Holy moly, turban’s gone!

Billa Brar

TURBAN has been in the news for the right and wrong reasons. A turbaned girl finds a seat in the Supreme Court of Canada. Back home, our esteemed elected representatives, have been tossing their ‘Sikhi nishani’ to and fro; indulging in a vigorous sling match, right in the middle of the law-making legislative Assembly.

I grew up in a household surrounded by male relatives, who began their day with tying a turban. Through sleepy eyes, I saw my father, brothers and cousins rotating and swirling around the household mirror, struggling to fit the 5-metre voile around their head. The outcome had to be satisfying before they stepped out of the household. 

Sundays were reserved for turban maintenance. With basins and buckets full of water, the family got headlong into the procedure. Dipping each voile in a starchy mixture and holding it from four corners, we paced vigorously up and down the garden lane. Once dried, they were neatly folded and kept in the uppermost shelf of the cupboard.

My grandfather would visit us often from our ancestral village. Devoted to the Gurbani, Bapuji adhered to all the five ‘Ks’ of Sikhism. He would recite the Sukhmani prayer nonstop any time of the day. Seeing the household brimming with perfectly turbaned Sikh lads, he would leave, beaming  with pride.

But alas, as grandfather’s faith was moving him deeper into the tenants of Sikhism, my teenaged mind was taking a flight in a totally opposite direction.  Studying in the hills, far removed from the home atmosphere, my mind was weaving dreams of another kind.

The desire to have a lifelong mate, who smelt of Old Spice and wore his beret with a tilt, was growing stronger and stronger... someone preferably sitting on a cavalry horseback, hitting his polo-ball with the same ferocity as returning gunfire in a raging battlefield.

A turbanless entry into our household! Horror of horrors. He might as well get prepared to be headless. My father and brothers held an emergency meeting. Tsumani of sorts had hit and shaken the four walls of our home. For generations, family girls with bowed heads just accepted the family choice, got married and lived happily (or not-so-happily) ever after.

A hunt for a full-fledged Sikh match was launched forthwith. They found one who was marching out from IPS training at Mt Abu. He met the family requirements in totality. All heaved a sigh of relief …with double ardas.

The dreams of youth fly up in smoke with the speed with which they come. Settling in my new status of ‘marriage-hood’, I soon got involved with my domain and family of four growing girls. Between us stood, firm and sound, my husband’s solitary turbaned frame. ‘Will we also marry someone who wears a turban like Papa?’ was a question I was frequently asked. 

Que sera, sera... whatever will be, will be... Decades later, we find ourselves bound with only one son-in-law who faithfully still adheres to this symbol of Sikhism. The others begin their morning surrounded by their shaving kit.