“I promised Mom I would make sure that you do your homework, actually go to school, are well fed, and do well in school.”
“For now, let’s focus on the keeping me fed part,” Gurratan said. “I’m starving.”
When we got home, I set out lunch on the kitchen island in serving dishes. Gurratan pulled up a stool and helped himself, scooping dal, roti, and rice onto his plate in big spoonfuls. Another item checked off the list, I thought, savouring the sense of accomplishment. This is going to be easy.
“Is there any more to eat?” Gurratan asked, his plate empty.
I snapped back to reality. “Are you serious?”
First lesson of being a guardian: nothing can prepare you for looking after a teenager in the middle of a growth spurt. Gurratan was insatiable. I called my mom constantly to talk through recipes. I’d follow her directions and cook huge stir-fries that looked like mountains in the skillet, only to watch Gurratan go to town on them. He left nothing to pack for lunch the day after, and after most meals, he still needed to scour the pantry for something to top off his appetite.
Eventually, my biology education kicked in, and I figured out an answer: pasta. But not just any pasta—the richest, most carb- and protein-heavy pasta imaginable. Whole wheat rigatoni, tofu chunks, blocks of butter. I’d melt mozzarella directly into the tomato sauce, throw in sautéed onions and garlic, and then top off each serving with another mound of mozzarella. It practically knocked him out.
Thankfully, we soon got lots of support from Mom. She visited us every couple of weeks, just to check in, so the freezer was full of meals that she would leave behind for us. Once, we got some help from one of Gurratan’s friends’ grandmother, a sympathetic, elderly Polish woman who made us what seemed like a year’s worth of perogies for a very reasonable price. And some of Gurratan’s Panjabi friends would send over dishes to eat, which we would keep in the fridge. Manjot lived in London now, too, and she helped me look after Gurratan, but she deserved space to discover herself and enjoy her independence, the same as I’d had. Ultimately, I felt it was my responsibility, as the eldest, to take care of my brother.
Panjabi has a word to express the sentiment of the saying “You are the company you keep.” That word is sangat. The thinking is that you become your sangat. Thankfully, Gurratan had solid sangat, a crew of classmates who had good heads on their shoulders. They’d go out and have fun, often end up back at our place, but they never got up to anything that gave me concern. Gurratan was always welcome to crash at his friends’ places, too, where their parents happily doted on him like their own son.
Gurratan was easy to trust, so I might have given him too much freedom. But that was how I was raised. I knew Gurratan had the right values and I was confident I could trust him, so I was pretty relaxed about the situation. Maybe a little too much so when it came to school, though.
I remember waking up at eleven in the morning once and walking out into the living room to find Gurratan eating cereal in front of the TV.
“Yo, what are you still doing here?” I asked.
“I don’t feel like going to school,” he said.
“Are you sick?”
“No, I just don’t feel like going.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah,” he said.
I paused, trying to consider how to respond. I hadn’t exactly set a great model—I wasn’t the best about attending my own classes, particularly my morning ones.
“Okay,” I said finally, “but make sure you’re on top of any assignments or tests coming up.”
My relaxed attitude was partly a result of my “parenting style” and partly because Gurratan had been through so much crap in Windsor that I wanted him to have a good time.
My nonconventional parenting also included exposure to my friends, who regularly came over to our condo. My friends were studying in a range of fields—some, human biology in pre-med; others were engineers, computer programmers, or philosophy majors. We’d often sit around and talk about whatever topic interested us, and Gurratan would soak it all in. Later, when he was in university, all of that training would come back to bite me—to this day, our quarrels over semantics, logical fallacies, and hypothetical arguments can quickly clear out a room.
Despite a few lapses and sleep-ins, I committed myself to teaching Gurratan healthy habits and shaping him into becoming a confident young man. I taught him self-defence moves in our parking lot and showed him how to lift weights. I took him shopping to make sure his outward appearance mirrored his inner confidence, and I showed him how to tie up his hair for sports. I loved being able to share my passions with my little brother; each day brought us closer together as siblings. Some things, though, were trickier to teach.
“So, I’ve got a school dance coming up next week,” Gurratan said one evening.
“Sounds fun,” I said. Gurratan kept looking at me silently until my realization set in. “Wait, Gurratan, do you know how to dance?”
“Not really,” he said.
“What kind of dance is this?”
“The kind where I might be dancing by myself or maybe with others.”
“What kind of dancing with others?”
“The slow kind,” he said shyly.
“Oh,” I said, smiling. “I guess we better teach you how to slow dance.”
We moved the coffee table aside to open up the living room floor, and I put on a Mary J. Blige song.
“I’ll show you how to lead,” I said. I hesitantly touched Gurratan’s hips and told him to grab my shoulders. We shuffled into an uneasy two-step.
“Stop looking at your feet,” I said.
“I can’t,” he said.
“Look at me,” I said. He lifted his head. For a brief moment, we looked into each other’s eyes—then laughed. There was no way he would take this seriously while looking into my eyes. “Maybe not, actually. Look at the wall, but still try to feel the rhythm. Let me lead so you get a feel for it, and the next song you’ll lead.”
“I don’t think I can make it through another song.”
