"I AM I, MANI SINGH!"

I am on hiatus, but this story just begs to be told.  So much tragedy on our last trip to India.  It wasn't all tragedy, though.  There were some funny moments that have tended to become lost amidst the blood and guts and glory.  This is one such moment. 
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Twenty-six years ago almost to the day, three very weary Sikhs landed in the Delhi International Airport.  The three, a man of 43, a woman of 34 and a boy of 13, really just wanted some quiet sleep after two days air journey from Montreal.  We three, of course.  I'm sure we looked less tired than we actually were.  Mani and Sandeep were both in bana, I was wearing a red silk Punjabi suit.  We looked very, very Sikh.  Mani was his usual 188cm (6 ft, 2 in) self, straight back, striding through the airport as if he owned it.  Sandeep - with a beginner's mustache, quite attractive and a few stray strands of hair on his chin, already taller than his 152 cm (5 ft.) mother - and I  trotted along beside him. Neither Mani nor I of us had been to India since the summer of 1969 and we didn't know what we would find.  It was Sandeep's first visit.  We knew, of course, about the tensions between us Sikhs and Indira's government and were very much aware of -  and supporters of - the Khalistan Movement.  We had even hoped that we might somehow be able to meet Sant Jarnail Singh Bhindranwale ji.   Still we were unprepared for the feeling of coldness, even slight hostility toward us.  Nothing we could quite put our fingers on, but definitely something unpleasant in the air.

As we walked quickly through the airport, a weaselly little Hindu kept running alongside us barely able to keep up, jabbering on and on about, "It's 12 o'clock, Sardar."  No ji.

It was a bit annoying, but we ignored it and just kept going.  Finally, the gnarly weasel stepped directly in front of Mani.  I have to say this about the little creep, he had guts.  "He looked up at Mani, directly into his eyes, and said, "What do you think you're going to do?  Who do you think you are, anyway?"  Or something very close to that.  I gasped;  even Sandeep was taken aback.  I knew Mani was tired and might well lose his temper.  His left hand was on the hilt of kirpan and a scowl was on his face.  The weasel seemed to relise that he had made a mistake.  Others, too, noticed what was going on, and our immediate environment became very quiet.

This, of course, is not us.  Mani and Sandeep had turbans and I bear little resemblance to the luminous Sophia Loren

Mani was Mani.  He threw back his head and began singing, very loudly,

Oh the trumpets of glory
Now call me to ride,
Yes, the trumpets are calling to me,
And wherever I ride,
Ever staunch at my side
My squire (one arm around Sandeep's shoulders)
and
my lady(the other arm around my shoulders)
shall be!
I am I, Don Quixote

The Lord of la Mancha

We caught on and joined him in the song:

Our destiny calls and we go!
And the wild winds of fortune 

Shall carry us onward,
Oh, whithersoever they blow,

Whithersoever they blow,

Onward to glory we go!

By now, the weasel was groveling in front of us, shaking, obviously terrified.

But Mani wasn't finished.  He tossed back his head and bellowed:

BOLEEEEEEE SO NIHAAAAAAAL!!!!

For a split second, I was about as scared as the weasel , half expecting the cops to roughly arrest us or possibly herd us on the next plane back to Canada.  Nothing could have prepared me for what actually happened.

Loudly, from all sides, came the response,

SAT SHRI AKAAAAAAAAAAAL!!

Mani gave a last look of contempt at the little Hindu, by now just quivering jelly on the floor and tossed a coin at him.  

 Sandeep, very quietly, whispered at him, "Khalistan Zindabad."  I have often wonder how this whole incident sounded when told from his point of view.

We continued on through the airport, singing loudly that we were all Don Quixote, the Lord of La Mancha going onward to glory.

Even at the time, it felt like being in a very silly Bollywood movie.  Looking back, it seems even funnier than it was at the time.  I guess it could have gotten very serious if the officials had decided to make an incident out of it, but someone was watching over us, I guess, and there were no bad repercussions, just a lot of giggles.

