Love & Courage

by Jagmeet Singh

  “I know, but when exactly? Do you know what day?”

  Sometimes, even when you think moms don’t know, they know.

  My mom drew closer, gave me a hug, and said, “Don’t worry, Jagmeet. Everything is going to be okay. Just make sure you look after your sister.”

  I hugged her back. “Don’t worry, bebey-ji,” I said. “I will.”

  As our departure inched nearer, I slowly started to think I could trust my dad. He was grief-stricken, yes, but he had the presence of mind not to get hammered. He took the responsibility of caretaking for me and Manjot seriously. It fascinated us to see him take charge of each situation the way he did—driving us to Pearson Airport in Toronto, guiding us from Pearson to Heathrow, then Heathrow to Indira Gandhi International Airport, all with ease. This wasn’t my dad; this was Dr. Dhaliwal.

  We’d travelled a lot before as a family, but always to safe, familiar places—to California once, and to Florida semi-annually. Even from the air, I knew this trip would be profoundly different. The flight across Asia seemed to go on forever, and since there was just one Disney movie playing on the bulky TV aisle screens, I spent most of the trip watching the land transform beneath my window. In my head, I thought about our destination. Would I recognize anything from my childhood? Would anything feel familiar?

  “What do you think India is going to be like?” Manjot asked.

  “I don’t know,” I replied. “I don’t remember anything about it.”

  “Of course you don’t, you were just a baby. But do you think there will be camels?”

  “Maybe,” I said, shrugging my shoulders.

  “I’m looking forward to making new friends,” Manjot said.

  As soon as we stepped off the plane and saw crowds swarming at the end of the jet bridge, my dad put a firm hand on our shoulders. “Be careful,” he said.

  My dad hadn’t been to India in twelve years and for a moment, his face betrayed the sense of calm he was trying to create. Taxi drivers and baggage handlers pushed toward us, vying for his business, talking and stepping over themselves for his attention. My dad tried to negotiate a fair price for the three-hundred-kilometre trek to our family’s village, but the drivers’ aggressive bartering frustrated and flustered him. “Let’s look at the buses,” he finally said, holding Manjot’s hand while I pushed our luggage on a dolly.

  I’d imagined something like a Greyhound charter, but when we went to the station, what we found was closer to a rusting school bus you might see for sale on the side of a highway. Inside, every bench seat but one was filled by travellers, almost all of whom were men. My dad was worried about Manjot, so he sat immediately next to her so he could make sure there wasn’t anyone else touching her. The only space left for me had me leaning precariously close to the gearshift, halfway between the driver and the door. That part of the bus must have been in contact with the engine because it got hotter and hotter as the trip continued.

  It was nighttime when we left, but the combined summer weather and body heat radiating off the sixty densely packed passengers made it oppressively hot. Sweat poured off my face as I switched between sitting against and standing on the burning steel.

  Looking outside as we drove north across New Delhi, I felt like we were going back in time. People and vehicles shared the roads with animals—bull carts with straw carriages, camels pulling two-wheeled wagons, old men walking alongside their donkeys, chickens roaming between their feet and tires. Bells and horns drowned out the crowd with their hierarchy of noises—bikes ringing, scooters squawking, and our bus belching the mightiest trumpet (instead of, you know, using a turn signal) each time it changed lanes.

  The drive was eight hours long, with about six stops. It was daytime when we finally arrived. I blinked groggily and saw we were in the middle of what looked like a bustling town. There were people everywhere, walking in front of stores with peeling paint and battered-looking signs. The honking of cars and smell of animals filled the air—it was overwhelming.

  I carried our bags to the shade, noticing my dad’s furrowed brow as he looked in each direction, stroking the stubble on his face. “Are we okay?” I asked.

  “This is new,” he said. “There used to be a different bus station here.” He paused. “I don’t know my way home.”

  “Didn’t you grow up here, Dad?” Manjot asked.

  “Everything is so different,” he said, half to himself.

