One Day In The Life Of Sarwan Singh Majitha.

[DhadiMania]

something i found funny, and yet so true

the following story was something i found on www.info-sikh.com, it is said that this story was published in the sikh times based on a fictional character (or something like that).

i sincerly hope the sangat enjoy reading the following 5 posts of mine ji.

gustaphi maaf

part 1....

I was walking down the street over the holidays thinking how unSikh Sikhs can be when I met a Sikh who to my horror was wearing a tie. I thought the only Sikhi thing to do was to confront him. So I just came out with it “You are a Sikh and you are wearing a tie” I accused him. “But you are wearing trousers” he retorted, I looked down and low and behold I was, I tried to hide this by crossing my legs but to no avail, so I tried to make a hasty retreat to my car, he followed me and shouted “why are you getting in a car that was an invention of the west” but I tried to ignore him “and why have you got a Christmas tree under your arm” he said. “Damn” I thought “I’ve been rumbled” I tried to stuff the fake tree in the boot of the car and then the box of xmas cards that I had slipped into my overcoat so that nobody would notice fell to the floor. He was now towering above me with a grin on this face as I knelt down to pick them up. “So you send cards also?” he said shaking his head in a mocking way.

It wasn’t a good time to mention the sprouts.

Nervously I looked at my watch and he said “so you have a western watch also?” “Drat” I thought “caught again.” Just then his phone rang and he answered it with “Is that you Pinky?”

“Pinky!” I thought with growing rage “PINKY!”

“Who is this Pinky, and what kind if Sikh name is that for your child?” I shouted, to which he knew he had been beat and fled. I smiled to myself as I saw him running down the street in his Armani suit and white trainers as I crunched on a sprout.

As I turned I saw Auntie crossing the road towards me, obviously she had witnessed the whole incident, I quickly stuffed the sprout in my mouth and muttered “Hello Auntie Ji” and realised my mistake, but it was too late, I was now on the defensive. “SAT SIRI AKAL puttar” she said triumphantly “getting ready for Christmas?”

“No no Auntie” I said sheepishly looking down at the ground “we don’t really celebrate Christmas you know”

“You had better take off that tinsil off your pag then” she said

“Ooh the office party” I thought. I needed to get on the offensive “Ha, you have a Christian ring on” I blurted out, got you now. “Actually it is not a wedding ring” she said matter of factly “it is a copy of The Ring”

“The Ring?” I said puzzled

“Yes, its a copy of Frodo’s ring”

“Who is this Fradoo and why has he a nickname and not a proper Sikh name?” I said only then realising the second error I had made, but it was too late. She just sneered ignoring my remark and asked “was that uncle bothering you?”

“No no Auntie Ji” I said desperately trying to think of something intelligent “He’s not a very good Sikh you know”

“Well you had better find the other earring to go with the one you are wearing in your left ear” she said “ and try to straighten out the thin beard-line around your jaw, it looks wonky”

“Drat and double drat “ I thought trying to make a mental note to myself “I mustn’t design my beard when I am half drunk”

As I got home and parked the car in the driveway I switched off the CD player and realised that another aircraft was taking off from Heathrow, “those planes” I thought “make so much noise. Not like my beloved Bhangra music, now that is culture!”

I stood outside my house looking at the array of flickering lights “Aaah Christmas is great” I thought, then correcting myself “ Aaaa I mean, New Year celebrations are great, and of course Gurpurbh will be coming soon.”

“Pritam Kaur-ray, are you home?” I shouted, walking into the sitting room.

“Yes darling” came the reply. “aah Darling, such a lovely thing to call your husband” I thought.

Pritam Kaur came into the room “You know it will be Gurpurb soon” she said.

“Yes of course” I said “People seem to think we celebrate other peoples festivals and not our own, but this is not true, I am fully prepared for the Gurpurb”

“Really?” said Pritam Kaur “Will we be going to the Gurdwara with fresh flower haar and offerings and giving thanks to Guru Ji?”

“What?” I said distracted “Oh yes that as well.” But my eyes had glazed over “But first I will get the BMW fully polished, and I have recorded a new Bhangra tape and I have added extra speakers in the back. I have also made a small hand held Nishan Saab that I will wave in one hand and ……….” Just then panic took over me “what about my other hand” I thought, then I remembered, the half bottle of malt whisky was well placed under the seat.

“Ha, and people say we do not celebrate the Gurpurbs with joy and vigour” I mused as I put my hands behind my head, closed my eyes, settled into my arm chair and imagined what the ‘Jaloose’ down Broadway was going to look like.

