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| Identity crisis |
When I first went to England, I was more concerned with befriending English girls than with studying law. My only apprehension was that my turban and beard would put them off. Fortunately, it was the other way round: my turban and beard made me appear a genuine Indian, while my clean-shaven colleagues were dismissed as brown versions of English boys. There were three of us in London University. Tarlok Singh was a scholarly sardar who later made it to the ICS and became the head of the Planning Commission. At that time, he had only half a moustache. Then there was Basant Singh from Kenya who was a keen cricketer. There was nothing to my credit except being the son of a generous father. There was not the least resemblance among the three of us, yet the English were always mixing us up. Tarlok was the favourite student of Professor Harold Laski, who often gave me books meant for him.
A more amusing incident was when Amarjit Singh, who was in Selwyn College, Cambridge, came to spend a weekend in Welwyn Garden City. I was living in a cottage close to the woods, which were then brimming over with rhododendron bushes in full bloom. Amarjit decided to take a walk in the woods before returning to Cambridge. He met an elderly lady who greeted him as if she had known him for some time. After a little chit-chat, Amarjit told her that he was not the Singh she knew but a friend of his. The lady apologized and said: “I did realize you looked a little different, but was not sure.” A couple of hours later, they ran into each other at the railway station. The lady greeted him and said, “You know Mr Singh, I mistook you for a friend staying with you.”
A memorable dialogue over the identity of sardarjis took place in Jerusalem. I was staying in King David Hotel. One evening, as I went to the dining room. I found only one unoccupied table and made for it. The next table was occupied by a middle-aged American couple. They gaped at me for a while before getting into a huddle and whispering into each other’s ears. Then the man turned to me and asked, “Excuse me sir, do you speak English?”
“Yes, I do,” I replied.
“My wife and I were wondering where you are from.”
I decided to have some fun and replied: “I give you three guesses. If you get it right, I’ll buy you a drink.”
The man paused before asking, “You would not be Jewish.”
“No, I am not Jewish.”
“Would you be a Mussalman?”
“No, I am not Muslim.”
“Buddhist?”
“No, I am not Buddhist.”
“I give up, what are you?”
“I am a Sikh.”
“Then you must be from Sikkim,” he pronounced.
At a writers’ conference in Glasgow, I found myself in the same lodging house with a few writers including the Bangladeshi poet, Jasimuddin. After making sure that I was not a hot-headed sardarji, he would greet me every morning thus: “Shordarji, aap ko boro buj gaya.”
Outer, inner
I was going over Coleman Barks’s translation of Rumi for the tenth time, reading only those passages that I had underlined. I came across one that had impressed me as a summary of my beliefs. I am not sure if I have quoted those lines before but even if I have, they deserve to be repeated. They run as follows:
Not Christian, or Jew or Muslim,
nor Hindu
Buddhist, Sufi or Zen. Not any
religion
Or cultural system. I am not from
the East
Or the West, not out of the Ocean or
Up
From the Ground, not natural or Ethereal, not composed of elements
at all. I do not exist.
Am not an entity in this world or the
next,
Did not descend from Adam and Eve
or any
Origin story. My place is placeless, a Trace of the traceless. Neither body
nor soul.
I belong to the beloved, have seen the
two
Worlds as one and that one call to
and know,
First, last, outer, inner, only that
Breath, breathing human being.
Dinner cake
Santa had come back to his native village after staying in England for five years on a work visa. He was being very pompous and showing off his power to speak English to the villagers.
He and his friend Banta went for a walk in the morning to the fields. The excreta of a buffalo was lying on the way. Santa remarked “Oh, this is a cake.” Pat came the reply from Banta, “Iss noo chakh ke vekh.” Santa was silenced and never tried to speak in English again during the remaining time of his stay in the village.
