Navdeep Kaur

Self-Identity | Finding the Real You

2019-04-05T09:11:00.001-07:00

Self-Identity | Finding the Real You

New Website

2018-08-27T16:33:00.000-07:00

Dear Readers,

All of my writing activity is being moved to www.nkaur.com. I hope to see you there!

-Navdeep Kaur

Knowing Dark Before Light

2014-04-23T20:55:00.000-07:00

I was conceived in the darkness of night.

For months I have been walled in a round ring.

I have slept soundly without seeing light.

I have been touched from afar by something.

I have felt vibrations of a cold probe

And for protection held tight to a string.

Sheltering myself quiet in the robe

When I heard her desperate cries outside.

This is all my existence on the globe.

Nobody will picture me as his bride;

I’m icy, without a burial site

After my chance at light has been denied.

Known by all as the one who was not right.

I am one who has known dark before light.

(Dedicated to all of our sisters who are victimized because of their gender.)

Genes

2014-04-02T23:56:00.001-07:00

I found a crying child, lost and forlorn,

In broken brown shoes and tattered old clothes

Like a plastic bag floating down long roads.

He’s the child who should have never been born.

His parents look at him, eyes filled with scorn:

The color of his hair, shape of his nose,

Are the qualities they wished to dispose

Of while he was still unformed—an unborn.

He is who he is, he can’t be reborn

His genes are his forever, can’t be changed.

Love pieced together what has now been torn,

It’d be better if he had stayed unborn.

His colors, his shapes, were all prearranged

By a force of life that can’t be estranged.

Irish Teacher

2014-03-17T12:07:00.001-07:00

“Mrs. Fitzgerald doesn’t let her class celebrate St. Patrick’s Day.” I was in awe of the fifth grade girl talking to me about her teacher.

“But why?” I asked. I understood only that for some reason everybody must wear green on St. Patrick’s Day. Like Halloween, Christmas, Valentine’s Day, Easter, and 4^th of July, I understood it to be an American thing. In India we had celebrated days associated with the various religions that originated in the nation. I didn’t remember any festival or holiday having dress codes. People wear costumes on Halloween and everything seems to be orange and black. Red and pink cover walls and people alike on Valentine’s Day. Pastel colors for Easter. Red, white, and blue for United States’ Independence Day. And green on St. Patrick’s Day.

The fifth grader’s answer was simple, “Because she’s Irish.”

As a third grader with limited English proficiency and budding knowledge of the world, I asked, “What’s Irish?”

“Like you’re Indian. She comes from Ireland, so she’s Irish. I’m Irish too.” With that, she was gone. And I thought. Ireland must be like India, a place people leave and move here. Indians travelled to England, France, Dubai, Saudi Arabia, Italy, and Spain. I knew those were countries that offered more money and better jobs. We had relatives and family acquaintances that had moved there. Though Indians moved to all these countries, nobody outside of India celebrated Diwali, the festival of lights or Holi, the season for color. I mused for days. St. Patrick’s Day was coming and I had to decide whether I should wear green and why.

I began to notice more people who looked Irish: everybody who had dirty blonde hair and fair skin. I realized that many Americans were either British—we were learning about the Colonies in Social Studies—or Irish. Because there were more British immigrants, their holidays: Christmas, Valentine’s, Easter, Halloween all travelled with them and became American celebration days. There were fewer Irish so they got one holiday: St. Patrick’s Day.

I felt bad for the Irish. Their smaller number meant they had claim to one day a year. I realized how there were only one other Indian kid in my school and scattered Indian communities throughout the area that we shopped and lived in. I wanted an Indian holiday to be celebrated just like St. Patrick’s Day, so I decided to wear green. I was wearing green to support the minorities because I knew somewhere inside me that if we help someone, God will send others to help us as well.

I wore green again in fourth grade. More Indian kids came to our school and I could see my idea becoming a possible reality.

In fifth grade, I had Mrs. Fitzgerald as my teacher. She wore ankle-length dresses in floral prints, with long, thin ties at her lower back and rounded necklines; I imagined that this was how the Irish women dress. She said that was her culture—she would not wear short dresses or revealing clothing.

Mrs. Fitzgerald called the class to attention before St. Patrick’s Day, “I’m Irish and for me St. Patrick’s Day is not about leprechauns, rainbows, and pots of gold. St. Patrick’s Day is a celebration of Ireland’s patron saint and should be observed respectfully.” The class knew not to pinch those not wearing green and to not advertise the leprechauns when creating holiday craft projects. Though other teachers in the future would tell us that they could trace their roots to Ireland, they were all American. Mrs. Fitzgerald was Irish.

Two Apples

2014-03-15T00:23:00.000-07:00

Two apples twinkled among green leaves,

And I stood thinking which to pluck

For my arid lips, lengthy unease

Shaded one in the darkening eve

Cautioning me of obscured muck.

I reached for the other, just as bright,

A thinner coat of wax on its skin

After being shined on my sleeve’s inside,

Though both glowed in the waning light

Similar as identical twins.

Under the setting sun they called

My hands, inviting by freshness.

But my decision couldn’t be stalled.

Knowing that as life went forward

The chosen apple would go amiss.

I left behind the waxed apple,

I’ve chosen one simpler than the other.

Of the two, I plucked one less ample

In its shine; a genuine sample,

And today that is all that matters.

Dancing

2013-12-14T23:15:00.001-08:00

Photo Courtesy of LiteLens Photography
Like them on Facebook!

Are we dancing?

Is there rain in the clouds?

Is the wind blowing from north to south?

Is the sun shining from east to west?

Tell me the burdens you carry in your chest.

Are we dancing?