The day of the jaloos came and I crawled out of bed and staggered into the bathroom. I quick splash of water on the face and a rub down with the towel and we were up and running. “Oh, what about the paath?” I thought to myself, “I will put a Japji Sahib tape on in the background while I get dressed, that should do it.” I put my favourite trousers and shirt on and donned on a couple of medallions around my neck, not too large mind, we don’t want to be mistaken for a fashion victim. I finished it off with a pair of three inch platform boots that zipped up the side. “Lookin’ good “ I said to myself as I stared in the mirror and slapped on some lotion.

Aloo prathey and yogurt is the dish of the morning, they say it increases your cholesterol but you only live once, so I piled them on my plate, three large ones with a dollop of butter, fantastic. I looked out of the kitchen window while wiping the last ghee off the plate with my thumb and I could see Dhidaar Singh in the garden next door. It was good living in Southall with all my jatt brethren. Not that I am into jaap/paat or anything mind, for we Sikhs don’t believe on caste. But this is different, it’s your roots innit. But those takhans with their own gurdwaras, and what is with all the Vishvarma business ? Not like us, where would Sikhi be without the jatts eh?

I shook my head a little, I had gone into a little day dream. I got up and left the dishes on the side of the sink, Pritam Kaur will wash them up, and went next door. I tidied the glassies from the mini bar that I had made in the corner of the living room a few years back and nearly knocked over the framed picture of the family. You see we Sikhs don’t believe in pictures of the Gurus on our walls, it’s like idol worship you see. Then my eye caught the sight of Pritam Kaur grinning back at me from our wedding on the mantle piece and I smiled. One thing to do before I head for the jaloose, that was to check the old reddies in the wallet. I took out the wallet to check my credit cards and again my eyes fell on a picture of Pritam Kaur stuffed next to the visa card. “No siree” I thought “We Sikhs are definitely not into idol worship.”

The jaloos was a fantastic affair. Jassa, Massa, Laddy, Fladdy and myself all cramped into the BMW getting totally plastered while we drove up and down Broadway waving our hand held nishan saab and shouting “Raj karega Khalsa” at the tops of our voices trying to drown out the shouting from all the other cars. Of course we ended up outside the Glassy Junction.

“How’s the Gurpurb being manaad ?” I shouted at Jagtar Singh who looked a little worst for wear. He responded by doubling over and emptying the contents of his stomach on the pavement. “Shabaash puttra ” I shouted. I wasn’t feeling to good my self to be honest, so I decided to slump next to the wall. My legs just seemed to loose all strength and I found my self sitting on the floor with everything spinning around me. All of a sudden I felt a wet tongue all over my face. “Pritam Kaur-ray” I slurred “ not in public yaar, lets have some dignity.” My hands went over her face and grabbed her ears “ you taken your kan-tay off , yaar ?” I asked. “Oi, that is my dog your are molesting” came a very English voice, which sounded a little alien in these parts. But I was too far gone “good night” I thought and closed my eyes. I am sure one of my bhaji’s will take me home.

[DhadiMania]

Yesterday was a bit of a blur as I tried to open my eyes lying in bed with my head hanging off the side. “Ooh, my head” I whimpered. My head was still spinning a little as I staggered around trying to find my socks. Being s Sikh I never miss my nitname, so once again I stuck the Japji Sahib tape in the deck and switched it on and let it play in the background. Sunday today and that means Gurpurb day at the gurdwara.

I decided to get my wonky beard line around my jaw a little straighter, which took all of five minutes and I discarded the single earring in my left ear, it kinda looked a little un-Sikh like. Black shirt , black trousers and white socks are the order of the day and lets splash on that Old Spice !

As we got to the gurdwara I thought it best to take out the Jazzy Malkit B cd from the car stereo and put on Bhai Gurjinder Singh Sirinagar walley. That very bland kind of studio kirtan that all ragis do these days was just the answer. As we walked up to the gurdwara it was good to see Jagtar singh having recovered from yesterdays incident on the pavement., “Kindaa?” I asked and simultaneously nodded my head in the traditional Sikh greeting. All along the way to the gurdwaras front doors I nodded my head and issued plenty of “Kindaa’s?” to my yaars. “We’ll meet later” I shouted to Juggy. As I ushered Pritam Kaur towards the womens side I saw Jarnail Singh, the Gyani, coming towards me so I started a slow “Waheguru, waheguru, waheguru” in a low voice. Gyani Ji smiled “sat siri akal puttar” he said in a friendly voice “Sat siri akal Gyani ji” I said nearly bumping into his extended tum tum.

