DAD'S LAST ADVENTURE

I haven't written about Dad in a while; here's about a strange little story near the end of his earthly life.

As I have written before, my Dad died late in 1982, mercifully missing the horrors of two years later. I had returned to our family home to care for him, as he had become quite testy and had decided that only his only daughter could help care for his still abundant kesh (unshorn hair). Mani and Sandeep had followed, leaving the farm in the very capable hands of Ramona, so we were all together there, in my old rooms.

Shortly before his death, he started acting very strangely. At odd times - and for no particular reason - he would blurt out "Cats!" H e had always liked cats and we had always had at least one in the house, but this was really strange.



(An aside: For some unknown reason, his favourite was Kitty, a very stupid cat; one of the few cats I have ever disliked [a hint of jealousy, perhaps?]. He was very sad when she died shortly after our wedding in 1970. I think he overfed her on wedding feast food and it was too much for the 15 year old fatty.)

After a time, it dawned on me that he was playing "senile" to tease us because except for that and being a bit cantankerous, OK, more than a bit, he was his usual self, clearly in full possession of his senses. But I couldn't figure out what he was trying to accomplish. He never did anything just to be silly. He always had some reason for what he did, even if it made sense only to himself.

Surprisingly, it was Lilly who gave us the answer. Although a good Jain, Lilly loved the theatre as long as the play had no "blue" components and contained (almost) no violence. One day, she came running in with a magazine, all excited. "Mai! Mai! Cats is coming to Broadway!" I gave her a puzzled look. Her grammar was always impeccable. "Cats is" just wasn't Lilly. Seeing the look on my face, she laughed.

"Cats is this most wonderful musical that's been running in London." What Dad had been referring to became crystal clear. He shared Lilly's love of theatre. "I so much wanted to see it, but I thought I'd never get the chance. Now it's coming to Broadway!" Her face fell slightly. "I suppose it's sold out for a long time, though."

"No doubt." I heard Dad's booming basso profundo and realised that he had ambled in unheard. "No doubt. I had to pull a lot of strings to get the tickets. Couldn't get opening night, but only a little while later. Tickets for us and Lilly, too." He was trying his best to look and sound serious, but he was grinning from ear to ear as he pulled an envelope out of his pocket. The envelope held five, third row centre tickets to Cats at the Winter Garden Theater. (Admission: I didn't remember the theatre's name; I had to look it up.) Lilly squealed and Dad looked very pleased with himself. He had not purchased a ticket for her husband Raj, but he hated the theatre and would be happy to be excluded. Besides, he and Dad avoided each other, the irresistible force and the immovable object.

(Another slight aside: Dad liked most people, but there were a few he just couldn't tolerate. Among this group was Lilly's husband, a Hindu (Kshatriya, he would be sure to inform you) named Raj Singh. [Yes, it was a strange marriage, but this is not the time to write about it. They were happy, even if no one else was.] Dad had good reason to dislike him. He had this belief that Sikhs were Hindus with long hair, in fact a part of the military wing of Hinduism, under the command of those of his varna (caste, sort of), of course. And his having the surname Singh only made matters worse. Raj and I have had a long-standing dispute about this, put to rest only at Lilly's death. It was her last request; what else could we do?)

As the season to go approached, Dad was getting weaker and weaker and it became clear to all of us that he was not up to a trip to New York. Still, he so much looked forward to going that none of us had the heart to tell him. One day, just a few days before his death, he had me sit beside him and he said, "Dear daughter, you remember about Cats?" I nodded. "This old body is all used up and it's almost time for me to go home to Satguru. I won't be making any more trips to New York in this frail, old shell." He had been sitting back, relaxed; suddenly, he sat bolt upright. "I made too much effort and spent too much money on those tickets for them to be wasted! I insist that you must go. And you must enjoy yourselves. This body won't be there, but I will. It'll be my last adventure before I go home."

I admit I was holding back tears, but I couldn't let him see that. "Will you be sitting in your seat there with us?"