Are there shadows in between?

Is there a rope pulling at our strings?

Do you believe in possibilities?

Give me a hope; a signal please.

Are we dancing?

Is there music playing around?

What are the lyrics to the song you sing?

Do you know where we twist and turn?

Let’s fly away without waiting for the urn.

Are we dancing?

Bhai Jarnail Singh (Journalist and Author) speaks about Contemporary Sikh Issues

2013-10-14T10:43:00.002-07:00

Ralph Waldo Emerson on The Self

2013-09-26T21:59:00.000-07:00

It is easy in the world to live after the world’s opinion; it is easy in solitude to live after our own; but the great man is he who in the midst of the crowd keeps with perfect sweetness the independence of solitude. – Ralph Waldo Emerson

Emerson’s writings are a means of empowering individuals to escape from the binds of social, religious, and educational institutions. As Emerson says, for most persons, the easy path to take in life is to ignore individualism and follow in the footsteps of the majority. It is only in the realms of isolation from others that individuals can exercise their individuality. Both conforming and individuality in isolation are paths taken by cowards, individuals who do not have the courage to neither go on the journey to self-realization nor to live according to their own ideals rather than the rules set by society.

In the Sikh religious scriptures, there are several references made to one metaphor: live in this world as a lotus flower lives in the pond. In accordance with Emerson’s ideas, this metaphor can be used to define how Emerson encourages individuals to live their lives. Logically speaking, it is impossible for anybody to survive in complete isolation from society. Therefore, in order to retain ones distinctive thought and lifestyle, one must really learn to live like a lotus flower in a pond. Ponds are often associated with impurity, an accumulation of dirty water, muck, and slime. A pond is similar to society in that it makes it impossible for its residents to retain their individual, pure, immaculate identities. In contrast, a lotus remains immaculate and beautiful even in the midst of the great accumulations of muck.

The greatest shortcoming of contemporary society is that even with the passage of time and a series of constant lessons, has failed to clear itself of the muck created by institutions that restrict self-realization. Because society and its individuals have failed to free themselves of institutional shackles, Emerson’s writings are still valuable learning tools for all who have lost their paths to self-discovery. Even after centuries, every reader of Emerson can learn to rejuvenate their drive for living as individuals in society rather than complying with its majority’s expectations or isolating oneself to be oneself.

Arranged Marriage is Like (Fill in the Blank)

2013-09-15T18:51:00.000-07:00

It is through open discussion that we are able to understand other belief systems and truly accept the differences between communities and cultures. When girls get together, the talk inevitably turns to relationships. When it comes to relationship talk, some girls like me find themselves declaring that their romantic relationship will come after marriage because either they or their families have a certain degree of faith in the arranged marriage system.

Most people who are not familiar with the arranged marriage system are at first shocked, believing that arranged marriage is synonymous with forced marriage. They express sympathy, apologizing to the other as if she has already been sentenced to a life in prison.

If the conversation is amongst close friends, a concerned friend will offer words of empowerment, somewhat like this, "You're a smart, modern, independent girl, but when you say you're okay with having an arranged marriage, I get scared. I don't understand how you could be okay with the idea of someone else choosing your husband. Marriage is like buying a car, would you buy a car without test driving it first?"

If people don't believe in arranged marriage, I'm completely fine with that. But when they begin suggesting that it's like purchasing a car without a test drive, I have to disagree.

First of all, a marriage--no matter how it happens--is not a financial transaction or investment. Even if we do choose to liken it to the purchase of a vehicle, we have to remember that a car will always be a depreciating asset. It's value decreases over time. If a comparison is an absolute requirement, how about comparing it to the purchase of a house instead? Living in California, I've witnessed the rocky real estate market with my own eyes. House values have a tendency to increase and when one purchases a house, they understand that he or she is aware of the long term commitment involved.

My question now is, how many people test drive houses? Not many. We have permission to view the house, review inspection reports and legal records, and imagine the various benefits and drawbacks of the purchase. We do not get to live in the house for a few days to determine if we "feel it." It's simple: you view, you like, you think, you buy.

I have come to understand that Western cultures have become closed off to "foreign" and "exotic" ideas. Anything that requires compromise and adjustment is promoted as being poisonous to individuality. We have to understand that there are many communities and people who prefer to put their religion, culture, and family before their own needs. It's a choice they make and a choice that deserves respect no matter what someone's personal beliefs may be.

Let us not compare arranged marriage to a trade or agreement; especially if it's a practice that you do not understand. Ask questions, listen to others' experiences, and have an open mind. What may seem preposterous to one person may just be another person's dream.

How do you feel about arranged or love marriages?

How would you fill in the blank in the title? "Arranged marriage is like ______________."

The Look (A Short Story)

2013-08-08T09:54:00.002-07:00

On 13 March, at six ‘clock in the evening, all the wedding guests gathered together for the mehndi ceremony of the bride. The earthly smell of freshly prepared henna mixed with spicy scent of fried samosas and the sweet rose-like aroma of juicy gulaab jamuns and rassgullas. It was the mingling of such luxurious scents that provoked excitement in the circle of women. In bright yellow, purple, blue, green, and pink saris, the older women observed their daughters clad in similarly colorful, flowing lehnga-cholis. Jewelry glittered brightly in the golden light of the marigold-garland-covered living room. At the height of excitement and anticipation—some ladies had glided towards the food tables, while others had formulated into small conversation groups—a hefty lady, Mrs. Rajan, in a parrot-green sari stood atop the small harem-styled platform that the bride-to-be and her close friends sat on.