  My dad asked around the bus depot for directions to his family’s farm, in between nervously checking the time on his watch. We were afraid we might miss the ceremonial washing and dressing of his dad’s body because we hadn’t gotten an early enough flight. He worried that the cremation would begin without him, and hoped that they’d hold off for him. Precious time passed as he tried to orient himself and piece together the directions offered to him based on his description of the farm. If only it were as simple as giving an address and taking directions like “Go left on Ouellette Avenue, right on Wyandotte Street.” But the instructions people gave were more like “Go down that road, there’ll be a baker, then take a left and go past so-and-so’s house.”

  It turned out that the bus station wasn’t far from our family’s house. The outskirts of Barnala, where my dad grew up, had been developed into housing and businesses since his last visit. He’d been looking for a farmhouse on the outskirts of the city, as he remembered it, but the city had long since enveloped the farmhouse.

  We carried our suitcases through the surrounding area, a subdivision of concrete shanties inhabited by families struggling to survive on the margins. Kids younger than Gurratan waved gum packets and corn at us for sale. When we said no, they stretched out a palm for money.

  I’d never been hit by so many scents at once. Our North American environment seemed positively sterile by comparison. The air carried the familiar scent of Panjabi cooking and spices, but it mingled with burning wood stoves and manure patties, open sewage dumpsters, and live animals. It was sensory overload.

  There wasn’t a spot of grass or plants on the ground, just garbage and bones and crushed plastic bottles. Dust rose behind us as we dragged our bags through the dirt road. When we finally arrived and stepped through the gates, the place had a vague familiarity, not from any personal memories, but from pictures I’d seen in photo albums. There was a large courtyard with one structure on either side: one was a newer building where my grandparents had been living, and the other—the one where my dad grew up—was rented out to some people who worked for my grandparents. A vegetable garden filled the courtyard between the houses, along with flowers and the first trees I’d seen up close since arriving in India.

  As we approached my grandparents’ cute little house, my dad recited memories as they activated before his eyes, pointing out the places he’d played and studied, husked corn, and learned to ride a bike. There were a couple of parked cars belonging to relatives and loved ones who had arrived to give their condolences. We removed our shoes outside the house and stepped barefoot onto the concrete floor inside.

  We looked around, but there was no one to be seen. Suddenly, my dad realized—the cremation had already happened.

  “They didn’t wait for me,” he said sadly.

  My dad felt as though he hadn’t fulfilled his responsibilities as the eldest child, but to me, he’d finally risen up and met his responsibilities as a father. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d felt so proud of him. He’d been sober for five straight days and was extremely “with it.” He’d brought Manjot and me here on his own, negotiated our travel to his village, and kept us safe throughout the adventure. I’d thought we were travelling with Dr. Dhaliwal, but the love and care he showed made me realize it was my dad all along.

  Chapter Eight

  THE RUSSIAN PRINCE

  The loss of his father somehow had a life-changing impact on my dad, and it didn’t stop after our trip. He returned to Windsor motivated to get clean, reconnect with his Sikhi, and be a role model to his kids. Sometim
e during the trip my dad had let his beard grow out and started tying a turban.

  It had been years since I’d been in the presence of my dad’s true personality. He was charming, smooth, and a little goofy. It was during this time that I really got to understand him. He talked about growing up in Panjab, the fears of growing financial uncertainty as his dad kept losing land, and the pressure he felt to achieve more security. It relieved me to have the 2.0 version of my dad, but it filled me with insecurity, too. I feared he could relapse at any moment.

  Our home felt more secure as his sobriety continued into 1994. The length of my dad’s hair was like a litmus test for his health and well-being: the longer and more luscious it was, the safer I felt. Having never seen my dad with long hair, it was a little confusing to catch sight of him one day at the kitchen table with a patka tied on his head because he was going to play tennis. I hadn’t really ever seen a grown man wearing a patka. I thought that it was only something little kids wore. I think he was a little uncertain about the patka as well, but he didn’t have a sports-style turban. He was still figuring it all out, but I guess that’s just it: he was a grown man awkwardly growing into his faith in middle age.