So those of you who know me well and have heard me burst out with "I am I, Don Quixote..." for no apparent reason now know the rest of the story.

The section with that contains the "I Am I" song  that we sang starts 2:11 at in the following video, the song itself starts at 8:52 (fortunately, Mani did not drop dead while singing).  Please listen and imagine the three of us and the weasel at the airport.:

The video is from the 1972 movie, The Man of La Mancha, which I highly recommend.  The song, "The Impossible Dream" has been an important part of my life since I first heard it.  The woman who plays my part is the very lovely Sophia Loren at the height of her beauty.

"What is illness to the body of a Knight Errant?
What matter wounds?

He rises where he has fallen and 

WOE TO THE WICKED!!"

Sandeep's 39th Birthday

Yesterday, 14 February - Valentine's Day -  would have been my martyred son, Sandeep Singh's 39th birthday.  Times does fly.  Had things gone differently, I would no doubt be a grandmother with Sikhling rugrats all about me.  Had he gotten married young, he could even have had grown children by now!  Suddenly my age is catching up with me.

I felt myself getting a bit sad yesterday thinking about what might have been, when I almost heard his slightly exasperated, "Moooother, it's all the Hukam of Vaheguru!"  Then as he often did  when I was even slightly out of sorts, he'd start looking around the house.

Under the chair.  "No, it's not here."

Behind the sofa.  "No, it's not here."

On top of the bookshelf.  "No, it's not here."

And on and on until we both collapsed in laughter.  Then he would point to me.  "Found it!  There's your chardi kala!"

Sandeep's Hukamnama

One day when he was about five or six as I was tying up his hairs, our son Sandeep made a request. It went something like this:




Usually this was our special time together when he and I discussed whatever was on his mind. That morning, he was acting a bit distant and distracted. Clearly he had something on his mind. 'Mata Ji, I have a question.' That told me he was very serious. Usually I was mommy or mum.


I stopped my combing and looked at him.


'When you and Papa Ji can't figure out something, you ask Guru Ji, right?'


'Yes, of course.'


'And it's like Guru Ji is really and truly talking just to you?'


'Yes, it's really wonderful. Not always easy to understand, but always to the point if you think about it'


'Can I do that?' He was so young, but he had been taught Gurmukhi for years and he could read it quite well, better than his French or English, in fact. (Remember we lived in Quebec, hence the French.) I wasn't sure how well he could understand all the meaning - after all, he was still a little boy - but certainly he was capable of reading it. He stopped a moment. 'I mean, MAY I do that?'


'You want to take a Hukamnama? I suppose you're knowledgeable enough to do it. And I know you love Guru Ji. Certainly.' I couldn't help but wonder what was so very important to him.


He sat impatiently while I finished his hairs and tied his patka. Then jumped up, ran to the bathroom, washed up and headed straight to Guru Ji's room. I had trouble keeping up with him. So there he was standing there on his tip-toes, still not quite tall enough to open and read. I got him a little stool. He smiled and jumped up on it. 'Perfect!'


I stood there a moment beside him. 'Would you like me to help you?' He gave me that 'Mommy, puh-lease' look. I reluctantly walked away and sat down clear across the room from him.



He closed his eyes for a moment, then reverently uncovered Guru Ji, gently opened him and began his reading, punctuating now and them with a soft, reflective 'hmmm.' After some time, he closed Guru Ji, recovered him, carefully stepped down from the stool, made a matha tek (!).

For the first time, he looked at me. His eyes were shining and his expression was a rather serious-looking smile.

I was dying of curiosity, of course, but only asked, 'Did you get your answer.'

This time a broad, happy grin. 'Oh, yes! Of course!'

Something stopped me from asking more. This was between his Guru Ji and him.

He ran off without saying anything more.

When Mani came home, I told him what had happened. He beamed. 'So Sandeep took his first Hukamnama! So young. And he seemed to understand. What was he asking about?' I admitted that I hadn't a clue.

