''What Do You Say?'

Saturday was an eventful day; many fairly notable things happened Here I focus on just one of them.

I needed to pick up some prescriptions at our local WalMart. As it is unsafe for me to drive since my stroke, my husband drove me and was to wait in the car until I came out. Then he would drive up and get me and we'd happily tootle off home, stopping at Taco Bell to get a seven-layer burrito. (Yes, lactovegetarian, if you leave off the sour cream, which contains gelatin.) If that had happened in its usual manner, you would not now be reading this post.

I got my prescriptions and, holding the pharmacy bag, waited. And waited. After about 15 minutes, I began to survey the parking lot, and eventually found our car. I walked to it and just as I unlocked the door, a voice behind me said, 'Gimme your drugs! I gotta knife!'

'So do I.' I'm not sure quite how I dropped my medicine, reached my arm across my body and under my shirt, and turned toward him, my kirpan at his throat. (Actually, I do know. Guru's Kirpaa, eh? And a conditioned reflex.)

The startled criminal had dropped his rusty little knife and was petrified. As this was in a crowded public place, it was only seconds before security appeared, followed closely by the police. Although, I was the one holding a 'weapon,' I guess I didn't much look like the aggressor and the situation was quickly sorted out. The miscreant, by the looks of his teeth and his scrawny self, a crystal meth addict, was whining and crying to me, 'Ma'am, ma'am, please don't press charges! Please, please...I have two strikes!.'

(For those of you who may not know, many US states, including Washington, where I currently live, have 'Three Strike Laws.' Three strikes is a baseball term: 'Three strikes and you're out!' How these laws operate differ from state to state, but the idea is that on a third conviction for a serious crime, the guilty party automatically goes to prison for a long, long time, usually life. Attempted robbery and assault with a deadly weapon are considered serious crimes. I, personally disapprove of all automatic, mandatory sentencing, as there should sometimes be exceptions, but that is the law here.)

I could not consider letting this miserable excuse of a human being (Mai, dear, he also contains the jot of God, remember? I know, but he's still a miserable excuse of a human being.) go free to injure or kill someone else. He was taken away in handcuffs and I was left to have a long conversation with a policeman who insisted on staying with me until my husband returned. I'll call him Officer John.

He was most interested in my kirpan.

'I should confiscate it as evidence,' he told me.

'If you try to do that, I'll end up in jail; it never leaves my body. You'd have to take it by force.' I replied.

He gave me a loo and I continued. 'But if you really need this one, I have another at home, we could go there together and I suppose then you could use this one for your evidence.'

'It's a pretty knife, but why is it so important to you? You'd really be willing to fight me for it?'

'Oh, yes, if I had to, but I'd rather not. I am an Amritdhari Sikh, a Khalsa. The kirpan - by the way, it's called a kirpan, please quit calling it a knife - is one of five article of faith, kakkars, that we always keep on our bodies.'

Surprisingly, he was interested and asked about the other four. I explained about them - the unshorn hair, covered by a turban by men and a scarf or turban by women (OK, I have a confession. Although I don't go out with my hair open, I don't always keep it properly covered, but this particular day, as good luck(?) would have it, I was quite 'decent.' I'll tie a dastaar as soon as I learn some way to either do it with one hand or to get my left hand working again), kesh, the comb, kangha, the bangle, kara and the breeches, kechera. I was sure that he would have something embarrassing to ask about the kechera, but his mind was going in a different direction.

And what he said next is the real reason for this post.

'I have a friend who says he is a Sikh and he has that kara-thing, but he cuts his hair and shaves. Is he a real Sikh?'

How does one answer such a question from someone who really knows little or nothing about us and our beliefs? Here is what I told him:

'That is a topic much debated among us. Some would say yes, some would say no. We have a code of conduct, the Sikh Rehat Maryada (SRM), that says that a Sikh is a human being who believes certain things and isn't a member of any other religion. It doesn't specifically mention the hair, but some people say that if you believe those things, you can't possibly cut your hair. Some say that's an outdated attitude and should be dropped. Still others say that only Amritdhari, initiated Sikhs are really real Sikhs.'

'In another part of the SRM, it does say to keep one's kesh and some other behaviours that a Sikh should or shouldn't do, but in the definition, it doesn't say.'

'What do you say?'