Our arms dropped at the same moment, and we laughed.
“This isn’t working,” I said.
“Not really,” Gurratan said.
“I have an idea.” I picked up the phone.
“Who are you calling?” he asked.
“An expert,” I said.
A couple of hours later, my friend from university came to the rescue. My brother knew her, so he was comfortable around her, and as an added bonus, she was a great dancer. I left the house with Jugnu, ran a few errands, and grabbed some takeout. When I returned home, Gurratan was leading the two-step like he damned well invented it. He flashed me a thumbs-up in mid-dance.
I relied on the charity of many friends who pitched in and looked out for Gurratan like he was their little brother. No matter what he needed—a ride to class, help with homework—I knew I could call on any friend and someone from our crew would be there for us. Our apartment itself was a bit of a clubhouse for young people. Cell phones weren’t common yet, so most of the time, our friends stopped by unannounced and, too lazy to walk around to the buzzer on the other side of the building, stood under the balcony and yelled our names to let them in through the back door.
One visitor was Amneet Singh, a close friend of my brother’s and a sharp but unintentionally funny fourteen-year-old. I’ll never forget the day I met him at his family’s house in London in my first year, a couple of years before I brought Gurratan to live with me.
“What’s your vertical?” he asked me as I took my shoes off.
I looked at him, this kid whose patka barely reached my chin, staring at me with the most earnest expression. “Sorry?”
“How high can you jump?” he asked.
“Why are you asking?”
“You play ball?” Amneet said.
“Sometimes,” I said.
“Cool,” he said and walked away.
I never would’ve guessed this kid would one day drive me into
politics and become my first campaign advisor. Back then, I never would’ve guessed I’d be a politician. I didn’t know what I wanted to do anymore.
As the clock counted down on the twentieth century, my career path felt far away. For most of my life, I had planned on becoming a doctor but now I wasn’t so sure. I still found the human body and healing fascinating, but now, in my final year of a bachelor’s degree, I had to make a decision about my career path. But I didn’t let that stress me out. There was so much more on my mind than school and a career.
A couple of months later, my brother, my sister, and I rang in the new millennium with family in Brampton. We were gathered at my cousin Sharanjeet’s house.
Sharanjeet’s dad—my mama-ji, or maternal uncle, Baljinder Singh—arrived early in the evening for dinner. Baljinder was a taxi driver, and like a lot of other recent immigrants who turned to driving to make a living, it was hard to get him away from his job. Every passing hour with the meter off was an hour without pay. That night, he quickly became restless after the plates were cleared. Not long after, he announced that he was going to look for passengers.
His younger brother, Satnam, barked at him. “There’s no business today—everybody is at home resting. Relax.”
“There’s always business,” said Baljinder. He threw his coat on and left in his taxi.
When the phone rang a few hours later, Satnam left the room to answer it. He returned to the living room looking sickly pale. “Baljinder is hurt,” he said.
Sharanjeet jumped to his feet. “What happened?”
“Someone robbed him,” said Satnam. “They’re taking him to the hospital.”
We all immediately jumped in our cars and rushed to the hospital. By the time we arrived, my uncle—a devoted husband, and father of two boys—was dead.
Over the next few hours, we learned the horrifying details. Baljinder wasn’t just robbed. Not long after he left the house, he picked up two passengers—eighteen- and nineteen-year-old men—and was repeatedly stabbed in the neck and shoulders after being robbed of every dollar he had. It probably wasn’t more than $100; it could have been as little as $25. For that, he was left to bleed to death in a deserted part of the city. Baljinder managed to pull himself back into the car, step on the gas, and drive to a pizzeria, where he alerted passersby. But it was too late.
Earlier that week, in an unrelated incident, an Afghan immigrant—a former doctor supporting his family in Canada by driving a taxi—had his throat slashed and bled to death in his car. The violence was all too relatable for the dozens of cab drivers at my uncle’s funeral, many of whom took the microphone to condemn the many, many attacks against them that were rarely acknowledged. The drivers’ English was imperfect, but their outrage was immutable. They were sick and tired of police and the general public treating the violence against cab drivers like a routine work hazard. There was a sentiment that, as brown people, as immigrants, their lives were less valuable.
The night my uncle was killed, Gurratan, Manjot, and I all slept in the basement at Sharanjeet’s house to console our cousin and his family. We were in a state of disbelief. We were all struggling with the idea that he was gone, and the horribly violent way in which he was taken only amplified our disbelief.
Before the actual funeral, my uncles and I all went to the funeral home to wash the body, one of the final rites in the Sikh tradition. Sharanjeet didn’t want to go, nor did his brother, so my uncles asked me to go with them to help take care of things.
When we arrived, the funeral parlour staff told us what to do. I picked up the washcloth, dipped it in the soapy water, and began cleaning my uncle’s body. One of my uncles reached out to touch the body, and when he did, he cried out, shocked by the cold touch. Washing my uncle Baljinder’s body was a surreal experience. It was my first experience so close to death, and it made me consider my own mortality. The neck wound stitches were visible, and the sight of them filled me with anger at the violent senselessness of his death.