When Sandeep came in, Mani said that I had told him that he had taken a Hukamnama that day.

That broad, beaming smile and those big, glowing grey eyes. 'Yes. That's right. You know, Guru Ji is wonderful. He really knows what he's talking about.'

And that was that. Every day, I waited for him to volunteer was this was all about. Not a word. Not a clue.

That was this first of many discussions that Sandeep had with his dhan, dhan Guru Ji. Usually he would discuss it with me or his dad, but not this first one. I never did find out what he had asked about, what was on his mind that day. It was just between him and his Guru..

For a very funny read about patkas, go here. Really! It's worth a click!

Pictures of child praying courtesy of Simmal Tree.

Emotional Time

I published this earlier today in my personal blog, sometimes - 2. After some thought. I think it also belongs over here. I start out talking to my blog.

sometimes 2, I need to talk to you very intimately today. I need the relief of talking to a good friend who knows me well enough to understand my heart. Mani is gone, so I'll have to talk to you.

I am feeling very emotional, an unusual state for me. I usually keep my emotions under a control that would do a Vulcan proud. But today I even had to cut short a chat with a friend because I was getting too emotionally overcome to carry on a decent conversation. I tend to get like this twice a year: the first week in November and the second week in April. The first week in November we all know. The second week in April is personal.

Next Monday is my birthday. I'll be 55. It's also the anniversary of my wedding to Mani. That would have been 37. He died 22 1/2 years ago. I have another husband who loves me dearly, another life, I live in another place. You would think that after so many years and so many events, the loneliness would dissipate. I keep hoping.

It is no coincidence that my wedding day was also my eighteenth birthday. It was the first day I could get married without parental consent. I not only had consent, I had joyful, overwhelming approval. But I am me, and I wanted to be totally free. Dad understood and was, in fact, amused.

If I may offer some advice, don't get married on a day that you will celebrate every year for some other reason. Each year on my birthday, which I can't escape, I am also transported back to that other day, eighteen years later. And it hurts.

This afternoon, I was watching Judge Judy on TV, when I was overcome by a sudden need to hide my face in Mani's hair. I used to do that when I felt overwhelmed by the world. I'd curl up next to him and he'd take down his kes and open it and cover me with it, especially my face. I'd feel so safe and secure and loved. His hair was always impeccably clean, of course, and had a distinctive fresh aroma. He'd put his arm around me and softly sing whatever came into his head. I could just lie like that for as long as he'd let me. The world would slip away until nothing but the two of us remained. Then we could share with each other whatever we had to share. I longed so much for that this
afternoon that it made me dizzy. Detachment has never been easy for me.

Something else I have carried in me for all this time is a picture, perhaps a vision, perhaps just imagination. I see Mani and Sandy running into the light, holding our two baby Kaurs, laughing and happy, all four of them. I see them joyfully greeted by Guru Gobind Singh Ji, who is so very happy to see them. One by one, he gently tosses the girls up in the air and catches them as they come down into his arms gurgling happily. He puts his arms around my men's shoulders and greets them as his sons and they greet him as 'Dad.' It is all informal and familial. They are in a field of yellow flowers, with a pride of lions watching. The whole scene is one of joyful homecoming, without the slightest hint of pain or tragedy. I'm sure this all violates some accepted Sikh teaching, but still I wish I were a good artist and could paint this. Or maybe someday, I'll get enough money to hire some talented Singh or Kaur to paint it for me.

I close my eyes and see it all so clearly. Perhaps I should use that thought control I tout so often. Give me a few more days and I'll put it all away for another year.

Darling, be home soon,
I couldn't stand to wait another
minute if you dawdled,
My darling, be home soon.
It's not just these few
hours, I've been waiting since I toddled
For the great reliefof having you
to talk to.

from Darling Be Home Soon

Watercolour courtesy of jathedar

Used by permission