While Ajit Singh educated him in bodily skill, their mom—and the lessons of Guru Granth Sahib—educated Hari Singh's heart and thoughts.
She taught him:
- humility before the Creator
- admire for all
- discipline
- truth
- compassion
- the importance of justice
- and the absolute obligation of protecting the weak
Every evening, after practice, Hari Singh would sit with folded legs, taking note of verses recited by visiting students.
The words sank deep into his soul, shaping him, guiding him.
This balance—steel and scripture—turned into the muse upon which the legend might stand.
The spark became a flame the day young Hari Singh witnessed an real skirmish.
Outside Gujranwala, a collection of bandits were troubling the neighborhood villagers.
The Sikh jatha stationed there rode out to confront them, and the conflict happened so near the village fields that Hari—hidden at the back of an ox cart—ought to see the entirety.
The dust rose.
Swords flashed.
Horses thundered.
Men shouted.
Steel struck metallic.
Hari's coronary heart pounded no longer with worry, but with some thing deeper—
a sense that this become the arena he belonged to.
Ajit Singh located him afterward and scolded him for wandering so close to risk, but when he seemed into Hari's eyes, he stopped mid-sentence.
There become something new in them.
A focus.
A starvation.
A destiny quietly unlocking itself.
Ajit sighed softly.
"One day, little brother… you received its be looking battles from afar. You could be main them."
And each of them knew he was ready
At night, Hari would beg the village elders to inform him testimonies.
Stories of:
Baba Deep Singh
Banda Singh Bahadur
Guru Gobind Singh Ji's legendary battles
The forty martyrs of Chamkaur
The bravery of Mai Bhago
The unbroken spirit of the Khalsa
Each story stirred something internal him—
not delight, not arrogance, however purpose.
He felt the weight of history settling onto his shoulders even earlier than he changed into tall sufficient to hold a defend.
One elder, after narrating the Battle of Muktsar, located his hand at the boy's head and whispered:
"Child… you are born from the identical fire."
And Hari Singh believed it.
Each hero has a key component to his personality
This became Fearlessness for Hari Singh.
Not negligence.
Not reckless courage.
But a deep, inner peace in the face of crisis.
As the storm shook the village, others hid, but Hari went out into the rain and looked steadily up at the sky.
When a wild bull approached the fields, the children scattered, and Hari moved forward shouting to distract it, giving the others time to escape.
When the wolves howled in the night, he never trembled; Instead, he listened carefully to learn their different styles.
It wasn't that he never felt afraid.
He absolutely refused to let it get to him.
This trait could one day spread terror across entire armies. But for now it made him a boy unlike all the others, a silent storm in human form.
Night had enveloped Gujranwala like a dark shroud.
The air was thick with fumes from the oil lamps and damp earth, and from beyond the walls of the town, a jackal wailed-a long, hollow note that rebounded through the night. In his bed in the Uppal household, Hari Singh lay sleepless, looking up at the ceiling, all his senses alert.
He had learned to listen to the night.
Danger often announced itself before it arrived.
That night, it came on horseback.
It was the sound that reached him first—hooves pounding too fast, too many, with intent.
Hari sat up.
Then came the shouting.
"Afghans!
Steel rang against steel.Dogs barked wildly.
Women screamed.
Before fear could touch him, Hari was on his feet.
He clutched his kirpan, small but razor-sharp, and ran into the courtyard. Flames already licked at the far end of the street. Raids by Afghans—rogue hill men and deserters—penetrated the outskirts, hoping to loot before Sikh patrols could respond.
Hari's mother stood in the doorway, terror in her eyes.
"Hari! Stay back!"
But he saw what she did not.
A wounded Sikh lay slumped near the well, blood pooling beneath him. An Afghan raider raised his blade, preparing to finish the job.
Hari moved.
The raider did not see him until it was too late.
With a cry born of fury and grief older than his years, Hari lunged forward and slashed at the man's leg. The blade cut deep. The Afghan screamed, stumbled and turned—only to see a child standing before him, eyes blazing.
The man laughed.
"A cub thinks he is a lion!"
He raised his sword.
Hari did not hesitate.
He ducked under the swing, drove his kirpan upward with all his strength, and felt resistance—flesh, bone, warmth.
The raider fell.
Dead.
Silence rushed in, broken only by Hari's ragged breathing.
He stood frozen, blood upon his hands as his heart pounded so hard he thought it would burst from his chest. He had killed a man.
The others finally drove them off and, within minutes, the Sikh patrol arrived. Suddenly, the street was filled with flickering torches and the scene came alive: burned carts, injured villagers and a child standing over a dead enemy.
The soldiers stared.
One of them knelt beside the Afghan, examined the wound, then looked up slowly at Hari.
"This was your strike?
Hari nodded; his face was pale but unbroken.
The soldier stood up, then faced the others.
"By Waheguru… the boy fought like a seasoned warrior."
Dharam Kaur reached her son and pulled him into her arms, shaking, whispering prayers of thanks and fear.
But the whispers had already begun.
By morning, the whole town knew.
They spoke of the raid.
They spoke of the child.
They spoke about the fearless eyes.
One elder said in a hushed tone,
"He fought like a nal—a spearhead, the point that breaks the line."
Another added,
"No… he fought like a lion."
And someone—no one ever remembered who—spoke the name that would follow him into legend:
"Nalwa."
The name spread like fire.
Hari Singh Nalwa.
All that day, he washed his hands over and over again, but the memory stayed.
He did not celebrate.
He was never boastful.
He did not smile.
He sat alone under a neem tree, staring at his kirpan.
Ajit Singh found him there.
"You did what you had to do," his brother said softly.
Hari's voice was low. "I did not feel joy."
Ajit nodded. "Good. Warriors who like killing do not last. Those that accept its weight… shape history."
Hari closed his eyes.
He comprehended.
The world had crossed the line with him—and he had crossed it back.
As Gujranwala went back to uneasy sleep that night, something fundamental had changed.
The boy who watched warriors from shadows was gone.
In his place stood someone new.
Someone dangerous.
Someone inevitable.
Hari Singh Nalwa had taken his first life.
And in doing so he had taken his first step into legend.