A Good Sikh

This is the first piece of fiction i wrote in a long time. The characters mentioned are purely fictitious and the product of the author's imagination. There is no malicious intent whatsoever to hurt any body's sentiments, religious or otherwise.
Any resemblance to any person living or dead is not merely a co-incidence but a well planned accident.

Comments, Feedback, Questions & Brickbats are anticipated and welcome.

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I am a Sabat Surat Gursikh. I do nitnem and visit the nearby gurudwara daily. I wear a nice looking neat turban everyday, groom my unshorn beard and moustache.
My mother says I am a good Sikh. But I should do more. I should bow before the holy book, Guru Granth Sahib Ji before I consume the first grain in the morning. I should not miss going to the gurudwara everyday of the week. I am a good Sikh.

I don’t think I am too kind to the servants who work at my home and at my workplace. I often shout at them for their mistakes, call them names. But it’s ok. You have to do that to get work done.
Last month, I took my wife to the gynaecologist. She told us my wife was carrying a girl child. I had the foetus aborted. I killed my unborn girl child. I want a son first.

The other day, I was going through the paperwork at my workplace. It’s my entrepreneurial establishment I started 5 years ago.
I realized with only minor modifications in the figures, and renaming a few items in the accounts, I could save a couple of lakhs in taxes, and underpay my suppliers.
I did that, and made a killing. A neat 10 lakh rupees in the pocket. I am so proud of myself.

I am a good Sikh. That’s why the gurus are so benevolent towards me.



Jassi is my childhood friend. We went to the school together. My dad even paid some donation to the principal so that I could go to the same college as Jassi.

I always thought of him as a great guy. He was always good at studies. He always topped Sikh studies, and social studies. Social studies were the subject I almost always had trouble with.

Jassi even memorized the Japji Sahib Paath in class 5. I could never do that. I always stumbled after the 15th pauri. I still do.
Even his turban used to look better than mine. His was a pleasant personality. He is very soft spoken and for some reason, was friendlier with the waiters at the restaurant we used to hang out, with the porters who lugged his luggage at the railway station. He is super kind towards the old lady who works as a part time domestic help at his place. Whatever that's about.

Jassi was known to be a thinker in school, and even in college he was an intense debater. But we never saw him angry. When he spoke, he spoke with complete conviction in his words and humility in his voice. I often saw him entering and exiting the library. His arms full of books on Indian and Sikh history.

He was popular with the girls. I used to hear them talk about him with great respect while he wasn’t around. And they used to listen to him with rapt attention when he was.

I had my fair share of girl friends in college too. I had this modified jeep (I still do, don’t take it out so often though), it was the cynosure of all pretty eyes.

Jassi often called it show off. lol. I think he was plain jealous coz he only had that old 100 cc bike to commute to and from college. There were times when I thought Jassi was a hypocrite. In the first two years of college I didn’t miss one bollywood movie. I always wanted him to come along, but he wouldn’t bunk classes like the rest of my gang, just coz he ‘didn’t want to miss important lectures’. My foot. When there was the group of guys from the local gurudwara going to the south of India to provide some kind of relief for some tsunami or a problem like that, he missed three entire weeks of college just a month before final exams. He bunked classes to help madrassis!

He used to give me some random gyaan about necessarily respecting women and not treating them like meat. I never understood what he meant. I don’t, now either.
There was this stupid looking Bengali chic in college. She wasn’t the hep kinds I liked. But I always knew Jassi had a thing for her. I just knew. I didn’t know why, but knew something was up, so I wasn’t surprised when I heard that gang of girls talking excitedly about Jassi and Rupa in the same breath. She was never as hot & good looking as the girls I used to hang out with, I wonder why Jassi liked her so much.

After college, Jassi got a nice job with an MNC and within 6 months of that, married Rupa. I was happy for him. He was my best friend.
I was surprised though, I wasn’t sure Rupa liked Jassi too. I thought she would go with the other Bong dude in our class. Shubro was really a cool guy, once he even got me the TAG watch on his shopping trips to Dubai. You can get that stuff there at the duty free shops for half the price, you know.

Anyway, a year and a half later, the duo was blessed with a beautiful daughter. I loved it when Amrita called me ‘chaa-chaa’ for the first time, never mind it didn’t come out exactly as I was teaching her. She has pretty Bengali eyes. But she smiles like Jassi.


I too got married some time back. Preeti’s father liked me because I am a good Sikh, with the facial hair intact. A sabat surat gursikh. I am hard working. And I had set up a good business too. I was really eligible.
She is as pretty as a sardarni can be. I like her.




Recently, I was outraged when I heard that Jassi had shorn his hair, his moustache, his beard. He wouldn’t wear a turban everyday now. I confronted him in his home. He acted his cool self. Offered me chai-thanda and asked me to have a seat. I am not sure if he looked much better than earlier, but obviously it was too different. Not for a minute did I not recognize my friend or anything like that. But it was different.

