The Indifferent Sikh

Sun liijiye fursat hai, phir kya ho khuda jaane,
kab se haiN mere dil maiN, betaab kuch afsaane!

-------Josh Malihabadi

Like everybody else I too had this recurring suspicion of a grand natural conspiracy to keep me phase lagged in my life i.e. I always felt one step behind the opportunity. Like I was still ’little Babu’ when I should have been ’young Babu’ and young Babu when I should have been ’Kali Hawa. The Kuldip Singh interface in my life is just a blur but an important one.

Kuldip was a Sikh, not a reluctant Sikh but an indifferent Sikh; rational, very mature, who scrutinized life with detached amusement and cold reason. Kuldip smoked, a complete anathema to Sikhs, especially in a small town.

We arrived a trifle late for the flower children’s age. That age had already peaked and was now in wane. The flare of bell-bottoms was beginning to cramp, Beatles were already passe but Santana’s ’Black Magic Woman’ still cast spell on us and lilting hum of ’Sound of Silence’ still mesmerized us. We smoked marijuana and hashish occasionally, I with a tinge of guilt; he with complete disregard to social ethos to seek enjoyment and to quell curiosity.

Those were days of tight money, smoking discarded cigarette stubs when pockets were empty. Kuldip devised an ingenious method for collecting promising cigarette stubs, the ones which had lot of meat left. He attached a pin to the end of a cane and when we went out of the hostel for our evening walk, he would look for those meaty stubs, punch the pin on them and quickly pocket them. He had become quite adept at doing this in one inconspicuous move. This routine was followed only during month end when we ran out of money, but as soon as the replenishment arrived at the beginning of the month we were back to our brand ’Wills’. Our hostel was avante-garde and even those few Sikh students who resided there and took notice of Kuldip’s smoking were merely resentful but tolerated him. However, when a Sikh from the staff saw Kuldip smoking, all hell broke.

It was a winter morning, a lazy Sunday. Our rooms were on the ground floor of the hostel, four rooms apart. In a typical bohemian way, I was squatting on the floor and soaking in the January sun at half past nine in the morning, a frothy toothbrush in my hand. Some jerk in All India Radio, having no sense of timing, was playing Begum Akhtar’s celebrated thumari “Ai mohobbat tere anjaam pe rona aaya…..”. It was jarring to hear Begum wrestling with ”ronaaaa aayaa … rooona aayaa…”.

Intermittent spots of bright light and dark shadows of row of pillars made the corridor look like a long zebra strip. Already there were clusters of students busy in bull-sessions (gossiping orgies). Kuldip was not up yet. Then I noticed a group of Sardarjis at the end of corridor, some of them attired in technicolor, one of them had a long kirpan dangling from his waist and a few had flowing white beards. Grim-faced, these people seemed to be floating silently towards me.

The troupe moved past the cluster of students as if they didn’t exist. They were silent and completely focused on their objective. When they neared me, I felt a surge of terror passing through my spine but it was really unnecessary as they completely ignored me, went past me and stopped at Kuldip’s door.

Suddenly they all became animate and began pounding at his door. An annoyed Kuldip soon opened the door but the Sikhs brushed past him into the room and then dragged him in and locked the door with a bang. There was hushed silence and then bouts of agitated whispering emanating from Kuldip’s room. Meanwhile, some other students too joined me and indulged in wild speculation. This continued for some twenty minutes and then loud shouts of, "Jo bole so nihal, bolo sat sri akaal" rent the air. The Sikhs began to troupe out of his room, their faces still grim with mixed emotions of satisfaction and doubt. Ignoring us, they melted away as quickly as they had come.

We expected a chastened and thoroughly deflated Kuldip to emerge from his room, but were surprised at a rather miffed and sheepish Kuldip to come out of his room. "What happened?" we asked. He said, " Kuch nahi yaar" and then in anger, "These jerks! Booze is fine, smoking no, no!" He then asked me if I had five bucks. I said reluctantly "Yeah!"

We then went together to the nearest barbershop where he got his hair clipped for the first time. Once the long hair was shorn and the beard grossly trimmed, he felt free and it showed in his demeanor. I was always better than him not only in studies, but also in knowledge of politics as well as arts, yet I was in awe of him. He had that incisive insight into the complexities of life and crystal clear views to navigate through those complexities. He took a deep breath, and exhaled as if purging unpleasantness from his system. Then he took out a cigarette and began smoking. After a deep drag he allowed the nicotine to dissolve in his blood and to my irritation enveloped my head in secondhand smoke. He said philosophically,

"Darta huN asmaan ka jaaduu na toot jaaye,
Lab par koii sawal sa aaya hua to hai!"

Completely bewildered, I in a schizophrenic metamorphosis turned into little Babu, a blank faced moron, yet shaking head in approval. "What does that mean? " I asked.

He gave me a long and deep penetrating look, said cryptically, "Philosophy hai!"

I didn’t have the courage to question his wisdom so took his words at their face value. Ever since these words have percolated deep into my subconscious and have been resonating in my zehn, gnawing at layers to unravel the mystery of,

"Darta huN asmaaN ka jaaduu na toot jaaye,
Lab par koii sawal sa aaya hua to hai!"


Some philosophy!