  My dad had started going to work in a turban, too. I had started tying my own turbans in ninth grade, two years before our trip to Panjab for my grandfather’s funeral. Usually, as Sikh kids get older, they start wearing one, and I felt beginning my first year in high school it was definitely time. Funnily enough, even though my dad hadn’t worn a turban when I was growing up, he was still the one who taught me how to tie one. He showed me how to fold the turban cloth in pleats called a pooni. It takes two people holding the cloth stretched out to its full length. Then he taught me a little turban-tying hack. Usually after doing a pooni or pleating the cloth, you sit or stand in front of a mirror and tie the turban one wrap or lard at a time. My dad taught me a technique where he stood still, holding one end of the fabric, while I slowly spun, winding the turban around my head until we got closer and closer. It took some coordination, but it usually turned out surprisingly all right.

  The first time I tied it was the summer before ninth grade, and I immediately went to show it to Walid. He was always honest with me, so I knew that when I showed him my turban for the first time, he would tell me straight up what he thought.

  I knocked on Walid’s door, and when he opened it, I spread out my arms. “What do you think?” I asked.

  He looked at me very seriously and solemnly. Finally, he said, “I like it. It suits you.”

  I sighed with relief. “Really?”

  “Actually, can I be honest with you?”

  “Of course.”

  “I think it looks a lot better than the other thing you used to wear.”

  I laughed. “You mean my patka?”

  “Yeah. This one you’re wearing looks better.”

  That was it. I switched to a turban and never looked back.

  My dad reconnected with his roots in more ways than faith and culture. For Manjot’s tenth birthday, he surprised us with a puppy—a tiny German shepherd curled up in a kennel, his golden paws folded over his little black snout. My sister shrieked with joy, startling the pup. His floppy ears flipped up and his eyes shot open. When we looked into his big brown eyes, Gurratan immediately ceased being the baby of the family.

  “What’s his name?” Manjot asked.

  “Jugnu,” said my dad, pronouncing it Joog-new.

  “Why Jugnu?” she asked.

  “That was my dog’s name when I was a boy.”

  “What’s it mean?”

  “Firefly.”

  “That’s cool!”

  My dad created a schedule for us kids, making sure we each did our part in taking care of Jugnu. Manjot and I didn’t mind taking Jugnu for walks, but Gurratan could be a bit lazier about it. Jugnu didn’t care who took him, just so long as he got out. There could be a blizzard outside, and Jugnu would be going stir crazy in the house, begging to be let out.

  “Who is taking Jugnu for his walk?” my dad would ask, staring out at the falling snow as Gurratan did his best to fade into the background and avoid eye contact.

  “Jagmeet, it’s your turn,” my dad said. As the oldest sibling, the buck often stopped with me. I loved being outside, so although I sometimes grumbled, I didn’t mind. I enjoyed the walk and the retreat into the trees around our neighbourhood. Walks with Jugnu gave me some time to myself. Even when the sun was setting and the long shadows gave the forest a more ominous look from the outside, I still felt like I had a safe refuge within it.

  My dad was definitely the alpha to Jugnu, who was most obedient to him, but I was a close second. Jugnu was a peculiar dog, one who liked being around people but still liked his space. Manjot always wanted to cuddle, but Jugnu wasn’t the most snuggly. Whenever she tried to get close to him on the couch, he’d pick himself up, hop to the floor, and sashay away.

  On walks, neighbours tried to coo and baby-talk to him. “Is your dog friendly?” they’d ask.

  “No,” I’d say.

  “Can I pet him?”

  “Definitely not.”

  Jugnu would lose his mind at strangers through the living room window, let alone ones passing him on a sidewalk. Inside the house, we could get him to bark like crazy and run up to the nearest window simply by saying, “Look, look.”

  That training came in handy once when I took Jugnu for our regular walk around the block. We passed by a teenage guy who was walking on the street and singing along to “Losing My Religion” on his portable stereo. He stopped singing when he saw us and called out to me, his voice dripping with sarcasm, “Hey, man, are you losing your religion?”