He burst out laughing. "A disembodied soul need pay no admission and needs no seat." He lowered his voice. "Give my ticket to that bastard Raj, if he'll take it. Tell him it's a gift from the old Sardar who lived a Sikh and died a Sikh and will never be a Hindu, but who is generous even to those who try to dishonour him." The thought was really typical of Dad, who loved the grand gesture, although I had never heard him call anyone a bastard before.

So Dad died. We went to see Cats. All of us, including Raj. We had a grand good time. I still don't know if Dad was there with us, though.
I have a sneaking suspicion that he might have gone straight home to his beloved Guru Ji.

Betty Buckley from the London production of Cats

Back To Normal Life.

I thank you all for indulging me this last week. My 25 year anniversary remembrance has come to an end.

But please don't forget. Now and then, please think about that unknown Singh in the picture and remember those murdered and those who love them.

Some time ago, when I was thinking of making a new header.my good friend Anonymous, suggested that I am just a little too enamored of lions. Why not a landscape with forests or mountains and maybe a river and/or waterfall? How about some nice (read "vegetarian") animals? Or maybe outer space? I just couldn't decide, so I used all those suggestions. And butterflies, too. Hence this new header.

There's a lot going on here, so I'll put the picture without the title here. To see the big sized picture, just click on it.



I hope you enjoy those big mother ducklings.

And here is a postcard I made for my goofy brothers.

I have also made a few wallpapers on Sikh themes. If anyone expresses an interest, I will post them.

As you can see, I have been doing a lot of graphics type stuff. I started in mspaint, then worked in paint.net, a programme I heartily endorse as a lot of fun and much more versatile than mspaint. Then, last night, a dear friend and brother decided I really need Photoshop and last night we downloaded Photoshop CN 4 (Expanded). Now, I need to learn to use it.

One Dead Singh

On 31 October 1984, Indira Gandhi, Prime Minister of India, was shot and killed by her Sikh bodyguards reacting to her ordering the Army to storm the Golden Temple (Harmandir Sahib) in Amritsar, killing an unknown number of pilgrims gathered there in honour of the martyrdom day of Guru Arjan Dev Ji.

There followed several days of mayhem directed toward the Sikhs of India, especially in the city of Delhi. Many Sikhs were doused with fire and burned alive. these are my thoughts on one of the dead. (What follows is reprinted from The Road To Khalistan.)





Who is he? Who is this Singh? I have spend countless hours staring at this photograph asking myself questions. Whose son is he? Whose husband, whose dad, whose brother, whose uncle, cousin, friend? Is someone waiting anxiously at home for him, waiting for a footfall that will never come?

Where is he from? Does he live in Delhi or is he just visiting? Where was he born? What is his pind? When was he born? How old is he?

What is his occupation? Is he an engineer, a doctor, a professor? Or is he a taxi driver or a trucker?

What are his politics? Is he an Akali or a member of Congress? Is he a Khalistani or a Bharata Mata lover? Or is he political at all? Is he just trying to live his life and not really concerned about the niceties of the larger world.

Why is he keshdhari? Is it just habit, following family custom? Or is it deeply meaningful to him? Does he pray each day, do naam jap, love Vaheguru? Or are those just incidentals that have fallen by the wayside of his life? Where is his turban? How does he feel as it is ripped from his head and his kesh is exposed?

How does he feel as he realises the mob is coming for him, chasing him down the street or dragging him from his home or his car or from the bus? What goes on in his brain as the petrol is poured on him and set alight? What is he thinking as his body burns? Or is he beyond thought? Is he aware of the laughing jeering mob around him, enjoying watching his final agonising moments of life on this earth?

What is his last awareness as he dies alone, surrounded by merciless thugs?

Questions without answers. Whoever he is, he deserves to be remembered. I doubt he had even a death certificate, so I have made him one.

(Click to enlarge)

There is something so very final about the certificate. And, of course, I realise that all I have written is wrong and must be rewritten to reflect the truth of 25 years later...

Who was he? Who was this Singh? I have spent countless hours staring at this photograph asking myself questions. Whose son was he? Whose husband, whose dad, whose brother, whose uncle, cousin, friend? Was someone waiting anxiously at home for him, waiting for a footfall that never came?