Talk about being put on the spot! 'Personally, I'll accept anybody as a Sikh who says they are, unless I have a good reason not to. (I'm thinking here specifically of KP Gill and his ilk.) But a Khalsa needs to look like a Khalsa. And I feel really good when I see a brother or sister that looks like a Sikh, what we call a visible Sikh. The other kind make me feel sad.'

The conversation went on for quite some time, until my husband finally showed up; he had been using the public facilities in WalMart, he said. (For a whole hour?)

That is the meat of our conversation. I put to you the question: What do you say?

(An afterward that I just cannot resist. If my criminal had actually gotten my 'drugs,' he would have gotten the surprise of his life. You see, they are preps for a colonoscopy, designed to clean out every bit of fecal matter from the intestine. He would not have gotten high, but he would have, as we say, dropped an elephant, probably with considerable pain, if he hadn't drunk a whole lot of water.)

Thanks again to professional photographer, Charles Mecham for the generous gift of his photos of visible Sikhs.. Please visit his website to see more. Blogger is misbehaving and refusing to add pictures right now. I'll go ahead and post this and add Mr. Meacham's great pictures later. It is later and the pictureshave been added, all from Charles Meacham's Being Sikh collection, except, of course, my forget-me-not signature picture.

Thoughts On Our Kara

Every person I know who calls her/himself a Sikh wears a kara. I know I wore mine through the long years of my exile from the Sangat, even when they tried to forcefully remove at the mental hospital. They could have taken my wedding band if they had wanted that, but not my kara.

When Maman (Vini) visited with me after my twenty years' absence, she brought me a kara from her home in Amritsar. Knowing my taste, she brought a very simple, flat one. No lines, no engaving. Like this one. I exchanged it with the one I had been wearing since 1984 during our battle.

The kara is most decidedly not a magic talisman. It does, however, have power. I cannot tell how many times seeing or feeling my kara, or just knowing it's there, has given me strength and courage to do what I know is right.

In fact, since babyhood, the only time it has been off my body was when I got an MRI - any magnetic metal in the room could screw up the very expensive piece of equipment - and anyway, I was comatose. But I wonder how often we really consider what it means to us. This article appeared in the Gurmat Learning Zone, and since I have permission to republish their articles, here I share it with you

Maybe after reading it, you'll be even more appreciative of the kara on your wrist or arm.

Kara– SYMBOL OF FREEDOM AND EQUALITY

Kara, one of the five kakars of the Sikhs, is neither an ornament nor a tool, but is a blessed gift from Lord, the Tenth Master Guru Gobind Singh ji.

Alas, this great gift to the humanity has been ignored or has not been appreciated in its true spirit.

Kara symoblises dignity, equality, independence and emancipation from slavery. It can be termed with certainity, whether it is known to the world or not that it is the prelude to the Charter of the UNO or foundation stone of the human rights' movements in the world.

Guru Nanak Dev ji, founder of the Khalsa Panth was born in year 1469 in Punjab, the land of five rivers. Coincidentally this was the year when in the west Machevally was also born.

This was the time when the Indian society was cursed with four divisions on the basis of birth in a particular clan. Vast majority was termed as shudras, or so-called lower castes. The biggest challege of that time with the Gurus was the blood-stained subjugation, torture, humiliation, deprivation of vast majority of the people not on the basis of their ethicity, colour, gender, knowledge, race or region but the birth in the house of a shudra.

         That was the time when the alleged low castes, shudras were deprived from entry or participation the temples of learning, and temples of religious prayers. A human being deprived of these two gifts will become and behave in a manner less than human beings. In olden times the cursed were branded or forced to live in ghettos. Perpetuating and implementing his thoughts, founding father of the socio-religious laws of Hindus, Manu pronounced about the low caste shudras should wear the black-iron ornaments.

 

Their dress (shall be) the garments of the dead, (they shall eat) their food from broken dishes, black iron (shall be) their ornaments, and they must always wander from place to place. [Manu Smriti - Chapter X, canto 52.]