I walked inside reverently and made for the shoe racks, just behind me I heard two people taking off their shoes and putting them on the racks. I just made out one say to the other in a low voice “Radha-swami” and the other replied likewise. These lot really get on my nerves “If you are not Sikhs that what the you doing here ?” I thought , so after they left I swapped their shoes about on the racks “Lets see then find their raah now.” I chuckled at my little joke and looked around, when no body was looking I took out my handkerchief and walked over to the facing wall and wiped the gold plated plaque hanging with my name on it. I read it to myself for the umpteenth time “Sarwan Singh Majitha, donation of £500”. I swear people look at me differently now that my name is up in lights. These donation plaques really put me on the map in the community.

During the long wait in the queue to do ‘mutha take’ I checked out the ladies and made a note of my mates who had turned up. It was nearly my turn so I took my hand out of my pocket and looked at the contents, a fiver, a few pound coins and some small change. I said a little prayer “Guru Sahib Ji please make all my sorrows go away and grant me a son, wealth and lots of happiness” I put 20p in the goluck and did my mutha take.

I was quite looking forward to the langar actually. I sat near the back and exchanged stories about the jaloos with Jagtar and the others. The ragies on stage said something or other about placing ourselves at the feet of the guru, wasting our lives on frivolous things and not doing enough naam simran, but it kind of went in one ear and out of the other, especially as Juggy was telling me about the latest Bollywood movie he had received on pirate DVD.

Langar is a fantastic tradition isn’t it, all that free food and eat as much as you can?

I just happened to sit next to Gyani Ji who was on my left and Juggy on my right. “Did you know Puttar, langar is very sacred?” commented Gyani.

“Han-ji” I said.

“Are we meetin’ tonight innit ?” Juggy was asking,

“Sure thing” I said having to swing my head around.

“So sacred it is that one should eat it in moderation and not be greedy” carried on Gyani.

“What?” I said “ucha, han-ji” came my automatic reply.

“Yeh, three roties yaar, and lots of aloo paneer” I shouted at the sewathaar who as usual totally overlooked my pleading eyes for service.

“Few glassies down the Red Lion, before Glassy Junction innit?” Juggy said I could see his excitement; we hadn’t had a good session with the lads for over a week.

“Ha Juggy” I said “and don’t forget the ‘you know what’”, he grinned a toothy grin nodding furiously.

“So sacred is langar that even the emperor Akbar had to sit in line before he could do darshan of Guru Sahib Ji” continued Gyani Ji not altogether realising my lack of attention.

“Han-ji Gyani Ji “ I said as I waved another sewadhaar who filled my thali with more sabzi, I was now on the lookout for the roti-walla.

Although the sun was shining it was a crisp morning with a touch of frost, outside the sangat thronged and milled about, the ladies in their latest fashion items didn’t seem to feel the cold much, but I suppose if you want to show off your latest creation to the world the cold weather is going to be the last thing on your mind, and what great hairstyles they have these days I mused. Some have it cut really short, some shoulder length, some with streaks and some like a chaotic gypsy style, aah to be a Sikh!

Massi Ji caught my eye “Pupoo“ she called as I tried to melt into the crowd, but it was too late. She came over “How is my little Pupoo?” she asked.

“Massi Ji” I said looking a little sheepish “don’t call me that, I am a grown man now.“

“But you will always be my Pupoo” she said as she squeezed my left cheek. I desperately looked around to see if anyone else had heard her, my street cred’ would go right down the drain.

“Pupoo, as you know we are looking for a match for our Rekha, have you been asking around?” she enquired.

“Ha Massi I have been looking for a good strong Jatt boy“ the last bit I said in a low voice as we Sikhs are casteless as you know, “he must be tall and must be fair and from a respectable family with good prospects.” She looked at me with a cold stare not quite sure whether I was mocking her or not. “What about Juggy?” I said.

“That <banned word filter activated>” came the harsh reply. “He is as dark as my roti-tawa, with a toothy grin, dropped out of college because it was to hard, even though he was doing media studies, he is out all hours, a layabout and drools from the corner of his mouth.”

“Actually,that’s a pretty good description of Rekha” I mumbled under my breath.

“Kee?” came the even sharper reply.

“No, nothing massi Ji”

I saw Pritam Kaur over the other side with her cousins, no doubt swapping information about the latest wrinkle-free products from QVC I thought. The amount of money she spends on exfoliating this, dehydrating that, anti-aging the other was a crime, and QVC laughed all the way to the bank over its gullible customers. Our eyes met, a quick wink and she knew it was time to go home. I made my apologies to massi ji and left.

