My story begins in Chak 94, a district near Lahore in modern day Pakistan, and the original home of my maternal grandmother Mohinder Kaur. During the Partition of India, she and her family were forced to migrate, alongside thousands of other families, leaving almost everything they had built behind. They were open and extremely community-centered people, with strong Muslim and Hindu friendships, and partition in many ways tore their hearts, as well as their Sikh homeland. Punjab is the birthplace of Sikhi, and it is now split into East and West Punjab, approximately half in India and half in Pakistan, with Punjabi culture running through the state and its people.
A large proportion of Sikh heritage was left behind in Pakistan, such as the birthplace of the founder Guru Nanak Dev Ji, over 600 gurdwaras, the holy site of the Martyrdom of Guru Arjan Dev Ji, and the sites of massacres which are recited in the Ardas (the Sikh prayer that completes every service). Sadly, there are only thirteen gurdwaras left in Pakistan at present. The massacres site quoted in the Ardas is potentially being sold off in Lahore to create a shopping mall.
When visiting my grandmother's village in Pakistan earlier this year, I saw how everything she spoke about had been destroyed. This was the extent of the loss and tragedy on both sides of the border.
Perhaps this is why migration thereafter seemed like the most logical and preferable choice. Whilst my grandmother’s family eventually settled in the town of Banga, near Namasher, Ludhiana on the Indian side of Punjab, many subsequently migrated to different parts of the world. My own family is also scattered worldwide, and regularly return to contribute to the community through the building of schools, parks, (Baba Gola) and hospitals (Guru Arjan Dev Ji).
This story comes with the backdrop of Maharaja Ranjit and Daleep Singh’s story, which coincided with the end of the Sikh Kingdom in India. Generations of Sikhs who wish to contribute to society in the best possible way thus followed, wherever they were. They may not all necessarily be in Punjab but their values are strong and driven towards seva (service). The Punjabi diaspora around the world, and back in Punjab, dance with all their might, work with all their might and love with all their might.
So when I was seven and my sister Rajdeep four, my parents moved to small village called Churchdown, between Gloucester and Cheltenham, to run a small grocery shop in a council estate. We were the only ethnic minorities in the area and became subject to extreme racism. We had to erect metal bars on the outside of their property after receiving repeated attacks by yobs throwing bricks through the windows. I remember seeing my mother’s head being hit by such a brick before the bars, and after the bars a petrol bomb was thrown through the letterbox. On my way to school, a boy was so curious about what colour my blood was (brown or red?) that he decided to trip me up such that I smashed my nose and bled from the fall.
Integrating into life in the UK was a struggle for many Sikhs. Many Sikh men - with traditional uncut hair and turbans - cut their hair in order to integrate into society and improve their chances of finding work. Yet today, in many ways, some Sikhs are turning full circle. My brother, Manreshpal, decided he was the generation that had a choice to embrace his faith. At the tender age of seven, he decided to grow his hair and start to wear a turban. My own children, two boys, are the only Punjabis in their respective central London schools, the only Sikhs, and certainly the only boys with uncut hair (they both wear a patka, a Sikh head covering which is worn by boys before graduating onto full it’s 'bigger brother' the turban).
It wasn’t always easy, because in India it was clear to the local people that I wasn’t ‘Indian’, and they could tell by the way I would walk or even nod my head, in England I was identified as an Indian (so people say that British Indians fall into the gap between the two, yet actually we are in the unique position to build a bridge between the best of both).
For this reason, I wanted to more fully know what it is to be Punjabi, to know where I had come from and how Punjab had evolved. I wanted to understand Gurmuki, Ghatka and Giddha, and more broadly, I wanted to know India. All of this I did years later, after graduation and my first job, when I finally had the freedom through my work, India was the first country I choose to immerse myself in when I was trained as a broadcast journalist and given equipment with which to report for the BBC World Service.
During that year, I spent time learning the aforementioned 3Gs above, in Baru Sahib, the Miri Piri Academy, and I spent a month living at Harmandir Sahib, more commonly known as the Golden Temple in Amritsar. It was a rite of passage that helped me understand more about my own faith and more broadly the power of faith in people’s lives. Sitting by the sarovar or the sacred pool that surrounds the temple, you could see pilgrims who had travelled huge distances, to dip themselves in the holy waters for healing and cleansing, and then stand in supplication with utter faith. People came from all over to share their most heartfelt problem or fear, hope or joy. Seeing day after day how people found strength in faith showed me its power.
Marriage. At eighteen, it felt like a cage to be avoided for as long as possible. The end of freedom and happiness. Then, as now, what I valued most was the power to set the course of my own life, not to be constrained by the expectations or ambitions of others. For my mother, nothing was more important than to get me married off at the right time and to the right kind of boy. A Sikh, preferably from Punjab, with the appropriate creed, background and parentage.
What both of us feared most was what the other desperately wanted. It was the first time in my life when I really understood the importance of values. For my mother, family and heritage held sway. I, on the other hand, was moved by the desire for freedom, exploration and had a thirst for knowledge. We both wanted the best for me, but we couldn’t agree on what that was. Our starting points and assumptions were too far apart. Our values were in conflict.
In order to appease my idol, best friend and mother, I accepted a place at Manchester University to study Politics, Philosophy and Economics (PPE). In my second year an opportunity arose that put me on yet another collision course with my mother. It was during the Asian Financial Crisis in 1997-98. I had the chance to go to Melbourne and study PPE first-hand, with the supervising experts at the time. Knowing what response I could expect, I didn’t share this news with my family until my scholarship was secured, a ticket booked and my flight to Australia just twenty-four hours away.