He tried explaining but I really was in no mood to listen. He said something like; it was a chore maintaining it. That he spent 3 hours everyday in sustaining the swaroop. Doing the poni and then tying the turban. Then tending to his moustache and beard. His ears bled on the sides, because the turban caused an itch on the tender skin on the ear bone. He said he was in pain all day. And at night he could not rest his head sideways on the pillow. Often he would wake up writhing in pain if he accidentally did that while asleep.

But all this was too petty. Too insignificant. Our gurus have made tremendous sacrifices. Sri Guru Gobind Singh Ji even sacrificed his sons for the cause of the faith. It was his decree that all Khalsa should wear the five k’s.

But Jassi had the audacity to tell me that what Guruji had said was relevant three hundred years ago, not today. How can that be?

I was getting a feeling, Jassi was only trying to justify what he had done, and I was suspicious, it was at the behest of the non-sikh woman he had married. But then he went on to tell me, rather emphatically, that it was his own decision. Jassi still had that color of sincerity and passion in his words and modesty in his voice.
I looked at bhabhi, she didn’t look like the woman who would incite her man against his own faith and Jassi wasn’t a man who’d easily be swayed. But I had my doubts.



Jassi said “It’s more important to live like a Sikh, than look like a Sikh”.

Sometimes, Jassi’s words went over my head. As much as I loved my friend, I couldn’t come to understand his actions and words. How, in the world could he live like a Sikh if he didn’t look like one? It is of prime importance to look like the Lion, the turban and the mane were the principal symbols of reflecting that. The characteristics of ferociousness in the battlefield and servitude towards the Gurus, the panth and above all the God almighty, Akal Purakh, are depicted by the look.

Important to live like a Sikh, than to look like a Sikh. What a load of escapist crap.

He even questioned me, when I told him what bhaiji in the gurudwara had said in his sermon the previous evening about how important it was to maintain his unique visual identity. How with his turban and beard he could be identified as a sardar among millions.
Jassi said “I don’t need to prove it to the millions or anybody else, but myself, that i am a god loving, humble and khalis soul. That i stand up for the underprivileged, respect women as equals, and all humans in general as my own family”.
“I feel i am Guruji’s Sikh. Much better than the strong young turbaned men, with flowing beards, who roam the streets with unsheathed kirpans, rioting, and destroying the public property they themselves paid for by paying taxes, at the slightest incitement by other, supposedly religious, nincompoops.”

I could relate to what Jassi was trying to tell me now. It was kind of sinking in. But I couldn’t help think of my friend becoming the gaddaar – traitor, me and that guy at the gurudwara used to talk about. I was also feeling afraid at the same time that a lot of those guys will not like Jassi now. And they will not like me too when they know that he is really my best friend. The one I have had, practically since the time I gained consciousness. I couldn’t think of not calling him my friend. For a moment, I was left wondering, if it came to head, will I be able to stand for my friend who was always dear to me like my own elder brother. Who I secretly wished to emulate always. I wasn’t sure I was going to try and emulate him this time. I feared being called an out caste. I feared ostracism. But wasn’t the same going to happen to Jassi now? The gabru javaan gursikh my mom always talked about so fondly. How would mom react to this? How did Jassi’s mom react to it?!

I asked him. By now I was a little less agitated, but was still angry inside. Though I did want to reason this out with Jassi. I thought I could. I had to know why.
Jassi’s mother was a devout Sikh. She hadn’t partaken amrit but in all ways she was an ideal Sikh woman. I was starting to imagine a heated debate must’ve taken place. The naughty me was even conjuring up images of a tall and handsome Jassi, getting a beating from his mom, for what he had done.
But to my utter amazement he said auntyji was ok with it.
How could she be ‘ok’ with it!? And what about the relatives? Wouldn’t the biradari ostracize him now? How would he face them now?

What Jassi said then really shook me.



“Worried about how they will react? Whether or not they will talk to me again?
Bunty, my distant family is family because I am related to them by blood. Not by karma. I don’t even wish to be identified with the ‘family’ which I know has committed foeticide. Those who make money by immoral means, cheat their partners, and then make huge donations at Gurdwara Bangla Sahib. Chachaji openly talks ill about daadu. Makes fun of his incontinence, and physical weakness. Then in the evening he will go to the J-Block gurudwara with his family where he is so ‘respected’. He even gives sermons at times. If you ever have the opportunity, please go and listen to him emitting venom against other communities. Calling names at Sikhs who wear caps or those who shave”

“It’s as if they are suddenly less than human. And you know, Bunty, I am actually prepared for all of that. And this is the ‘family’ you think I should be anxious about, I am in the least. Lack of facial hair is not making me a lesser Sikh and the presence of it and a turban is not making Chachaji a better one.”