Arriving home we were just in time for the Eastenders omnibus. “Stick that roast chicken in the oven, love” I called out to Pritam Kaur as I kicked off my boots and my eyes were fast closing as I yawned and settled into my favourite armchair.

[DhadiMania]

I sat in my armchair idly flicking through the TV channels with the polythene bag covered remote control. I noticed that all the Muslim channels seem to have solemn people reciting the Q’ran or discussing the Q’ran, and all the Hindi channels seemed to have young sweaty people gyrating to loud Bollywood music. The social and political implications of this went straight over my head as I settled on a channel with an overweight Singh with a crew-cut beard like mine dancing in a sea of females. Well at least he seemed to think he looked really cool!

It had been a hectic few weeks and surprisingly the matchmaking of Rekha was well underway. I had asked around my yaars parents and passed around a few carefully doctored photos of Rekha.We had then put an advert in The Sikh times “Beautiful Jat Sikh girl from a well to do family, slim build, good looks, good qualifications and home loving is looking for a Jat boy with good prospects” , and as luck would have it a potential match was found, and they were all coming over to our place so that the girl and boy could check each other out.

Now being the bachola is quite an important job, as long as I played my cards right I would get praise and pampering from both sides, ‘mutthi-chappy’ as they call it. Pritam Kaur was busy in the kitchen putting the finishing touches to the plates of samosay, pakoray, aloo tickies, chukra, gutthia, searni, barfi, ladoo, ras gullay, custard creams, and that was just with the tea, the roti bit comes later. Not that the guests will stay for roti, they will politely decline with lots of “nooo, we couldn’t possibly” or “No ji roti tha kam nehee”, but god forbid if we didn’t prepare it fully. I looked up and saw my Sass had just passed down the hallway into the kitchen, I unconsciously picked up a cuddly toy from the floor and started strangling it.

“Pritam Kaur, they are only coming to have a look a Rekha you know, so is there any need to put on the whole rani-haar, gujjra and two dozen gold bangles on each arm?” I asked.

“Chup, you have to make a good first impression” came the reply, “and go and change your trousers and put a new tie on.”

“Whats wrong with my WWF tie?” I asked, as I struggled out of the armchair,“Hulk Hogan’s got quite a good pose there” I thought “and what’s wrong with my tiger print trousers?” I thought. As I went upstairs to change another chill ran down my spine, instinctively I looked around and saw the piercing eyes of the Sass at the bottom of the stairs. An uncontrollable shivered came over me, I kicked the cat that had inadvertently walked in front of me.

As I made my way downstairs in black flared trousers, figure hugging white shirt and the obligatory medallion I tried to hold my stomach in but it was no use, the aloo prathey were now taking their revenge. Chach Chachi had arrived together with my Nana, Taia Tai had arrived along with various Massies and massars and a myriad of kids. “Kiddha Sawan-aa?” asked Chacha Ji along with an out stretched sweaty hand. I shook it and said “Bass, teeka Chacha Ji.” . We all made small talk with Chacha Ji telling us all about his dodgy money making schemes. One of the kids was appointed to regularly look through the window to see if the guests had arrived. As normal this was “Indian time” which meant that no matter what time had been given you just turned up as and when you liked. An hour and half had passed, this was getting even beyond “Indian time,” then all of a sudden someone shouted “agaay” and everyone sprang into action. The women adjusting their chunnies the guys straightening their ties and before you know it we were all sat in the lounge/dining room on settees and rows of chairs brought in especially, eying each other suspiciously.

Idle chit chat was made with the guests, about the weather, the road journey, whether the directions were easy to follow, whether they had got lost on the way, in fact anything but the situation at hand.

“Where are you from back in India?” asked one of the guests to Taia Ji.

“From Jalundhar but I spent time in Kenya also”

“I was there in ’73, Mombasa” said the guest.

“Oh no” I thought, I knew exactly what was going to happen next, an outbreak of Swahili. Sure enough Taia Ji spurted out “ Apa na jambo jambo” to which the guest retorted “Massuri na papa na gumbba gambbo.”

“Oh brother” I thought rubbing my forehead, this is all we need. They carried on like this for another five minutes like little school boys, while I looked on in total bemusement.

“Where abouts from Jalundhar?” another guy interjected, “Thank God for that” I thought I couldn’t take much more of this Swahili mumbo jambo business.