“Ladies, let us begin the naach-gana for our dear, peyari Suhaani’s mehndi. Come on girls, let’s get dance!” Dismounting the platform with some difficulty, Mrs. Rajan began to gather young ladies around her. With Bollywood movie songs blaring on the stereo system, the girls—who would in one or two more years be getting married themselves—began to twirl their long skirts to the modernized Hindi wedding songs. Adding jingling sounds of bracelets and small ankle bells to the music, they filled the room with enhanced sounds of celebration.

Suhaani’s aunt’s cousin’s daughter, Pooja, stood behind the “aunties,” unpleasantly tall, skinny, and not-so-fair. Despite her flawless, almost militaristically done makeup, she didn’t look the part of a twenty-year-old daughter of a prominent businessman; she looked more like a wealthy farmer’s daughter. Pooja watched the other girls—close to her in age—flutter about freely on the makeshift dance floor.

“Look at our Suhaani, kitni khush lag rahi hai, you can just tell from that beautiful smile.” The aunties around her had just begun a new conversation.

“Haye Raam, it seems like just yesterday that our daughters were still learning to walk. They grow up so fast—”

“Oh Mrs. Sharma, have you tried the samosas? I definitely must get the recipe from Anju. She is simply an amazing cook, Mrs. Patel is so lucky to have a daughter-in-law like her. I will surely send my daughter to her for cooking lessons. Just imagine, she will win her in-laws’ hearts in a matter of days if she can cook like this.”

The lady named Mrs. Sharma replied, “That reminds me Behanji, my husband’s nephew is an NRI, very well-settled in New York. Haye Raam, he is such a sweet young man. Should I recommend your daughter to his family?”

Getting bored of the talks of these elderly society women, Pooja wandered to another corner. Here, she stood behind giggling girls. Somewhat less civilized than the older women; they teased each other about crushes, discussed the latest movies of Shahrukh Khan, and analyzed the hottest trends in clothing. Pooja moved on to where her mother was immersed in an important discussion. She stood there and partially listened with complete disinterest. Not getting any notice from her mother or the ladies with her, Pooja decided to go for a stroll in the garden.

Just as she reached the door, a whirlwind of boys stormed in. Turning to look behind her, she could see how much excitement this stormy entry had caused on the dance floor. The guys, in their black, tan, and white sherwanis and jet-black hair done carefully to look carefree, added a heavy contrast to the previously glittery and soft atmosphere. Pooja decided there was no way she would come back inside. She had come because this was meant to be a ladies-only event, there weren’t supposed to be any men around to enhance the discomfort of such a large social gathering.

Pooja turned around and left the room. With the heels of her white, polished sandals, she crushed every fallen leave as she walked. The evening wind graciously showered her with fresh flower petals; she trod upon them as well. Although Pooja had attended many such pre-wedding ceremonies, she assumed that aimlessly touring the garden would allow her escape from the society that threatened to suffocate her. Crushing leaves and petals, Pooja was startled when she crashed into a tall figure in a black sherwani.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered as his light brown eyes searched hers in extreme confusion. Gently placing his hands over her bare arms, he guided Pooja out of his way. Leaving a trail of the soft aroma of cologne, his well-built figure disappeared into the guest-filled house. Pooja stood watching, unable to think, still lost in his wonderful, bright, confused eyes.

Finally snapping out of the daze that the mysterious stranger had left her in, she rushed back into the house. Full of joy, excitement and ambition, like the other girls, she let her eyes search for her stranger, her ajnabi. The samosas suddenly appealed to her previously hidden craving. She quickly piled a plate with tasty sweet and spicy delectable goodies; after all, they were meant for her on this very special day. Lost in the search for her ajnabi, Pooja never realized when her plate became empty and when she got pulled onto the dance floor. Even though she had been labeled as a behanji, sister and type by all the guys she had known in school and college, her behanji status seemed irrelevant at the moment. Pooja found herself dancing in the mixture of young men and women. She observed and analyzed them, but even the drop-dead representations of Bollywood celebrities couldn’t make her heart flutter as the ajnabi had.

This only happened in the movies, but then again, it wasn’t completely impossible. No doubt he was a cousin of either the bride or groom, perhaps a friend. In his hurry to get inside, his path had accidentally clashed with hers. This was highly probable, but she still looked for him as if he were a long lost love.

All night long, as she surveyed the many young male faces that had crashed the civilized ladies-only get-together, Pooja’s mind kept asking, “Who is he? Where is he?”

Even though the guy in front of her had similarly styled hair, his lack of light brown eyes and an excess of body building made the very sight of him repugnant to her. Mentally, she was taking in every single male face, trying to mix and match everybody’s distinct features to reconstruct the short-lived glance of him.

After most traditional mehndi ceremonies were completed on the sidelines of the dance floor, guests began to trickle out of the house and to their own mini-mansions. Good nights and see you tomorrows were exchanged as ladies embraced each other in farewell. For the first time, Pooja wanted to come back, to see Suhaani’s wedding ceremony through the end, and to give her love a chance at fulfillment. She exited the door in devastation. She knew she couldn’t come back, the wedding would be in Singapore and she was only a distant relative.

On the drive home, Pooja kept thinking about her wonderful ajnabi. Like a television screen, scenes of the night played and replayed in her head, scenes of the possible future also teased her. With her head leaned against the car window, her last waking thoughts were of meeting him again, loving him, spending her life with him. And her dreams showed her the same tantalizing scenes.

The car screeching to a halt in front of their three-story bungalow made her lose the feeling of warmth she had sensed in her dreams, but the joys of what had happened, refused to let any annoyance enter her singing heart. Following her mother, Pooja decided that she would share this with her. She would surely understand and perhaps even help.

“Ma,” she called following her mother into the drawing room. “I have to tell you something.”