  I turned to him with a raised brow, said nothing, and continued walking my dog. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed him walking toward me.

  “What do you got on your head?” he asked with a sneer.

  I clenched my jaw.

  “Is that a towel?”

  I turned around to face him. I knew he was making fun of me and that it was likely only going to get worse. He walked toward me with a smirk on his face, about to spew his next line of insults.

  Jugnu was quivering beside me—like many dogs can do, he could sense my tension. He had a strong, sturdy build thanks to all of the walks we took him on. So when I said, “Look, look,” under my breath, he was ready to act. Jugnu lunged toward the man, jerking me forward by the leash. He growled and barked like a canine bodyguard. The guy—stiff as a fence—turned 180 degrees on his heels and walked back the other way. I crouched down and soothed Jugnu. I scratched him behind the ear the way he loved. “Good boy,” I said. Jugnu was a little unpredictable and probably not the best-trained dog for living in a neighbourhood, but he took care of me in a lot of situations that would have been much worse without him. Having him around expanded my safe spaces to include any I was in while walking with him.

  Between the sudden stability at home and unexpected fun of Jugnu joining our family, 1994 shaped up to be a welcome respite from the chaos of the past few years. Going into tenth grade, I decided I would finally try out for the soccer team. Despite some stiff competition, I was excited to find out I’d made the cut. I’d played hockey for a year when I was younger and tried my hand at seemingly every sport short of lawn bowling, thanks to my dad’s encouragement. I liked some sports more than others, but I absolutely loved soccer. I yearned for that feeling of pushing my body to its limits, and I loved those plays when I could turn a tackle into an attack—chasing down the ball alongside an opponent, legs pumping like pistons, searching for that perfect opening to a teammate across the field.

  “Keep that up and you’ll be playing varsity in high school,” my coach told me after I pulled off a particularly nice play.

  The year kept getting better. Late in the school year, our parents delivered some welcome news to me and my siblings: we were heading back to Panjab. The previous summer trip had been bittersweet because of the funeral, and it had been a wh
irlwind given the number of familial duties we’d packed into a single month. This time would be different. It would be a guilt-free family vacation.

  Instead of going straight to Panjab and concentrating our trip there, we flew to Delhi and stayed there for a few days to enjoy some sightseeing, shopping, and family activities.

  I don’t think the beautiful colonial streets of Connaught Place in New Delhi will ever leave my memory, nor the majesty of the Lal Kila, the Red Fort. We also visited Bangla Sahib, one of the oldest and most impressive Gurdwaras, as well as the other Sikh places of meditation and learning in the capital. I marvelled at the Gurdwaras’ geometric designs, ornate domes and arches, and cool textures and materials. I didn’t expect ordinary Gurdwaras to be so impressive. In comparison to Delhi’s Gurdwaras, the cinder-block temple I was accustomed to in Windsor looked like a big, grey milk crate.

  Afterward, we made our way to Panjab in time to celebrate the one-year anniversary of my grandfather’s death. In true Sikh tradition, there was little crying or grieving; instead, a couple hundred people gathered under a big outdoor tent to sing positive songs and do group meditations with traditional instruments.

  “Why is everyone suddenly so happy?” I asked my mom as I watched our family celebrate.

  “Because,” she said, “life continues. Energy isn’t created or destroyed, it just continues in a different form. Your grandfather may have passed away, but his energy continues, and he remains in our memories.”

  Joyful as that day was, though, there was still unspoken tension on my dad’s side of the family. Consequently, we didn’t spend as much time with my paternal relatives this time as we did with my mother’s side of the family. My nana-ji and nani-ji— my maternal grandfather and grandmother—had visited Canada a lot for months-long stays, rotating between our house, my uncle’s in Newmarket, and my auntie’s in Scarborough. We’d naturally become more comfortable around them, but now I was on their turf and was able to bond with my nana-ji Sarup Singh in new ways.