I Live On The Sikh Side

• Simarjit Kaur, Grade 9
• Short Story
• 2009

When I was little, my mother taught me all about my culture. My father told me stories about the war which separated India and Pakistan, and how we were given the Indian identity. My grandmother talked to me about my marriage day; what I would wear, how we would celebrate it, who we’d invite and who we wouldn’t invite. My younger brother was taught how to tie a turban, my older brother was continuously receiving talks about finding the perfect Punjabi wife and I, being the eldest and only daughter, was taught what I’d have to do in order to be a good wife.

We were Sikh, or, more commonly known as Punjabi. This meant that every morning my mother, father and grandmother would wake up at five and at exactly ten past five, would start their prayers. After this, mum would make the family roti* for breakfast while dad read the newspaper. Every morning I would walk down the stairs hoping today was the day we would have pancakes for breakfast. Of course, just like every other day of the year, this never happened, and so I sat down on the dining table and waited for the oil-covered roti* to be placed in front of me.

‘Satsriakal Jaswinder,’ said my mum. I repeatedly tell my mother, along with the rest of my family, to call me Jassie but they never listen.

‘It’s Jassie, mum,’ I reply, wishing my father hadn’t heard me.

‘What do you mean by Jassie? English names in my home will not be tolerated. Look at yourself, looking so mature in such an early age. My fourteen year old girl looks like a mother. What kind of rubbish have you put on your face? Girl’s these days. Jaswinder is such a beautiful Punjabi name, why are you always trying to cut it?’ my dad replied. I grabbed my lunch, curry and rice as always, and headed for the front door. I couldn’t stand having the same conversation again, it always lead to the story of being a Sikh.

As I walked down the street to school, I cursed my family for being Sikh. They were always trying to make me a perfect little angel, who would one day be the most wanted daughter-in-law. Every morning, I would wake up and nothing would have changed; the same family, the same food, the same talk. Then, just like every other day, I would take my anger out on Tamara. She wasn’t Indian but she understood me really well. She knew exactly how I felt and would give me hope and strength. Her family was Lebanese and I knew that she felt the same way towards them. No matter how good or bad the day was, Tamara just made it better.

I came home to find my family roaring at my older brother. He was sitting on the couch while my entire family surrounded him and yelled terrible names, in Punjabi, at him.

I asked what was going on and why everyone was here. I was ignored by everyone and they continued to shout at him. It was unusual for all of my uncles, aunties and cousins to turn up out of the blue. Today things were different, something wasn’t right. I pushed through them all and yelled over their voices, ‘What’s going on?’

‘I got married,’ replied my brother.
At first I didn’t understand why my family would be fussing over this. For years they had been talking to him about finding the perfect Punjabi wife, so why would it cause such uproar? I stared at him confused, this didn’t make any sense. ‘She’s not Punjabi though, she’s Italian.’

I don’t think my brother realised how much of a problem he had caused. No one in our culture would even dream of marrying someone who was not a Sikh. My family didn’t just limit our choice to Indians; they limited it to a certain type of Indian, a Sikh. I was absolutely certain this was not going to turn out well. I continued to look at my brother while everyone else carried on with their yelling. ‘Her family has invited us over tonight,’ he told me. I knew we had to go, and some how, we needed to convince everyone else to.

‘What for did we give you an education and nice food? Was it for this day, when you would come to us and put us all to shame? Why didn’t we just leave you on the streets instead? You have ruined your life, as well as ours. My son has married a gora*without telling us. God kill me!’ yelled my father. I really disliked the way my father called everyone other than Indians, a gora.

‘Dad, can you please listen to me? I know our culture is very different from others and it is, of course, very special. From childhood you have taught us how to be a good Sikh and I am positive that we haven’t let you down. If your son has already chosen the woman he wants to spend his entire life with, why are you against him? She is no different from us, other than the fact that we are Sikh and she is Italian. In every way we are the same, we all have two arms and legs, we all have a heart. In the end, there is no difference between us.’

Everyone remained silent and nobody moved a muscle. My father looked from my brother to me and then sighed. I thought the whole family would continue screaming violently but the reaction I got was completely different. All of a sudden my father was looking old and defeated, all of the anger drained out of his face.

‘Son, are you sure about this?’ dad asked.

‘Yes dad and I promise I’m not making a wrong decision.’

‘I guess we all are the same and I have to allow my children to make their own choices. Come let’s go now, we’ll enjoy Italian food cooked by our bahu*’ said dad with a smile on his face. I think I was more shocked than my brother, I had never expected my words to make things right. We all headed out the door, everyone asking my brother questions about their bahu. I guess they were all happy about being able to connect with a different culture. The fact that I had convinced my father there was no difference between us, made me proud. I had, in the end, made my father believe we were all the same.

*roti: a flat Indian bread, normally eaten with curries
*bahu: daughter-in-law