This was not acceptable and detested to by the founder of Sikhism, Guru Nanak Dev ji. In absolute humility and humbleness, he categorically declared and identified himself with the lowest of the low saying,

                     ਨੀਚਾ ਅੰਦਰਿ ਨੀਚ ਜਾਤਿ ਨੀਚੀ ਹੂ ਅਤਿ ਨੀਚੁ ॥  

ਨਾਨਕੁ ਤਿਨ ਕੈ ਸੰਗਿ ਸਾਥਿ ਵਡਿਆ ਸਿਉ ਕਿਆ ਰੀਸ ॥   

ਜਿਥੈ ਨੀਚ ਸਮਾਲੀਅਨਿ ਤਿਥੈ ਨਦਰਿ ਤੇਰੀ ਬਖਸੀਸ ॥4॥3॥
(ਗੁ.ਗ੍ਰੰ.ਸਾ. ਸਿਰੀਰਾਗੁ, ਮ:1)

Nanak seeks the company of the lowest of the low class, the very lowest of the low. Why should he try to compete with the great? In that place where the lowly are cared for-there, the Blessings of Your Glance of Grace rain down. 43

(Guru Granth Sahib, Siri Rag, M:1)

This message was carried to its logical ends by the Tenth Master Guru Gobind Singh when he initiated the Khalsa Panth by bestowing Amrit (nectar). The de-branding the so-called shudras and to bestow divine acceptance to all He directed every Sikh to always wear kara (black iron) bangle like ornament on the wrist.

              Kara thus became a divine hand-cuff reminding the adherant of his obligation to follow the diktats and desist from prohibted commands.

To look for material benefits or comfirts from kara is belittling its true message. Once a student of Khalsa College, Amritsar asked Master Tara Singh, veteran gursikh leader that what is the advantage of wearing a kara. Master Tara Singh replied there is no benefit for you. Shocked student asked, 'and it is beneficial to you?'. Masterji replied in the affirmative.

When asked further Master Tara Singh's reply was terse and pointed. He explained that you are trying to look into the kara that if you wear it you will get some benefits or may get more marks in exams. Nothing of the sort is going to happen. But to me it is a constant and inspirational reminder that those who had this kara on their wrists had their skull ripped off with a chisel, were cut bit by bit, were boiled alive and baked on hot plates. To me this is a reminder that if I wear it I may be blessed this way for my commitment to my Guru. The importance of a Kara on the wrist of a Sikh can be visualised from the following words of a spiritiual philosopher and scientist Prof. Puran Singh.:

"I heard a stupid Sikh preacher the other day, trying to convince a mass gathering of the Sikhs that the iron ring of the Guru worn on the wrist is a protection against lightning. He said, as large buildings are made safe against lightning by a rod of iron, so the Guru has saved man from the stroke of lightning. He was hopelessly flinging his arms up and down to gather some straw of a reason to prove the rationale of the iron ring the Guru gave us as a gift. Coming to us from our personal God, dearer to us than our mother, father, sister or sweetheart, it comes to us as His Gift, as His Blessing, Fie on our manners that we argue over and over about it. He touched my hair and I keep it; when I toss my arm up in the air and the iron ring shines, I am reminded of His wrist that wore it – One exactly like this. Is this arm, by some stray gleam of the iron ring on my wrist, His? Other religions live in an elaborated symbolism; I the Sikh have no religion. He loved me, he made me His own. The sword is the mind where the Guru lives. The iron ring is the sign of His remembrance. The tresses of hair are as clouds round a snow peak – they always gather, gather—they always rain, rain. In my sacred tresses flow Ganga, Jamna and Godavari. Have I got the comb, the Guru gave me? have I got His other gifts? I may have lost them. But I cannot lose my tresses, I cannot lose my iron ring. Because, you remember how He called His disciple Bhai Gurdas from Benaras. The disciples went as bidden and brought him with his hands bound with a string from Benares to Amritsar. Once the call of the Master was answered thus. Each one of us is called. We are of His spiritual militia. We have to wear the ring which is His gift, and we are the prisoners of infinite love. These are the fetters of love, the price of our freedom. Each Sikh wears hair and the beard of Guru gobind Singh. We are moulded in His image."  (Ji, please forgive me for mentioning this, but most women, even Sikh women, don't have beards.)

So kara in the hands of a Sikh is an article of faith and commitment to the society and should be honoured and appreciated like that. It is neither an ornament nor a superstitious symbol. It is certainly a vocal and potent sign of commitment to the human rights of the entire humanity.

-Compiled by Gurcharanjit Singh Lamba

Coordinator, IHRO Sikh Affairs

All pictures except the header are from the Sikh Kara Store on eBay.
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WHY TRY TO FIT IN?
YOU WERE BORN TO STAND OUT!