My uncles were similarly in shock. They were particularly upset that someone at the hospital had shaved my uncle’s beard to treat his neck wounds. It had been necessary at the time, but my uncle Baljinder had only recently turned to Sikhi. Seeing him lose the symbol of his hard-earned faith only added insult to injury.
After we cleaned the body, we dressed him in the five Ks and a turban. Wearing a turban made the absence of his beard even more glaring, so one of my uncles wrapped a cloth around his neck like a scarf to cover it up.
My parents came to Brampton for the funeral rites, which lasted three days. When I saw my dad, I almost wished he hadn’t come. My dad was unpredictable, and his presence added another stress to an already difficult time. Despite my misgivings, though, he seemed all right when he arrived, so I was hopeful the funeral would pass without incident.
We went to the Gurdwara to complete the last rites with meditations and prayers. As we sat cross-legged on the carpet, I glanced over at my parents to make sure they were all right, and I noticed my dad’s hands shaking. Before I could react, his eyes rolled back, his body went limp, and he slumped sideways onto the floor. He quickly got back up and played it off as if nothing had happened.
After the service, one of my uncles who had seen what happened approached my parents and suggested that they go to the hospital. My mom took my dad there, and when they got back, I asked her, “What’s going on?”
“Withdrawal,” she said. From her matter-of-fact tone, I could tell this wasn’t the first time she’d seen these symptoms. I knew things were bad at home, but I hadn’t realized they were this bad. Why hadn’t she told me? How much longer could my dad function when his chemical dependency to alcohol was so strong that his body couldn’t go three days without it?
As a condition of failing his random screening test, my dad had to attend monthly meetings in London for doctors. He usually dropped by my condo before taking the bus back to Windsor. Gurratan made sure to leave the house before he arrived. My brother hadn’t talked to my dad since the day of the police report.
My dad was struggling. His addiction was all-consuming. The meetings, with their attempts at motivational messages or coping strategies, weren’t working. It seemed inevitable, then, when the College of Physicians and Surgeons suspended my dad’s licence in July 2000 after he failed a test for alcohol for the second time.
My mom called me the next day to explain the situation.
“Jagmeet, beta, your dad failed another test.”
“What happened, bebey-ji?”
“He tested positive and now they’ve suspended his licence to practise.”
My heart sank. “For how long?” I asked.
“It’s indefinite. He needs to prove that he is sober before they’ll consider lifting the suspension.”
Her words hit me like a ton of bricks. I thought about all my dad’s struggles—the year of exams and prep courses across Canada and the States, studying all day and then working as a security guard by night. I knew how proud he was when he finally gained entrance into a Canadian medical school, and the sense of accomplishment his work gave him. He had achieved so much and now it was gone. I struggled to imagine the sense of loss he must have felt.
It also meant that things were not going to suddenly improve. I had always secretly hoped against all odds that my dad would get better. We had seen glimpses of it over the years, but he had never really managed to turn things around. I had never given up on him, but things were bleak.
“Beta, we won’t be able to send you any more money,” my mom said, a little embarrassed.
“Don’t worry about that, I’ll get a job,” I said. “I can take care of myself and Gurratan, and I can help Manjot out with anything she needs as well.”
“But how are we going to pay all your bills?” I asked. I knew our finances were overextended since my dad had built the new house, and the past couple of years hadn’t been the best because of how irregularly he was working.
“We might have
to start taking out money from our RRSPs, but we have a line of credit we can use for the short term to get us through.”
“How much do we owe?” I asked.
“I’m not sure. Your father dealt with the money, not me.”
I crunched the numbers in my head. I knew the condo and Santo Drive house were paid off, but we had a big loan on the Disputed Road house. We had another significant loan on my dad’s office building in downtown Windsor, which my dad had just refinanced to renovate. Even if my parents sold everything they owned, they would still be in massive debt. Then there were all the other expenses, utilities, credit card interest, and who knows what else. I knew we needed to start trying to get rid of all this debt.
“To start, we’ve got to sell the downtown office as soon as possible,” I said. “We’re going to be okay, bebey-ji, don’t worry. I’ll take care of it.”
I didn’t want to dictate what would happen, but I was comfortable being my family’s decision maker. My mom hadn’t given up—she still had fight in her—but her decision-making abilities were drained from all the stress she was going through.
I opened the résumé file that I’d been building since the age of seventeen. I’d worked a variety of jobs over the summers—roguing corn, stocking shelves, working cash registers, climbing telephone poles to install internet connections, promoting health issues for a community health centre. I updated the résumé, printed it, and dispersed copies to local businesses in London like it was a flyer. After one week, I’d accepted the first three part-time positions offered to me, not thinking through the complicated mess of trying to piece together a schedule from that.
I quickly realized I’d panicked and overreacted, and that balancing three jobs while taking care of Gurratan wasn’t tenable. I got my work schedule down to two retail jobs: one at the clothing store Bluenotes and the other at Aldo, a shoe store. Both were in Masonville Mall, close to our apartment and the Western campus. Before long, Aldo offered me a full-time position and gave me more hours—so many that, during the summer, I was working back-to-back shifts, from nine to nine, six days a week, and then from ten to five on Sundays.
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