“What is it? I’m very tired, hurry up.”

Seeing the exhausted and uninterested expression on her mother’s face, Pooja cast her eyes down and with head bent low, went upstairs to her meticulous room walled and furnished in bright white. In the mirror, she looked at herself and wanted desperately to see her ajnabi standing next to her. When she finally slept, she dreamt dreams full of color and visions of the mysterious gentleman whose one look had changed her entire world. Her nightly dreams began to bring her breathtaking bridal dresses in deep shades of red, pink, maroon, and golden. The presence of her ajnabi transformed her into an intoxicating, sensuous beauty. Each image that she luxuriated in would shatter with daybreak and she would be left to dwell on the rapidly dissolving memory of the night he had looked at her.

Many times, on the pretense of going to the library, Pooja would drive past Suhaani’s house. If he were a cousin, she would surely see him there again, she told herself. Every drive would refresh her memory. The garden, the pathways, they were all the same, but they had changed her life forever. Driving past the house that housed her most prized memory, she would begin to question whether the way he looked at her was mere confusion.

Even though it seemed more like a fantasy, she knew it happened to everyone. Even in an arranged marriage culture, love was surely one of the things that none could avoid. What had happened to her was normal, nothing extraordinary or strange. Convinced of the normalcy of her experience, she felt safe in her predicament.

On 13 October, finding her mother in the kitchen after returning from her drive past Suhaani’s house, Pooja decided to talk to her. “Ma, you know, at Suhaani’s wedding, something very special happened to me.”

“Really?” Even though she could see that her mother was busy, Pooja narrated the entire story to her.

“That’s nice honey. Get me the phone; I need to make a very important call.”

Handing her the phone, Pooja waited around the kitchen. Her mother was calling one of the many aunties she claimed to be close to. After listening to gossip that appeared to have no visible end, Pooja decided to retrace her steps to Suhaani’s house. The entire outskirt of the city appeared to be asleep today. Through her open car window, she could hear the sounds of traffic miles away, but nothing close enough to give her company in the silence that she could feel creeping into herself. Tree leaves were falling. Even though Pooja longed to catch those falling leaves, her car rushed past them, sending them flying far out of sight. She could see Suhaani’s house ahead on her right, she also saw people. Slowing down her car, Pooja saw Suhaani’s nieces and nephews, dressed in gray and white school uniforms, chasing two tiny white puppies. The kids squealed in delight while the puppies playfully began to dig up the garden. Unaware that she had stopped driving, Pooja continued to watch as the garden transformed into a playground for children and their dogs.

Pooja looked on at the joke her life had played on her, but she couldn’t find any laughter to brush it aside. “Love doesn’t happen like this and dreams aren’t always realistic,” she thought. Regaining an awareness of her surroundings, she drove back home, back to her white room.

Overcoming Reflections to Find Life

2013-08-01T11:20:00.003-07:00

Her dance with death continues, night does get

As deep as darkened possibilities.

With each and every step, she loses, lets

Herself become subject to travesty.

Forgetting, moving backward, step by free,

But careless step. She’s lost her dreams to hate.

It’s when throughout her life, she fails to see

Herself within her mirror image cage.

She seeks the beauty that ne’er existed.

Her search of ages ends in vain. Nothing.

She’s got nothing to show; empty-handed

Before her end, she’s lost it all in fling.

There’s life in truth—in finding what’s inside

By overcoming ego veiled as pride.

(English Sonnet)

In Memory of My Guiding Angel

2013-07-28T00:30:00.000-07:00

Written in memory of Joan Owen, cherished teacher and friend. The beauty of her heart will live forever.

I'm a woman today, because of you.
You've been my guiding angel.

Carrying me in your hands for nine months,
Helping me straighten my legs,
Making me stand,
Watching me walk.

A table for two,
Papers between us,
Thoughts bouncing back and forth.

"I want you to."
"I know you can."
"You're amazing."
"Wonderful!"
"Yes!"

Your short phrases worked,
Like propellers on planes.
Keeping me up into enlightened nights.

Ms. Owen, with delving eyes,
Leading hands,
And an everlastingly youthful soul.

I wish I had told you:
You made me a writer.
You taught me pride.
You showed me my wings and
The limitless skies.

You are the sky now,
My words will float to you.
I send love.

Worthless

2013-07-24T22:01:00.001-07:00

With closed eyes, I gaze into the mirror.

I look pensively at the tears rolling

Along my scorching check, I question them.

You dear drops of water, why must you

Alone suffer with me?

Send someone else.

There must be blood somewhere willing to take

Your stead. I can’t run, but you, you can hide.

Beneath my lids, take shelter. Veil yourselves.

The more you flow, the less you shall become.

You pour out over stone. You spill for nothing.

It takes the sea eons to reshape rocks.

You, mere droplet, have neither time nor strength;

On my cheek, you cannot linger, you can’t

Remain on the umbrella of lashes.

Instead of tears, if you were rain, you could

Accomplish all that of which you only dream.

A storm is what you should be part of. Truly.

On this desolate face and coming from a

Feeble, unaided soul, you’re meaningless.

Others have walked far away, afraid

Of luckless shadows. Now you should also

Pursue the storm. Be part of something big.

The Legendary Writer: A Brief Look into the Life of a Stereotype

2013-07-14T07:43:00.002-07:00

Note: This short piece describes the mythology around being a writer—it is not an autobiographical or biographical work.

A writer is an artist, writing when the muse strikes, wearing bright green leggings and a large white t-shirt, painting words across a huge canvas while listening to internal music. Just like creating abstract art permits claims of artistic talent, writing in a journal and diary or writing-free verse poetry allows one to be dubbed a writer. What about that essay written in fourth grade about the water-cycle? Yes, she's a writer.