“From a small village east of Jalundhar, called Jaitewalli”

“Jaitewalli really?” came the excited reply. “Oh boy” I thought as I leaned forward in my chair and put my head in my hands “Please no, not this”, but right on cue the answer came that I was dreading “Do you know Jugga Singh, he is from Jaitewalli” said the guest looking at his wife for confirmation, she nodded vigorously, “He was the son of Master Karnail Singh.”

“Ha Ji ha ji” nodded Taia Ji looking very thoughtful “he is my massi’s fuffers nunn-iora”

“No no “ I thought shaking my head, it was as I had feared ………… long lost relations.

“Really, he is my Chaha’s maama” said the guest excitedly.

“Bullay bullay restay-dhari nickelai” shouted Taia Ji with arms stretched out.

“That’s it, am outta here” I thought as various people in the room started getting up and hugging each other.

Things had calmed down a little as the tea was brought in and the spread was laid on the table. Everyone politely ate trying to make as little noise as possible, except Chacha Ji of course, who slurped his tea and ate his samosas with his mouth open. “Ohh Chacha Ji” I thought “there’s always one to let the side down.”

Then one of the guest, who turned out to be the boys dad made the first move. “This is our son, Jorra.” Everyone turned to look, the poor lad nearly dropped his ladoo. The women sized him up and scrutinised his every move. I looked at him, he seemed nice enough, a bit nervous, but a huge belch soon sorted that out.

Of course now that the ice had been broken the inevitable statements started pouring out.

“This is sanjoog”

“Ha ji”

“This match has already been written”

“Teeka Ji”

“If it will happen it will happen, it is written as such”

“Bass poori gall kitee Ji”

“Sanjoog wajoog dhoai kaar chalaway”

“Ha Ji, ha ji” with copious shakes of the head.

This was the way to say that everything is written by God and we are only following His orders, but all along doing your damnedest to swing everything your way. Slowly but surely the boy was asked about his education “ki paraya hey?” What his prospects were “ki camm kardha hey?” and whether he was one of the lads “Khandha peendha be hey?” As planned Rekha was pointed out to the guests as she swiftly cleared up the table so that the full impact of her features were not fully felt.

The male guests began to fidget and looked a little nervous, Chacha Ji knew what was required. “Well, how about a celebratory drink eh?” he asked knowing full well what the answer would be.

“No, no it is okay, I don’t drink” replied the boys dad without any conviction.

“Come on Bhaji, little drink” Taia Ji intervened, winking.

“Nay nay ji, better not” the boys dad said but already his resolve was crumbling. As soon as he saw the Bell’s Whiskey bottle appear as if by magic from the side of the settee he caved in. “Chall ucha ji, only a little one we should be leaving soon.”

Three hours and two empty bottles later and I was dragging the boy off the table with his pag round his neck and his shoulders still twitching up and down to the bhangra beat. It was a good do, a good time had by all and the coming together of the two families was sealed with everyone taking turns in shoving ladoo down the boys throat.

“As we are all together we may as well start the planning of the wedding” the boys mother said, which generally went down as a good suggestion from the ladies, there were approving nods all around. Although sweating I suddenly felt a shiver, the cold stare of my Sass met my glance, no matter where I sat she always seemed to manoeuvre her self so that I was in direct line of sight.

My Nana Ji who had been sat in a corner in his own little world suddenly came to life and offered his pearls of wisdom. He is a strange chap, pale skin, flowing beard and always doing simran. Whenever you look at him his lips always seem to be moving all the time reciting some mantra. If he had spent a little more time on his worldly affairs he could have made something of himself but rather he wasted most of his life doing naam simran and sewa at the gurdwara. Now, don’t get me wrong I am all for doing paath and sewa but there is a time and place. Look at me, I do my paath, well, I do it when I can, but I ALWAYS put on a recoding of paath and I know Japji Sahib off by heart, well, the first three pauries, but that is not the point, Sikhi should be from within. And sewa is okay but what would people say if they saw me cleaning the shoes at the gurdwara? Especially with my name on a plaque on the wall.

“Which gurdwara shall we book for the wedding?” asked my Nana.

“We can book the Bollywood Palace for the reception?” asked Massi

“No, Millionaires Club is better“ interjected Massar Ji excitedly “they have good beer on draught there.”

“Oay, whose going to be dinking beer yaar?” said my Fuffer “It will be Bacardi or Bell’s.”

“Shall we be having an Akhand Paath before the wedding?” Nana Ji asked.

