns disaggregate, elements persist and new configurations emerge.
The word Sikh means disciple or learner. To remain a Sikh is to remain in search rather than in certainty. My questioning and philosophical exploration are therefore not departures from the tradition but expressions of it.
When I stand before Jagannath in Puri, or bow my head in a Gurdwara, or stand quietly in a mosque, I do not feel divided. I feel aware of how history has divided what lived experience often does not.
Integration to me is not erasure. It is maturation.
My life has become an experiment in whether that maturation is still possible.