The Day I Became A Sikh

Cross-posting seems a little lazy to me, but several people have asked me to publish this post into this blog. I am not sure if it is funny, sad , poignant, inspiring or what; I am sure it is a vital part of my personal story. It is exactly as published in sometimes - 2 on 31 March 2007.

The Day I Became A Sikh

(Note My aunt's name is not Jeanne and the priest 's name was not Leblanc.)

All this happened about 43 years ago, so the conversations are slightly fictionalised. I do not really remember most of them them verbatim. But the meanings are exactly what occurred.

I believe I have mentioned that Dad had promised my mother, who was Catholic, to raise me as a Catholic. He didn't like that at all, but being a man of his word, he kept his promise to her, or rather, he tried to keep his promise to her. No one had consulted me on the matter.

So let's travel back in time of my birth. Mom insisted that I be properly baptised in the church with all the trimmings. Not one of the Sikhs, including Dad and my brothers was there. I was dressed in a very long silk gown that completely engulfed the tiny baby. That dress was kept for a number of years and it was a good meter long. (What became of it I'll tell later.) It was white with elaborate embroidery all over it. Quite a work of art actually. But it did have a stain on it. I, being me, objected to the whole proceedings in the only way a small baby could: I kicked and screamed and threw up all over it. It is said that newborn babies are very close to God and have definite ideas about him/her. I have no recollection, of course, but I was on my worst behaviour, I have been told, kicking and screaming and, as I said, throwing up. My maternal aunt and uncle became my godparents, charged with the duty to make sure that I was brought up and educated as a proper Catholic girl. A Christian name being a necessity, I was named after an ancestor of mine on the French side, Helene-Therese, who, from what I know about her, would have made a fine Khalsa. In fact I used her war dagger in combat. The name was the only good thing about the whole ritual.

My aunt, Jeanne, took me to mass every Sunday for years, and saw to it that I was enrolled in Catechism class, which I had to attend after school.

I hated every minute of it. I begged Daddy to please, please, please put an end to all this; mom had run off and there was no reason to continue. But he was a man of his word, and this forced religious life went on and on. I even hated the smell of the church. It wreaked of cheap incense and old spilled wine. Most of all, I hated the priest, Father Leblanc. He was short and fat and smelled of cigarettes and alcohol. These were the days before Pope John 23 liberalised the church, and the people were taught that the priests were all wise and almost infallible; they were not to be questioned.

This torture went on for years, but when it came time for 'The Sacrament of Confirmation,' I knew I had to put an end to it. No way was I able to stand up and publicly declare that 'I believe in the holy Catholic church.' I knew that if I went to the ceremony, I would have to simply refuse, which might make a point, but would also make a scandal, which I, being a very private person even then, really wanted to avoid. Gradually an idea came to me: If I could get kicked out of the church before all that, the problem would be solved. It would alienate my mother's family, of course, but I had always considered them low-lifes with no standards and would be happy to be rid of them.

So I prepared my plan of attack. One day in confirmation class, I looked at my kara, which was the only Sikh object I was allowed (I'm sure none of the Catholics realised it was more than a piece of cheap jewelry), took a very deep breath, and raised my hand. This greatly surprised Fr. Leblanc because I always just sat there, stony-faced.

He smiled his slimy smile at me. 'Yes, child. Do you have a question??'

I nodded.

'I'll be happy to answer it, my child.'

(I'm not your child, thank God!) 'God is our heavenly father who loves us so much that he sent his son, who is also God, to be tortured to death and then brought back to life, so we wouldn't go to hell, and then he sent the Holy Ghost, who is also God to be our helper, so it seems like there are three Gods, but there is only one. I don't understand?'

I was just beginning. I had rehearsed all this many times before and he had to think I was sincere.

He did.

'That's the mystery of the Holy Trinity, child. It is beyond human understanding.'

'And if we don't believe in it, our loving heavenly father will send us to hell to be tortured in firy torment forever and ever.'

He was beginning to see where I was headed. 'You mustn't question God, child.' He was becoming annoyed.

I continued in this vein for some time, ripping Catholicism up one dogma and down another.

The good priest just stood there, mouth open, aghast at my words.

'I don't question God. But what you worship and call God is not God; you worship an evil demonic thing and I would rather be tortured for a thousand forevers than to worship that hideous evil THING for even one second!'