“That talk about Gurujis’ sacrifices, do you really think that our great Gurus want us to repay them for the sacrifices they made for us and the qaum, by keeping facial hair and tying a turban everyday. No, really? Do you in your right senses believe, that men, as great as Guru Gobind Singh ji, who were undoubtedly personalities way way above the class of average mortals like you and me, who could raise an army of peasants and fill them with such courage and valor that would then fight and defeat a mighty Mughal army, men who were thinkers and philosophers in their own right, that souls of such tremendous spiritual consciousness would want you to pay tribute to them by growing facial hair? That wearing a turban redeems you of the duties you have to necessarily perform to live a rich, fulfilling and righteous life? Really, Bunty? Is that what you have reduced my Sikhi to? My visual identity? My identification among millions? You think I am not a Sikh now? That I am a worse person than I was before?”



I was quiet. I could feel a bead of sweat forming at the back of my neck and finding its way down the back. There was a rush of emotions. I was confused, angry and scared at the same time. I was confused because Jassi’s words, as always, had a ring of truthfulness to them. That he really believed in what he was saying. He wasn’t saying it under the influence of anything or anybody. But it was mostly contrary to what I had heard at the gurudwara. Bhaiji always talked about rehat and maryada and I think I had followed it to a t. Jassi here didn’t sound like bhaiji but his words reverberated inside me and they felt so true.

I saw bhabhi lay the table. Amrita was following her around in her walker. Jassi motioned towards the table and we had lunch. I was surprised to taste the scrumptious rajmah. I was surprised how bhabhi could prepare it with the Punjabi flavor intact. I used to joke with Preeti that Jassi would be subjected to funny tasting Bengali Punjabi mish mash of food. But here it was. Almost as good as auntyji used to make.

Jassi picked Amrita up from her walker and placed her in his lap. He fed her from the same plate he was eating in. Amrita loved rajma too. Jassi mashed the rajma with the spoon before he would feed it to her. I just looked at that picture in awe. I think I blinked then, and felt my eyelashes were moist. There was water in my eyes.

Of all the roles I had imagined Jassi in, I never thought of him as a father. But here he was. What a loving doting father! Amrita was visibly in love with her daddy even now.
Jassi never made stupid cackling sounds like most adults do when they want to interact with infants. He talked to her like an adult, and she seemed to respond. Always. With a smile. Sometimes with a funny frown. And mostly with a heavenly laugh. Oh, that toothless laugh!



I didn’t want to be, but I was still angry. But by now I wasn’t sure if I was angry at Jassi. I was angry for sure. I think I was angry at Jassi’s Chachaji. And I was angry at myself. I was also scared now. Jassi didn’t know about my and Preeti’s visit to the doctor. Or the abortion, or the tax evasion. Or my thoughts about the new Skoda I had just booked with the money I made the other day by playing around with the accounts. I really wanted that car. That dark blue color looks majestic.

And what if Jassi came to know all of this. He’d be angrier at me than I was at him today.
I was scared. If Jassi’s words were really as true as they did sound, I really didn’t know if I could tell myself that ‘I was a good Sikh’ anymore. I was always ‘proud’ to be a Sikh. I was proud of my turban. And right now, for some reason, I wasn’t exactly filled with pride. Right now, to me, Jassi seemed more dignified than myself. Was I, really the good Sikh my mom always told me I was?


Bhabhi cleared the table and took Amrita for her afternoon siesta. There was still silence at the table. I wasn’t exactly looking at Jassi. I wasn’t only a little uncomfortable.
I could now hear bhabhi trying to put Amrita to sleep, and Amrita being a naughty kid refusing to do so. Just then I could hear bhabhi recite something like a poem. It took some time for me to grasp, because it was being spoken in an accent. Bhabhi still had a slight Bengali accent. And then it struck. She was reciting the Chaupayi Sahib Paath while trying to put Amrita to sleep. I stood up and walked a couple of steps to wash my hands after the meal, and from the corner of my eye I confirmed the image I had just drawn up. It actually was Rupa reciting the paath while lightly stroking Amrita’s forehead, pushing back her soft brown black locks. Amrita slowly calmed down and went into that blissful baby sleep.


In a way I could feel a calm envelop me too. Unexpectedly though, I was starting to feel at peace with myself, in complete contrast to my feelings when I had come to Jassi’s place in the morning. There was this realization that my friend wasn’t suddenly rash as I had feared. He was still as prudent as I had known him to be. And most certainly he knows more about our collective history and heritage than I do.

We still didn’t exchange many words before I left. But I looked at him once, and gave him a bear hug. He is still my best friend. And he is a great guy. A good Sikh.