Where was he from? Did he live in Delhi or was he just visiting? Where was he born? What was his pind? When was he born? How old was he?

What was his occupation? Was he an engineer, a doctor, a professor? Or was he a taxi driver or a trucker?

What were his politics? Was he an Akali or a member of Congress? Was he a Khalistani or a Bharata Mata lover? Or was he political at all? Was he just trying to live his life and not really concerned about the niceties of the larger world.

Why was he keshdhari? Was it just habit, following family custom? Or was it deeply meaningful to him? Did he pray each day, do naam jap, love Vaheguru? Or were those just incidentals that had fallen by the wayside of his life? Where was his turban? How did he feel as it was ripped from his head and his kesh was exposed?

How did he feel as he realised the mob was coming for him, chasing him down the street or dragging him from his home or his car or from the bus? What went on in his brain as the petrol was poured on him and set alight? What was he thinking as his body burned? Or was he beyond thought? Was he aware of the laughing jeering mob around him, enjoying watching his final agonising moments of life on this earth?

What was his last awareness as he died alone, surrounded by merciless thugs?

He was our brother and he was one single human being, one Sikh among the thousands murdered during the madness of those days in 1984.

He is our brother and he deserves justice.

One final, unanswered question: When?

Weird stuff from Oregon

If you'd like the story behind this pictre, please go to Weird Stuff From Everywhere.

Thuki Again

I was going to skip this one actually, but Thuki won't shut up until I post it here. I tried to explain to her that this is a PG-13 rated site, no explicit acts of procreation, most certainly not interspecies.

However, she keeps pooping in my hair, vowing not to stop until this is posted.



All the while she is squawking that we have not yet gotten her a royal consort. What more is there to say?

OK, here is:

THE PARROT WHO SHAGGED ME:

INNOCENT, 100% INNOCENT

Finally. At last.

How many times have we heard the argument against the death penalty in the United States: "What if an innocent person was executed?"

Always followed by, "Well, show me one, single example of a person proved innocent executed!"

OK, my dear jios, here it is. Watch this and think deeply.




So how could the Great State of Texas apologise? Here is one suggestion...

Current Events.

Many thanks to S. S.

Amazing Lions - Funny videos are here

THE EXTRAORDINARY BEARD OF SWARAN SINGH

You must be wondering if this person Mai ever writes about nonSikh stuff. Yes, she does, occasionally, but not today.

Today she has just finished eating a 7-Layer Burrito (beans, rice, tomato, lettuce, cheese and guacamole all rolled up in a flour tortilla) drenched a Fire Sauce and drinking a liter of half-frozen water.


I am sitting here near Seattle on the hottest day ever recorded here. 104F, 340C. Not all that hot in Amritsar or Las Vegas, but deadly hot to these weak Seattlites. I'm OK, with a fan and a spray bottle of water.

So, for a summer break...

I just came across this Youtube video and want to share it with you.

First, a still from the video:


Then the caption from the video:

Mar. 11 - A Canadian man who has grown a beard that measures over seven feet long is all set to be endorsed in the record books.

Swaran Singh, a music teacher from Canada who is visiting his native Punjab, is the pride of all the Sikhs for sporting a beard that measures over 7 feet long.

He expects it to be endorsed in the Guinness Book of World Records.

As a devout Sikh, Singh wanted to inspire the young members of his community to retain the hair and not crop it.

(SOUNDBITE) (Punjabi) SWARAN SINGH: "God blessed every man with beard, but I have received special blessing from Him. I have done nothing special except caring it (beard). I have never applied any special hair oil on my beard and of course, I haven't done this for the sake of Guinness record."

And, at last, the video itself:



http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pvnWUftW4uE

Happy summer to all (in the Northern Hemisphere). Happy winter to you in the hemisphere of Oz.

