The Pipple Tree

   
The early morning  sun had barely yet risen.  Although the rays were  beginning to warm up the birds  the early morning Caw Caw corous had already started. The night had been hot and muggy lying out under the moonlight in the court yard of our Bungalow in the small village on the outskirts of Jullunder. It was 1962, and the rains had failed again for the third year running, our families three cows, thin as ghosts, ribs showing smelled like rats, were lowing in the background waiting for water and feed. Before I could get up, I heard his voice, 'Kakka' he said, 'today is both the beginning and the end'. Even now as a man of 50, whenever I hear that word, 'Kakka', I am taken back to that early spring morning which both ended and started my life.
 
'What do you mean, Chacha' I said to my dads younger brother. Chacha ji was a big man, not fat like a lot of Sikhs, but tall and lanky, hands like shovels, his eyes were looking at me, and I am sure they were moist, but being only 10years old, I was not to know the significance of this moment until much later. My Father, who had been working in Blighty for the last 9years or so, and who I had only seen once or twice, whom I could h
ardly remember, but for a faded black and white photograph of a young man standing tall and proud  in a suit and tie, had finally managed to save up the money to send the tickets for me, my older sister and mother to travel to England and join him
 
Like many young men in the Punjab at that time, my dad had gone to the mother country, with high hopes of earning his fortune on the gold paved streets of London and then return to the Punjab a rich and wealthy man. Like other Indian immigrants, living and working in England in the late 1950's and early 1960's, the reality was far different from the dream, but more about that later. Now I must tell you my story, and how I, a son of a poor tailor became to be the man of substance that I am today.
 
'Kakka, today you are going to leave behind all you know and start a new adventure.' Chacha's voice, usually he would boom with authority, and all us children would cower in the corner even if we had done nothing wrong, was today was full of sadness.
 
'I don't want an adventure, Chacha ji', I replied, nervously' not really knowing yet what he meant 'I want to stay here with you and granny and grandad. Who will look after my Ranu if go on an adventure?
 
I could see that Chacha was fighting back the tears as he spoke again in a soft and gentle voice, 'Kakka, your dad is in Enngland and you are the oldest son and he has called you. You must go'. I could feel the anger beginiing to well up inside me as I also fought back the tears, and for the first time in my young life, although not the last, I defied my elders. 'No, No No, I will not go, I do not want to go, I will stay here', tears running down my face as I tried hard to maintain my composure, such that you can, wearing grubby shorts, dirty cotten chemise and third hand bare toe sandles. I ran from the room, running past Chacha and out into the early morning son. I heard my Chacha call helplessly, but I ignored him and ran. I ran past the ???? house, to the end of the little gravel road, towards the well and then on past into the fields.
 
Still being early, there was not much activity yet in Nijran. Our village of Nijran was about ???? miles from the nearest town of Jallander, in the heart of the Panjab. The Panjab meaning five mighty rivers, each taking its course from the mountains of ???? would meander into diffeerent directions through India an d Pakistan, bringing both life, sustanance and culture to multitude of people living along the banks of each river. Nijran consisted of a small group of ramshackle cottages and a run down trractor, grouped around a communal well on the banks of the Nijran, this being a smaller, lesser known tributary of the mighty river Satluj (check more about this river)
 
I sat under the branches of my favourite thinking tree. This was an ancient Peepal  tree, My chahca told me that this tree was as tall as the empire state building in Amrika, and older than our grandfather, who was indeed old. Much loved by the hindus in the district whom believed it to be the embodiment of lord Krishna,  I would  sit or lie under the branches of my thinking tree, shading from the intense heat of the midday son, and think thoughts about the great Sikh warriers of the past, whom I had only heard about from my Chahcha. I don't know of course if any of them were true, but each story carried a sense of bravery, romanticisim, justice and the final triumph of good over evil.

Today, I tried to summon those stories into mind, to give me some solace, but to no avail. Even the brave sikh Warrior,  Guru Gobind Singh seemed to have abandoned me. I was desolate and alone. I would be leaving this place and perhaps never return to this land. This land of my ancestors, forged first by thier swords and then tamed by thier ploughs. Much Sikh blood had been spilled on this soil, yet I was being told that I must leave it all and go to  a far away land, where they cut their hair, intoxicate their minds and bodies with narcotics of every sort and pollute there souls with the ungodly eating of sacred cow meat.
My young mind, battled hard to make sense of this. My Chacha had told me that my Dad was earning good money in England. He had a job, and had now brought a house with its own seperate toilet. My dad was a man of substance and had his own bank account with $210 6 shilling and 4pence in it.  I would not have my thinking tree, nor would I have my beloved Ranu. What would happen to Ranu if I left and went to England. Ranu had been a present from my grandad and was a red calf, which he had rescued one day and brought her home. She was as thin as bamboo, and on the brink of death when Grandad brought her home. He had entrusted th calf to me and I immediatly named her Ranu and tended to her devotedly. Ranu soon recovered, although still has an inexplicable limp in the back leg, but she is the most beautiful animal I have ever seen. Ranu was my pet, and my friend. Although she was just a beast, I would feed her and look after her.