Inspiration is key to the writer; once inspired, all that remains to be done is the word-churning. Everything comes naturally for her—this is what she was born to do. It's a gift requiring little for fulfillment: the ability to dream and imagine. Perhaps she is a child who can be left alone to play in the sandbox. She can work when she wants as a free-lancer, without worrying about deadlines or story topics—the money will follow her musings. Her editors and agents will take care of dotting the “i’s” and crossing the “t’s” before publishing. They might even separate the fruits of the writer’s mind into decodable language to make it easier for the non-gifted to understand the written words.

To call her muse, she drinks the night away. Alone in her writer’s studio, she talks to the walls as her characters come to life. Her characters personally lead the story while her pen follows in drunken obedience. There are traces of needle-work near her stock of bottles; she turns to it in moments of desperation for motivation.

Her hair is frizzy like Einstein’s and there is madness in her eyes. Maybe she doesn't really shower every day as she loses herself in her work. She smokes at her desk, bookshelves lining her walls and books spilling out of crevices she’s forgotten. The lighting is dim so her musings are not disturbed by external nonsense. She talks only with her agents and editors from her office studio and takes lone walks through the woods near her cabin. Her sponsor ensures that she lacks nothing in her mission to write her next masterpiece. Despite being a little unique and friendless, she has the right connections in the business to ensure publication and continue striking it rich with every book she releases.

Her books are bound to succeed because she has had a tragic life. Her parents died in a car crash, she had to drop out of school in order to flip burgers for survival, her heart was crushed when her fiancé left her for a trophy wife, and she was homeless for many months until her writing talents were discovered by an affluent Donald Trump.

She writes about her experience, that’s what makes her work sell like lemonade in the summer. She has a private fortune which she will take into her grave because she has no family to pass it down to. Unless—and there is a chance—she has an estranged child hidden from the world. Possibly the fruit from one of her many affairs and put up for adoption when she could not afford him.

She is a writer and will remain famous for eternity. She is a writer because she was born one. No matter how hard I try, I don’t think I can ever be her. I cannot be a writer because it wasn't my destiny and I show no symptoms of ever become one. In conclusion, I cannot be a legend.

Bhai Vir Singh Ji's Advice

2013-06-18T17:10:00.001-07:00

I have been reading selections from Bhai Vir Singh Ji's Guru Nanak Chamatkaar and have attempted to translate a selection that caught my attention. Bhai Vir Singh Ji's intended audience is the Sikh pursuing spiritual progression. However, this does not mean the Bhai Vir Singh Ji's work is limited to a certain group. I feel as human beings, we have much to learn from all spiritual souls. I would also recommend reading the works of Thich Nhat Hanh, a Budhhist monk and writer.

Bhai Vir Singh Ji's Advice

Be certain of the following:
1. God exists, definitely exists.
2. Even if I can't see Him, because the eyes of my soul haven't opened yet.
3. The way to open them is by meditation.
4. I should recite Gurbani, listen to Gurbani, do kirtan, listen to kirtan, and immerse myself in meditation.
5. While meditating, doing kirtan, or reciting Gurbani, I should do so with the awareness that I am in God's presence. In the presence of The One who oversees the entire universe. He is listening to my prayer, I should be wholly present and pray out of reverence and love. If my mind wanders, I should stop it. If it doesn't stop, I should try again, pray for it to stop flying about, beg Guru Nanak Dev Ji, "Just like you blessed attentiveness to the Qazi doing Namaaz once, bless me as well. You are always alive; within or without the body, you are always with us; you are infinitely illuminating. Be generous with your blessings as you were to the Qazi, give me presence while meditating, praying, and reciting Gurbani. You're merciful, merciful to the meek, you are the Guru and I am your Sikh (student); even if I am a Sikh only by name, I am still your Sikh. Because I am yours, gift me the following: being present while reciting Gurbani, being present while praying, and being present while meditating."

In Remembrance

2013-06-14T15:24:00.003-07:00

Note: For quite a while, I've been struggling to write something in honor of Sikh martyrs who sacrificed their lives in the June 1984 attack on Harmandir Sahib (a most sacred Sikh venue popularly known as the Golden Temple). For some reason, it's very, very difficult to put words to all the emotions. It's often said that poems are conservative with words, but abundant with emotions; I realized that only a poem can come out of me at this time. For more information about the June 1984 attack code named by the army as Operation Blue Star, you might want to check this article: http://www.panthic.org/articles/3332. I have also written an article about this in the past, which was published by Sikh24 and on this blog titled "Awaiting Justice."

In Remembrance

This month I pray

For the tortured bodies,

Innocent souls,

And kindred spirits.

For the hunted,

Victims,

Braves,

And rebels

Trapped in heaven.

In pain as I hear

The crunching marble.

Fire in the arms of

Desensitized souls.

Drops and streams

Of red on white.

Howls, wails,

Whistles, and cries.

For the turban-tied hands,

Trucks turned morgues,

And the silence

After a storm.

Yesterday

Today

And tomorrow.

Remember.

A flame of prayer

Burning forever.

When a Promise Breaks

2013-04-19T16:46:00.002-07:00

Hold on tight,

Don’t let go please.

Death awaits me

As soon as our hands slip.

Demise and desire

Both shall kill

It’s not our choice

Or will.

FAQ about Sikhs and Sikhism- Part 2

2013-01-30T12:16:00.002-08:00

This is a continuation of the Frequently Askes Questions from last week's post. More to follow, stay tuned.