Priests in those days were not used to being challenged by anyone, especially not by 12 year old girls in confirmation class. Did you know that people really can turn purple? He was beyond anger, nearly insane, I thought his eyes might pop out of his head. He pointed a chubby little finger at me. 'Blasphemer! Heretic! Spawn of Satan!'

Daddy as the devil? What an interesting idea.

( I think he actually used those terms, but I can't be sure; it was over 40 years ago.)

'Get out!'

' GET OUT AND DON'T EVER COME BACK!!'

Mission accomplished.

Usually one of my brothers would pick me up, but since they wouldn't be there for some time, I took the bus home.

When I walked in Dad realised I was early. 'You didn't skip that church class today, did you?'

'No, not at all.'

He heard some expression in my voice. 'What are you up to?

'I told him the whole story, punctuated by an occasional 'You said WHAT?'

When I was done and he was trying to keep a straight face, he muttered something under his breath about Gobind Singh and reached out and touched my kara. 'That was the only compromise your mother would make with me about you and religion.'

'I have never understood why it was important to her what religion I was; she never cared about me.'

He promised he'd talk about that when I got older, which he did, with much difficulty. But that story belongs somewhere else.

'Well, I guess I need to talk to that priest. Let me go get dressed.'

When he came back, he was in his best Punjabi gear, complete with a red turban and a full-length, metre-long sword. I could just see him there, calm, rational, self-composed, a bit unconsciously menacing with Fr. Leblanc ready to have a heart attack-nervous breakdown.

When he came back, he informed me that Fr. Leblanc was extremely serious about my not returning. And that the good father had called both of us some names of which neither of us was sure the meaning, but they weren't meant as compliments. I did explain to him that he, never having been baptised was merely an infidel, but I was a heretic; he would be hung or something, while I was supposed to be burned alive. But this was the twentieth century, not the fifteenth, so the worst that would happen is that my French-Canadian relatives would disown me.

He almost skipped away and came back with a smallish box, which he handed to me. 'I have always prayed that one day I'd be able to give this to you.' I opened it and gasped.

Inside was a kara, a kirpan, a kanga, a pair of kechera and a red silk chunni.' You can use any or all or none; it's totally up to you.'

It's totally up to you. It's totally up to me. It's totally up to me. It's totally up to me. Suddenly, it sunk in that I was free, I didn't have to pretend or go along any more. In one very real sense, this was the beginning of my life.

I went to my apartment and built a fire in the fireplace. Then I took a long, long shower and washed my hair. My kesh. I could finally call it my kesh. I called Surinder, Al's wife to help me get dressed.

I took down the crucifix that my aunt had insisted I had to have by my bed and thew it into the fire. Remember my christening dress? That was next. There were a few other things, but those were the most important.

At Dad's insistence, the whole family (whoever happened to be in residence) always ate dinner together. When I appeared, not as a Canadian preteen, but as a young Punjabi lady, everyone was surprised. Before we ate, Dad made a little speech.

'All of you know that I promised our Princess' mother that I would raise her as a Christian. Before today, I didn't realise what an injustice I had done to my daughter. I was wrong to force her into a way of life that neither of us wanted or could believe in. I've been a regular Mughal. I should have broken that promise a long time ago and accepted whatever consequences there would have been. I shouldn't have waited for her to stand up to a ridiculous little priest. I was wrong. Mai, Princess, can you forgive me?'

That is very close to what he actually said. It was a moment that is indelibly burned into my memory.

I couldn't believe what he was saying or how serious he was. But I did appreciate that he realised he had been wrong and had said so.

I matched his solemnity. 'Of course.'

I paused. 'Am I a Sikh now?'

'You're the only one who can answer that. You know enough to make that choice. Do you believe in Christianity?'

'No, not even a little bit. Of course, I'm a Sikh, I always have been inside. Now I can be outside, too.'

'We do need to teach you a thing or two about religious tolerance, though.' He giggled.

Dad reached under a napkin. 'You might want this.' He handed me a small silk envelope with a key on a chain inside. I knew at once what it was. The key to Guruji's sitting room. With people in and out constantly and kids all over the place, that door was kept locked, but each family member wore a key on a chain. Now I had mine, as well.

That pretty much tells that story। Everything that happened afterward was a result of this day.

Photo of kakkars by Karamjeet Singh
Used with permission