 
 
As I sat under my thinking tree, I looked back down on our village. Even though it was still early, signs of life were well underway. I didn’t know what time it was, as no one in the village owned a clock or watch and time was kept by the fall of the sun’s shadow on the courtyard wall. The village, although not big, was typical of many such homesteads that had been established following the great movement of people following partition in 1947. All the  muslimahns had left and the vacated dwellings had been taken up by families of hindus fleeing from across the border in Pakistan.

The village now was divided into roughly four quarters, each quarter occupied by groups of families based on their trades or castes. Our family together with other tailors and artisans, lived at the top end of the village. It was the only house in the village that was made of brick and the only one to have its own water supply, a single tap located against the courtyard wall. The rest of the villagers shared a second tap located in the village centre. Our house, although not big by western standards, had three separate rooms which housed the family, extended family and an odd assortment of vermin that would take up residence from time to time.

I decided then and there that If I did go to England, then I would not go willingly. All my senses were telling me that this was wrong. This village, this country, was my home. My family was here, my friends were here. This is where I belonged. I felt part of the land on which I sat.  Why should I have to give all this up? All because my father had decided that the whole family should join him in England. Why did he not come back to the village?

The last time I saw my father was about four years earlier. There was much excitment in the house and this spread through the village like wildfire as news of my fathers imminent arrival filtered its way around the many dwellings.

Grandmother was the most excited, singing to her self as she busied herself with the preperations. This was the first time that her son was returning from England, and as like all such events in the village at that time, had to be marked with some obscure rituals to ensure that my fathers arrival brought with him good fortune.

I was sent to the river to bathe and my mother, swept throughout the house. Grandad had brought some fresh goat meat and this was going to be prepared on an outdoor barbecue and served up to all the guests at a welcome home party that evening.

About midday that day, word spread that my fathers bus had just arrived at its stop by the Gurdwara at the other side of the village.

I recall sitting on the wall outside our house, gazing down the dusty street waiting to catch a glimpse of the stranger who was my father, the local hero carried with him the hopes and dreams of all the village. Then I caught a glimpse of this man, my father striding proudly down towards our house. He was wearing a light suit, which even at my young age, could tell was ill-fitting, but nonetheless it was a suit with a waistcoat and tie. He was carrying a large tatty looking brown suitcase in one hand and in the other a khaki canvass bag. As I stared, I suddenly realised what was wrong. The grey and white photograph that I was holding in my hands showed a proud young Sikh, with beard and turban. Here was a thin lanky man, clean shaven with his hair cut and parted to one side. I was aghast. How could my father do this?

Not only had he betrayed the teachings of the great Guru's, he had commited the greatest sin a son can commit, he had brought embarressment and shame on his parents, my grandparents.

I ran away in that moment, with tears in my eyes and ran into the house of our neighbour and fried, Mata googi. An elderly spinsiter who had befriended my as if I were her son and I loved her almost as much as I loved my mother.

'What is it? what's wrong Tara' asked Mata googi as she dried her hands on her pinafore and moved to hug me. For a few moments I was inconsolable, and Mata googi just held me, whispering platitudes until I could compose myself  enough to speak. I explained what I had seen and what I had felt to Mata googi who listened without interrupting. I told her that I hated my father, not only had he abandoned me, my older sister bhanji, my mother and his own parents. My father was now returning home, whilst walking with pride and a huge smile on his face, he seemed oblivious to the pain, discomfort and embarrasmment that his each step brought to his family.  My Grandfather was not called 'Shah' for no reason. He was the Shah because he commanded the espect of the village. As an elder in the village he kept close to traditions and practice his faith openly and with pride. Yet now, he will not be able to show his face, his son had returned a 'cleanshaven'

Mata googi, the kindest and wisest person I have ever met, other than my dear grandfather, comforted with some wise words which, although I cannot recall, certainly  made me feel a little better, she sent me whom feeling warm inside with some Gur in my hand to eat later.

The further I walked from Mata googi's house the more anxious I felt. The feeling of safety and comfort I had felt in her presence started to dissapate the further I walked. It was not long before I started to feel overwhelmed again, and I started to run, this time I ran to the Gurdwara.

The Gurdwara was a place of sanctuary for me. I would come here often, usually to meet my friends, but I always found the sweet smell of incese and the mouthwatering flavours of the langar, strangely comforting and compelling.
Although there was not much to do in the village, everyone always seemed busy. Life was regulated by the seasons, rituals and religion. Everything that happened in the village happened only for one or more of these three reasons. Adults would go to the Gurdwara every morning at day break to say prayers and recieve blessings before embarking of to work, this was of course religion, but had also become a daily ritual for many to the extent that if anyone was unable to attend on any particular morning they were then fated wit bad luck for the rest of the day. As for myself I would go to the Gurdwara everymorning before school, and  I am sure that each of the Guru's blessed me with my school work. 