4) If hair is considered a gift, then why cover it up? – Kiana

Great question, Kiana. Many religions require people to cover their heads when entering religious places. Covering the head is a sign of respect. When visiting a Sikh Gurdwara, everybody is required to cover their heads before entering the hall where the services are held. However, since Sikhs believe that God is everywhere, covering our heads is a way of showing deference to His omnipresence.

Also, if you are familiar with ancient history, you may have noticed that people in positions of prestige could often be distinguished by their different headwear: the pharaoh’s hat in Egypt, the King’s crown in European civilizations, and royal turbans in many Eastern traditions. Sikhs do not believe in the class or caste system, so the turban is also a means of bringing each individual to a royal status and empowering them.

In a more practical sense, since hair is a gift from God, we also try to make sure it stays neat and protected. When I used to wear my hair in a braid, it was constantly getting caught in things and getting pulled out. Since I started wearing a turban, my hair has become very healthy and it stays clean—I hardly have any split ends and need to shampoo only once or twice a week. People who have long hair understand how much time and attention is required to maintain it, covering is just easier. It takes me about 5-10 minutes to tie my turban in the morning and I can go through my whole day without needing to redo it.

I hope this answers your question thoroughly.

5) Can you ever cut your hair and still be accepted to god? – S.S.

I’m going to answer this question from the Sikh perspective, so I want to clarify that my thoughts would only apply to practicing Sikhs and should not be applied to persons of other faiths. Can a Sikh ever cut their hair? No. Do some Sikhs cut their hair? Yes. And the reason many may cut their hair is due to peer pressure of influence of the people around them. Cutting hair is one of the biggest mistakes a Sikh can make. From the orthodox perspective, it is almost synonymous with denouncing the faith altogether; that doesn’t mean that an individual who cuts their hair is ostracized in any way. Think of it like this, not cutting his or her hair is part of the Sikh uniform; a police officer, a fireman, or any other individual who is required to wear a uniform on a regular basis is required to have each article of their uniform—it’s a part of their identification. In the same way, hair is a part of the Sikh identity and a Sikh is incomplete without uncut and natural hair.

If someone has cut their hair and later decides to stop cutting it, they are encouraged and supported. Sikhism is not a religion someone can be born into; one has to adopt it after gaining sufficient understanding of the Sikh philosophy and way of life.
6) Why do you wear a turban? What are your beliefs/practices? – Jason

Jason, I’m going to skip to your question about beliefs and practices because I have already discussed the reasons Sikhs wear turbans in previous questions. Sikhs believe in one God who is not bound to any specific religion and oversees all beings throughout the universe. We believe in three golden rules: Naam japo- meditating on God’s name, Kirt karo- working honestly to earn one’s living, and Vand shako- sharing one’s honest earnings with the less fortunate. We also believe in Sewa and Simran, the concept of doing community service and meditation simultaneously because service without spirituality and spirituality without service will both lead to an incomplete existence.

A Sikh is required to shower daily and then complete 5 prayers in the morning, 1 in the evening, and another before bedtime. The total time it takes for all prayers is about 10% of 24 hours. This is in line with the Sikh belief in giving 10% of all earnings to a worthy cause. These are all daily practices that are there to help Sikhs pursue spirituality while also focusing on personal, familial, and social well-being.

FAQ about Sikhs and Sikhism- Part 1

2013-01-22T20:38:00.000-08:00

When talking about any religion or culture, it is easy to understand the basic values that are adhered to, but it is very hard to understand the roots and reasoning behind most of them. These are questions that were asked of a high school student I know after making a presentation about the Sikh religion in a high school classroom. The answers are based on my own understanding of the Sikh faith and may not be complete, satisfactory, or even completely accurate. I ask for forgiveness in advance if any of my answers are incorrect or unacceptable in any way and welcome open discussion. More to follow.

1) What is the difference in appearance between Sikhi and other Indian religion followers such as Muslims? When do you have to go to the temple? – Lindsey

Lindsey, great questions. I’ll answer them in two parts.

The difference between a Sikh and members of other Indian religions is that Sikhs wear turbans and do not cut their hair (including facial and body hair). This is the most visible way of telling if someone is a Sikh. Most Muslims in USA and other Western nations do not wear a turban. Yes, we have seen videos of Osama Bin Laden wearing a turban, but if you look closely, he trims his mustache and beard and the turban style is quite different from the styles a Sikh would wear. The turban is a Sikh’s crown, it is tied daily with great love and care and not just a piece of cloth wrapped our heads. The turban used to be a cultural piece of attire in many Indian cultures, but most people of other Indian cultures only wear the turban during ceremonies, Sikhs wear their turban every day.

Most Sikh temples—called Gurdwaras—are open 7 days a week, 24 hours a day. The doors are open for anybody who is seeking shelter or food. Gurdwaras are open to people of all cultures, religions, skin color, and gender. Because of busy lifestyles, most people usually try to go to the Gurdwara on Sundays; this means you will see more people at the Gurdwara on Sundays than on other days of the week. However, one may go to the Gurdwara any time. The word “Gurdwara” means House of God and is therefore open to all without restriction.

Sikh Gurdwara in San Jose, California

2) Do the women have to wear turbans as well? Is there any part in life where cutting hair is permittable? Do modern Sikhs still have Singh or Kaur in their last names? – Zach

Zach, whether women must wear a turban is a fact that is debated even in the Sikh community. Some women choose to while others choose to cover their head by wearing a scarf in a bandana-like fashion. I personally believe that women should wear a turban because Sikh women are equal to men in every sense. I take it to mean that if men are required to wear a turban, women should not fall behind in terms of equality in that manner. I am a Sikh woman who wears a turban. It is my crown and it helps me stand out in crowds, just like the turbans my Sikh brothers wear. I like standing out and am proud of my Sikh identity. There is no designated age that one must begin wearing a turban. Sikh means student, we learn about God, the world, and ourselves on a daily basis throughout our lives. The decision to wear a turban rests solely on the individual—I began wearing a turban when I was ready, nobody forced me and I think most Sikh men and women will tell you the same thing.