UPDATE! A PETITION!! The Bird of Prayer

I have added a petition to the end of this post to allow women to do sewa and kirtan at Harimandir Sahib. We're supposed to be the religon of gender equality and this glaring discrimination must be corrected! Please sign. Or Mai will be annoyed. Very annoyed.
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I wrote this for The Road To Khalistan, and I think it also belongs here. First, for my non Sikh readers, a little vocabulary:

Harimandir Sahib - Golden Temple, Amritsar, East Punjab, India
Amrit Vela - the Ambrosial hours before sunrise, a time for prayer and meditation Darbar Sahib - the Main Hall of a Gurdwara, in this case refers to the Central Building of Harimandir Sahib
Sri Guru Granth Sahib (SGGS) - the Sikh Eternal Guru, the Sikh sacred scriptures.
Kirtan - Sacred song, hymn
Gurdwara - Sikh house of worship

That should be enough to get started. The first line is from Shri Guru Granth Sahib Ji.
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THE PRAYER-BIRD

baabeehaa anmrith vaelai boliaa thaan dhar sunee pukaar
The rainbird chirps in the ambrosial hours of the morning before the dawn; its prayers are heard in the Court of the Lord.
SGGS: Page1285 Line 3 Raag Malaar: Guru Amar Das

A few years ago, when I was an absolute newbie on the Internet, I came across a beautiful story about a bird at Harimandir Sahib. Not knowing that I might have trouble finding it again, I didn't bookmark it or copy the URL. Although I have searched and searched, I have not been able to find the website with the story.

I will tell it here as best as I can remember. I do not know if this is a true story or a beautiful image from someone's imagination. It really doesn't matter.

Once, at the beautiful and sacred Harimandir Sahib in Amritsar,





a pair of birds built a nest. Mother bird laid her eggs, and Mother bird and Father birth both cared for them until they hatched into four perfect little baby birds.



The parents took turns giving them the nourishment and care and love they needed to grow and thrive until they were able to care for themselves.


Then all flew away except for one small bird.



For reasons known to none, she stayed and made her home in a niche above the Darbar Sahib. Day after day, perched at the top of the beautiful gurdwara, she listened to the kirtan wafting through the air. From the Ambrosial Hours before dawn until late in the night, she listened and she sang.


She sang as all birds sing until one day, when she began her melodious chirping during amrit vela, a new song emerged from her soul. From that day every day, she joyfully sang the kirtan to Akaal Purakh that she had so often heard. Everyone who heard her was blessed by the thrilling notes given to her by her creator. Was there ever another bird so blessed?



Then, one day, she was heard no more. Her soul had flown to meet the One she had spent her life praising.


That is the end of the story, only I wonder if she might have been just a little sad
that she never heard the voice of a woman raised in joyous kirtan.




IN CASE YOU ARE ASKING, WHAT DID THAT LAST LINE MEAN, HERE IT IS:

Hi,

I wanted to draw your attention to this important petition that I recently signed:

"Allow Women to do Kirtan & Sewa at Harmandir Sahib"
http://www.ipetitions.com/petition/sikhequality?e

I really think this is an important cause, and I'd like to encourage you to add your signature, too. It's free and takes less than a minute of your time.

ELEANOR MEME II

My friend Eleanor (not to be confused with My Friend Flicka, another thing altogether) has proposed another mosaic meme. Please visit her blog, Notes From Eleanor Bloom. She is a bit Vivian Leigh, a bit Holly Golightly, a bit of a mad Aussie and altogether delightful. Plus, of course, she's my friend, a title not given lightly.





First, what they are supposed to be:

1. Something that represents beauty for you.
   
2. A love.
   
3. An addiction.
   
4. A favourite album or style of music.
   
5. A place you spent your childhood.
   
6. An enjoyable pastime.
   
7. Your favourite season.
   
8. A favourite animal.
   
9. Somewhere on the planet you'd like to live or visit.

1. 1 Harimandir Sahib, 2. 2Sant Ji, 3. 3dried-natural-mango, 4. 4 way street, 5. 5India Weather, 6. 6Hike in the forest, 7. 7springtime, 8. 8lioness-and-lion-cub, 9. 9Himalaya Kashmir