On the first day of each month, the whole family would dress up in our best clothes and join the rest of our friends and neighbours at the Gurdwara for special ceremonies and prayers. These usually focused on the priest delivering a cermon relevant to that season and remind everyone that it was time to sow the crops, or harvest, or prepare for the winter, dependent on what time of year it was. These monthly religious  rituals also provided opportunity for  marriages to be arranged, and disagreements to be settled, and for evreryone to catch up on the latest news about births and deaths in the locality.

I loved these monthly affairs because it was one I could wear a Turban of my choice and style, and I wondered if this would be the same in England and if there actually would be a Gurdwara there. My teacher Mr Kumar often spoke about church;s and cathederals and I had actually seen a church once when I was in Jallander with my Grandad.  I don't think I would be able to wear a turban to a church in England.

A few days before the first of the month, I would start to think about my turban, both colour and style. Both these were important. To the outsider it would appear that apart from colour, Sikh turbans are much of a muchness, a untilitarian device to keep the hair tidy and clean. In reallity for Sikh males the colour and style of the  turban was of vital importantance. Not only was  the wearing of a turban an outward and public proclamation of your piety, it was also a display of your character, personality and virilty. Much like a Peacock, proudly and defiently displaying his colours, I and my friends would show of our turbans comparing colours and styles. There were ofcourse a number of traditions that had to be observed, sedate white turbans were worn by widowers, saffron yellow turbans with no peak were reserved for the religously devout  Khalsa, the saint soldiers. Older men ususally wore the formless more rounded style in dark sensible coulors like black, brown and dark blue. For the rest of us there was no limit. Plain colors, patterns, high sharp points at the front, fancy tails at the back, tilted to the right or the left. The choices were endless and as a young man I not only looked forward to this monthly ritual, but also to some extent dreaded the day. Although my friends were generally kind, we all had a real competetive streak and each wanted to have the best turban.


Some time later

 
Stopping of at Bombay, the family almost fell out of the borrowed car, I think that there must have been about 10 people packed into an old ford van, with luggage and baggage and all our family, friends and neighbours coming to wish us farewell. I clung on to my chacha's hand and watched bemused by the hustle and bustle of the big city as well as the commotion amongst my family members, lots of crying, then laughing, hugs and kisses. It made no sense to me at the time, and little was I to know that this would be the last time I would see many of my family again.
 
My Chacha ji took me to a barbers shop and said, with tears in his eyes, 'today son, we will make you a proper English gentlemen'. I had never been in barbers shop in my life. Amongst the Sikhs of the Punjab, being a barber was considered the most sacrilegious occupation. 'Chachaji' I said 'Why are we here' what would 'baba ji say' I knew that our Guru's had commanded the Sikhs not to cut their hair as a symbol of our identity and we were told that a Sikh man wears his hair long with pride, yet my Chacha, whom I loved, feared and esteemed, a man of great wisdom courage was taking me to get my hair cut. Something was not right, is this what he meant by an adventure?
 
The barber, a musilman, a pleasant enough chap, shiny bald had with handlebar moustache asked, was laughing and singing, 'today Singh will become and English man'. I am sure that he enjoyed holding my topnot and with one snip of his scissors cut of not only my hair, but my identity, history and culture. The scalping's that the Sikh Gurus had endured from the hands of the Muslims had just been reenacted, what's more my chahcji paid 2 Rupees for it.
 
I was crying, knowing that what had just happened was a momentous point in my life, yet unsure at 10 years old what to do or how to tell my dear Chacha that this was wrong. I was always taught to respect my elders, but for the first time in my life I questioned weather this respect had always to be unconditional?
 
   
Later still 
 
Arriving at the port at Tilbury docks in Kent was arriving in another planet. The first thing I noticed was the quiet and serenity, Although there were lots of people, everyone was walking around quietly, standing in lines to buy tickets and refreshments. There was no chaos, noise or disorder common in any place in India. The idea of an orderly queue was just so alien to Indians. I stood on the dock side having disembarked and not only feeling awful from the two weeks passage on the 'good ship lollipop, but overawed by the newness and the strangeness of the place and the people. This is where I first met Charlie Chaplin. Of course he was not really Charlie Chaplin, but her wore a suit, bowler hat and carried a cane just like Charlie Chaplin. No one in our group could speak English, yet here was Charlie Chaplin, looking at us, smiling and speaking in broken Hindi and Mainly English. I don't know why he was shouting, perhaps he thought we were all deaf, or somehow shouting ' HOW ARE YOU ALL FEELING' would help us understand. My Auntie, who was travelling with us had a bit of a temper began to shout at him in Punjabi, saying that he was a white devil and should leave us alone. Charlie Chaplin, disappeared for a while and came back with a bag containing, sweets, lollies and fruit and handed it out smiling and saying something that none of us could understand. I never say Charlie Chaplin again, but recall in fondness how kind that gentleman had been to strangers coming to his country. Oh how this would soon change...