Sikhs should not cut their hair at any time. If someone does cut their hair, they will be forgiven and given as much support as needed when they make the decision to come back to the Sikh religion. Nobody will punish the person for cutting their hair.

Modern Sikhs still use Singh and Kaur as last names. Some may use other last names that are linked to family origins. However, most Indian last names are rooted in the Caste System. Since Sikhs do not believe in the Caste System, the last names are a way of establishing equality yet again and empowering all individuals by giving men the courage of lions (Singh) and women the high status of princesses (Kaur).

3)Why did Sikhs go to California first? How did the first two Sikhs get to America in the 19th century? Why do they have an orange flag over their temple? - Deena & Christian

Deena and Christian, I do not know the exact answer to your question about Sikhs immigrating to the United States. This is what I found on Wikipedia:

Sikhs have been a part of the American populace for more than 130 years. Around the start of the 19th century, the state of Punjab of British India was hit hard by British practices of mercantilism. Many Sikhs emigrated to the United States and began arriving to work on farms in California. They traveled via Hong Kong to Angel Island, California, the western counterpart to Ellis Island in New York Harbor.

"Some Sikhs worked in lumber mills of Oregon or in railroad construction and for some Sikhs it was on a railway line, which allowed other Sikhs who were working as migrant laborers to come into the town on festival days."

Stockton Sikh Gurdwara 1912

A big effect on Sikh migration to the western states occurred during World War I and World War II, where Sikhs were recruited by the British Army to serve for them. Sikhs fought bravely during these wars and began to live in England after their serving period. Among the Sikhs who already lived in America prior to the wars, many Sikhs joined them, mainly during World Wars I and II. Among those who served in the US military include Bhagat Singh Thind in World War I.

The first Sikh Gurdwara in the United States was built in Stockton in 1912.

The orange flag in front of Sikh temples is called Nishaan Sahib. It is a marker of religious sovereignty and is in front of Sikh temples so that people will know that there is a Gurdwara there.

Just Trust

2013-01-18T11:26:00.001-08:00

Some thoughts on trust.

The foundation of any and all relationships is complete trust. It’s the hardest to find and most difficult to maintain. What usually happens is I’ll confide in you because I trust you, you will pass on that confidence to someone you trust, and that person will dial into their trustees. Eventually, the trust comes full circle and a reverse cycle of pain begins.

What do we gain? Nothing. What do we lose? A friendship that might have lasted a lifetime and been a source of strength through all the ups and downs of our journeys. Though you may remain friends, an iron wall has been erected and it will be there no matter what you do to bring it down.

Then there are times when someone will not trust you. It’s important to remember that if someone doesn’t trust you, it’s not always your fault. There are people who for some reason or another cannot even trust the people closest to them. Instead of beating yourself up over it, stay strong and realize that if someone is worthy of your friendship, they will come around.

There’s no use trying to gain trust where there is none and a sin to break trust that exists. It all comes around.

Thus concludes my Dr. Phil moment of the day.

Glass Coffin: My Greatest Fear

2013-01-14T17:55:00.000-08:00

You are a new immigrant from India to the United States; someone who only knows the English alphabet, numbers, names of animals, names of fruits, and names of vegetables when you enter second grade. It’s hard to make friends when you refer to glue as floor. It’s impossible to play with others during recess when you don’t know what “tag” means or the rules of playing tether-ball. It took you years, but you finally learn that the tether-ball is not meant to be a maypole substitute. In third grade, you try out for the volleyball team, without knowing how to really play the game. Your classmates see you as someone they can’t be friends with—especially because it puts their other friendships at risk. Some kids are nice to you, others ignore you, and some trick you to get out of trouble themselves. There is a new Vietnamese kid who knows even less English than you; he has friends and does not miss any chance at pushing you or yelling at you in his language.

In the last two years of elementary school, you have learned how to get on the Honor Roll. You have learned every corner of the school field because this is where you spend your recess, talking to the wind and dandelions. You sing to yourself and weave webs of dreams and stories. You make one friend in fourth grade, until she finds other friends. When your friend shows up to school in a cast, you’re the only one who sits in the library with her during lunch and recesses, playing Mancala and trying your best to make sure she doesn’t feel sad about her temporary disability. Her cast is off in three weeks and you’re back to the wildflowers, trees, and stretches of grass on campus.

Middle school introduces you to many new friends from other schools—you fit in with a group of girls who motivate you by example to do even better in your school work. You rely on these girls when you study and when you need someone to browse the library bookshelves with you. You lose them all upon graduation from middle school. All of them are going to high schools in Cupertino or private high schools to secure entry into good colleges.

In high school, you are not the smartest, but one of them. The teachers admire you for your diligence, honesty, and maturity; nobody worries about you because they all know you will make your way to success. Your friends change daily. There are some friends and teachers who encourage your writing. You begin to focus on writing and getting into a good college, perhaps leaving your friends out of the focus for the most part.

You make one true friend in college and find your family pushing you forward. They love you. Possibly forever. They never really understand though why you write. You are careful that when you write about them, you don’t let them see it. They might be upset at having their secrets on your papers for others’ eyes. You strengthen yourself to begin opening up on the page. But you’re scared that you might lose the only people who have cared for you without shunning you through your journey so far. You’re fearful of losing the respect you’ve earned through your academic, musical, and religious excellence. You’re afraid that just like the friends you were never able to hold onto in the past, the ones who have become your world now might break ties too. You’re terrified of writing yourself into a beautiful glass coffin.

