Of Punjab, and Sikhism

The six month internship brought with it many realisations, many many lessons. One of them made me realise, with a reinforced effect, the beauty of my home state. Not only of the state at that, but also of its people. For example, when I’ve to come back home from Faridabad, not a single soul helps me. Not a single. People pass comments, tease their friends to come help me, but no one actually does. Not even if I look at them with the puppy face that begs for help, not even if I request them super politely to help. I come back praying to God all the way, having lost all my, “faith in humanity”. It is not true the other way round, thankfully. With the same super jumbo bag when I aboard the train back to Delhi, seeing me struggling with it, two Sardarji’s on their own say, “Please, let us help”. And my thank you’s have no limit. But it’s the reinstated faith in humanity that moves me the most, moves me to tears as I write this post half an hour after the train left Ludhiana. Throughout my home state, people help. They help when they see someone in need of help. The being helped person might not even ask for it. They talk to you politely when you are in a super hassled panicky state.

 For example, day before two hours prior to my CAT exam (given just for the sake of experience, and turned out to be an adventure taking into consideration the fact that I hadn’t given a single mock test and was left searching for the ‘typical’ LR questions!), I found out that my PAN card (my supposed-to-be identity proof) showed me to be 41 years old. Okay, even though I was just appearing for the exam, and pretty well much could opt not writing it, the fact that I’d paid 1600 bucks for it was bothering me. So yes, I panicked. Had it not been for the white kurta-pajama clad Sardarji with kind assuring eyes, and a kind-er voice and manner, everyone appearing would have seen the-girl-who-cried-before-the-exam.  

I used to love the Langar making trips to Gurudwara with grandmother. She used to help in the Parshaada making, and well, we were pretty much the coming-in-the-way kind of kids. But the Sewa-bhaaw used to amuse me then, it does till date.

I mean, seriously, how AWESOME it is!!!

So yes, I respect Sikhism and Punjab. I love everything they stand for. My late Nani used to find it weird, how I got drawn to Sikhism so much. How I love going to the Gurudwara as much as the Mandir. She, after all, hadn’t visited one in her entire life. But faith is faith.

People say Punjabis are loud, I mean of all the adjectives they use ‘loud’ the most.

Dear people, we may seem loud because you are perhaps too accustomed to live silently in your shells, calling it ‘sophistication’. We know how to enjoy. We know how to help, how to be kind. And when the need arises, we know how to stand up for what we believe in.  Oh yes, dear people. We are not loud. We just live life J

P.S. Scribbled aboard the Shatabdi on a journey back from Ludhiana to Delhi, kindly pardon the excessively overflowing emotions.