I finally made the call to let my mother know. Insults were screamed down the phone, Punjabi-style, but the die was cast. I was fortunate that my Mohinder Nani Ji was visiting from the United States, and interceded on my behalf. “It is already written which tap she will drink from – there is nothing we can do or say,” were her words. My trip went ahead, on the agreement that no one else – not even my father or siblings – were to know I had left the country.
My journey to study at the University of Melbourne was life changing, and I travelled across South East Asia to get back home – seizing the opportunity to see more of the world and quench my thirst for knowledge first-hand. Only, as my mother had predicted, this thirst was insatiable.
In the last 20 years I have travelled to over 140 countries, reporting as a journalist in help contribute towards a better world. In my career the thirst has taken me across finance, international development and media: from working at JP Morgan as a graduate, to travelling the world as a broadcast journalist for the BBC World Service. I set up the UAE’s first media-focused venture capital fund for twofour54, and spent time working within both the UN and EU. I have gained an MSc in Development Economics from the LSE and completed an MBA from London Business School including study at Harvard Business School and MIT.
These varied experiences have given me the opportunity to see how values shape everything from personal and family relationships to local communities and multi-national organisations. As a teenager I had started to understand how values define us as people, framing the direction we choose for our lives. My career has shown me that values are also about how change is achieved and a better world created.
Over almost two decades, my microphone has taken me around the world. My reporting has brought me to the sharp end of some of the inequality and social injustice I had started to grapple with during my time in investment banking. Living in India for a year, I became deeply involved with several grassroots NGOs and covered stories about the extraordinary inequality, and the socio-economic barriers facing women – from unequal rights, to unnecessary widespread illness against women, even in villages where the gender balance of leadership was equal.
Whilst I was reporting from India, a law had been passed asking for fifty percent of all village leadership to be female. I thought this was an excellent initiative until I began to realise that many of the women couldn’t perform in that role because they would fall ill every month. Not directly due to their menstruation cycle, but because sanitary pads would be dried in the cow shed to save embarrassment, where disease and illness would easily spread. Tragically, the women themselves were too embarrassed to share what was really going on and it took a lot of time and trust for things to improve. I knew that any of these women could have so been me, and I could have been them.
As my reporting experience grew, I was increasingly inspired by the values I saw, and how they were being used by individuals and communities to create change. With my NGO experience and placements with the EU and UN, I had seen how third parties sought to address the social problems I reported on. But the most meaningful change was being driven from the grassroots themselves, by activists who faced no bureaucracy or funding traps.
I have covered numerous stories like this, seeing not just the power of values to effect change, but the galvanising effect these stories have on people across countries and continents. After reporting about the women in India, I received letters from as far afield as Ghana, Papua New Guinea and Suriname. The story of values is touching because it is also the story of change, progress and hope in an uncertain world that's being radically reshaped by technological, political, business, environmental and social forces.
This brings me back to my roots and the values I grew up with as a Punjabi – which you see in the strength of the women and men. It’s the agricultural bread box of India and my ancestors are farmers. They toiled Mother Earth, and were close to her for their provision and sustenance – not only theirs, but for all those around them. Our connection to the earth, the elements, the seasons is fundamental and you see this in their connection to family and community, which will always be very important to us.
Now where do these values come from? Their spiritual foundation over the last 550 years has been based in Sikhi and the aim of Chardi Kala, which means to think positively through trusting in the spirit, speak positively and act in that sense that is good for all. You see all these principles in the Sikh faith through kirtan (speaking or singing the virtues of the spirit), seva or helping others and having established institutions like the twenty-four-hour free kitchen, langar, for all and sharing what you have from honest labour.
What’s interesting from a woman’s perspective is how much strength and sacrifice went into this all. They would fight the battles if required, in all respects – mentally, physically and emotionally – whilst also nourishing, caring and loving. They would exhibit a blend of feminine and masculine energies, and again, this is emphasized in the Sikh qualities or principle of equality.
There are stories of hardship, loss and struggle, many of which I could share. But Punjabi people are driven by very strong values and rejoice in giving, uplifting and creating a better world for all – Sarbat da Bhalla. For example, my uncle Harren Jhoti has developed a treatment for breast cancer after losing his mother Surinder Nani to cancer, and similarly many members of the family have contributed to the world with such passion and vigour. Whether it be education, entertainment, or the environment, the aim is for this rich land of Punjab is to share its voice, commitment and energy with us all.
All of the stories contained in this book, in the lives around us, and yours are a reflection of your values. If I spent an hour with you I could probably work out what you spend your time doing. If I spent a week with you I might work out what you like and dislike and what your priorities are. But if I spend quality time with you with an open mind and eyes, for an extended period of time, then I discover what really matters to you and how that affects your behaviour. Those are your values; it is what you are driven by, and once you have articulated them, it is how you would spend your time.
My parents, grandparents, ancestors, and Sikhi have been fundamentalin forming my values, and in raising my family I see them coming to the surface with community, contribution, change, and continuity at the core. This is why at-home we hold weekly values classes for local children, hold sangat (community gathering), and contribute to the community building around us. Our contribution comes in many forms including service, mentorship, time, funds, connections, and inspiration. The aim is to continue what my family taught me – whilst having the courage to apply these values to changing times and create new legacies.