Roly-Poly, Well-Buttered Punjabis

2013-01-09T18:33:00.004-08:00

Disclaimer: this will be a rant.

The more I see, the more I believe in the truth of it; Punjabis see being obese as a show of strength. A skinny person is a diseased person who can easily be blown away by the wind or a simple huff and puff. Rather than being told I look skinny, I’m told “Tu agge naalo lissie ho gayi aa,” which translates into, “You’ve become weaker than before.”

My grandfather is constantly complaining that as a child I had a face like a mountain lion—yeah, it’s supposed to be a compliment—and now my face has shrunken into tininess. My uncle told my parents that they’ve dried their kids out and should begin feeding us butter and milk more often. And yes, these comments sound just as absurd in Punjabi as they do translated into English.

The word for overweight in Punjabi: masculine-takrha, feminine-takrhi; this means strong. Or they are also referred to as being quite healthy individuals.

There was a time when most Punjabis were farmers. Their hard work through the day required them to be sufficiently fed and they easily worked off any harmful impacts heavy foods may have had on them. There’s a reason that diabetes, heart attacks, and other health conditions are becoming prevalent in the Punjabis in India and abroad. We’re not farmers anymore for the most part. If we do have agricultural land, we’ve hired others to be the laborers.

It’s high time for mothers and wives—because they are still the chief cooks in Punjabi households—to begin taking a proactive role in maintaining healthy lifestyles for the whole family. Especially with the male children. Mothers dote on their sons in every culture; it’s a universal truth by now. But mothers fatten up their sons in the Punjabi culture; they make sure that the boys eat more than any growing or grown man could possibly need in an average day. Then there are video games and television shows to make sure that everybody is sitting on the couch for the majority of the day. And if exercise happens by accident, mothers will bring out the tub of butter, “Son, you look weak, you need to eat more butter, I’ll bring you a jug of milk.”
Seriously, stop fattening up your families like pigs going into the slaughterhouse!

Reminder: It’s not bad to love food. It is bad to love food to the extent that you can’t do anything else.

Rant concluded.

I’m Going Hunting

2013-01-04T15:46:00.000-08:00

Happy New Year to all my wonderful readers! I am hoping from the deepest depths of my heart that everyone has a blissful year in every possible way.

Let’s resolve to be fearless and hunt out ways to make our dreams come true. There can be no giving up, no procrastination. Remember, what you can accomplish, determines your survival, success, and prosperity tomorrow.

I'm going hunting for my happiness; come join the journey!

Artist: Sunjeet Singh

Cats and Dogs

2012-12-28T17:55:00.001-08:00

I don’t know very much about cats, but I do have lots of experience with them. When I came to the United States at around age seven, I felt a bit secluded. I had left a river of cousins, aunts, uncles, extended relatives, and fellow villagers who we had known for several generations. I had lived in a house that was much bigger than our shared two-bedroom apartment. We had our own courtyard, a balcony that spanned over the entire area of the house. We had a farm, cows, water buffalos, bulls, oxen, wooden carts for the oxen to drive, fields of green agriculture, and more blue sky than I could imagine.

Our apartment building was similar to the Punjab house in the sense that there was a courtyard—for more than a hundred residents to share; there was also a balcony, a three to four feet wide walking area for the people who lived in the upstairs apartments; and there were stretches of grass and plants bordered by cement walkways—so many children played here, but nobody spoke my language. Our living room faced the complex’s swimming pool. It was summer, so a lot of families spent the day by the poolside. I watched them— most of them blonde and fair — play with each other, have water fights, squirting each other with water guns, make loud splashes as they jumped into the water.

Our next door neighbors were two women who stayed inside most of the time, watching television which could be heard when you walked past their front door. Their apartment smelled like the beedi smoke I remembered from the run-down parts of cities and villages in India. The women also had cats—too many to keep track of. One particular cat, sand-colored with black and brown stripes liked to sit on the other side of the glass and watch the children playing with sparkling blue water.

When we bought our house, our backyard was off limits to us because of really violent pit bulls residing in the yard next to ours. It would take just a moment for those dogs to realize we were trying to enjoy our garden before they would begin biting through the fence, barking like gunfire, and pushing against the wooden boards. Those two pit bulls succeeded in breaking through the barrier between the yards and even managed to bite holes into the fence on the other side of our house. I was skating in the front yard when I was about thirteen years old; suddenly, the male pit bull came loose and tried to pounce on me, growling mercilessly. I don’t know what miracle saved me, but the dog ran back to its owner as my younger sister and I stood on the grass, screaming and crying. That same dog bit the wrist of a neighbor’s guest. We later found out that the dogs had been trained to warn their owners when police officers were too close to the area—they were drug dealers.

A family friend’s dog once tried to bite my leg; another neighbor’s dog—even though he was toothless—actually did bite my leg; I kicked and howled until she came and took her dog away.

More recently, when my family came back from vacation, we found our backyard full of stray cats and their little kittens. They had made a home near our storage and have continued to leave unpleasant gifts on our lawn in the front and back. We no longer picnic on the grass like we used to every now and then, we don’t play tag or use it as hose storage while washing our cars, we don’t tread pathways to the rose bushes anymore—I’d rather balance myself on the bricks that line the flower beds than step into something stinky-smelly-ewwy.

And those are my reason for not being fond of cats and dogs. I'm sorry, but I'm forced to lie sometimes and say I'm allergic so I won't have to be cowardly.