“We will need Tandoori Punjab caterers, they do a wicked chicken” said my Pooa. Everyone was getting a little excited at the prospect of some serious partying.

“Ha ji, Punjab caterers are good but do they do a good lamb keema sabzi?” asked Fuffer.

“What about the Raagi’s who will do the lava?” asked Nana ji who was now fighting a loosing battle.

“Don’t worry Nana Ji that is minor detail” Chacha said rather patronisingly to Nana Ji and then in a louder voice “but we need to think of the band!”

“Nachdah Punjab” someone shouted.

“No no, Awaaz are good or what about Apna Bhangra?”

“Wouldn’t it be great if we could get Gurdass Mann?” drew gasps of awe from all seated.

“Bhaio, what about panj-Sikh-da-parshadaa” persisted Nana Ji, but it all fell on deaf ears.

They were all so wrapped up in the whole situation that no one noticed the tear that slowly ran down Nana Ji’s milky skinned cheek as he looked up towards the ceiling and gave a little sigh. Unfortunately I was no different as I tried to shout over the cacophony “ and we need a disco DJ, pink limousines and pink Champaign, and a huge white wedding cake, four tiered, and a guy who plays the dhole, and booze, lots and lots of BOOZE.”

I feel a little ashamed now, as I sit hear in my favourite armchair fingering the remote control. It got a little out of hand. But what the hell, it’s a wedding isn’t it? You are allowed a good time aren’t you? What are we on this earth for anyway? Weddings are a time of celebration right? I had convinced myself. A little smile came over by lips as hands behind my head I settled back into my seat, I was already dreaming of the reception party.

[DhadiMania]

i should have put these all into one topic instead little mini ones i just realise.

aplogies to the sangat if am annoying anyone right now....

My eyes opened a fraction and everything started to sway and revolve around me, I closed them again. As I lay in the dark on my favourite armchair the events of the previous evening were still a little blurred. I attempted to open my eyes again. In the darkness I could see a swathe of bodies on the carpet all huddled up under rajjaies and blankets. I looked over at the mantle piece and saw Pritam Kaur staring at me from the numerous framed pictures of her, next to her the ‘ek-oan-kaar’ clock read 3.55am. I shivered a little under my blanket, it is said that some people get up at this ungodly hour to do paath and simran, to be honest there have been times when I have gone to bed at this time after a good night out.

It was the wedding day, today! The thought caused a little panic but my head throbbed and my mind was still a bit cloudy. Being an Indian wedding the relatives had descended from all over the country and last night just grabbed blankets and doss’d down wherever they could. It still surprises me when I see an English wedding on the TV, there is hardly anyone at the boys or girls house in the morning, not at a Sikh wedding, it is crammed packed with people and there are literally dozens of cars outside cluttering up the street.

Last night was the second maia night which meant we covered Rekha with a mixture of arta and mustard oil called buttna in a vane attempt to lighten her skin a little, not to mention anyone else who strayed too close. The rotters all ganged up on me and gave me a good rubbing down with it, I could still feel some stuck in my crew-cut beard which itched irritatingly. There was a good bit of partying done last night with a DJ blaring out the latest bhangra beats. Men and boys, women and girls, hot and sweaty really got down to a bit of shoulder twitching. It would all have to be done again tonight at the reception, and tomorrow as well. It’s a dirty job, but someone’s got to do it!

Being the bachola I had been given a lot of responsibility with the organisation. As I lay in the darkness picking out bits of dry arta from my face I tried to make a mental check of all the bits and pieces. The booze was the main thing and there was lots of it. Bacardi by the box load, and Bell’s whisky, the jaan-ate would be mighty displeased if there was any lesser variety. Poor Rekhas father, he was caught between a rock and a hard place. Being the brides’ father he had to pay for the whole caboodle, down to the last box of confetti. We have picked up so many ‘traditions’ from the west but not discarded any of our own, so the burden seems to get heavier and heavier, not that the boy side are complaining they still require the whole shebang to be tip-top else it is a matter of izzat. So, we have all our own traditions, the dozens upon dozens of women’s ‘suits’ that have to be given, one for the grooms mum, one for his nani, one for each of his chachi’s, one for each of his tai’s, one for his pooa’s, one for his fuface (who are these fuface’s anyway?), one each for his sisters and his cousins and I haven’t even started on the brides side, and the 21 suits for the bride and the three full gold jewellery sets! Then there is the Gurdwara to book and the reception hall and the caterers for the morning reception and the afternoon main meal. They do it by the thaali these days. With £3.00 a thaali, and a standard estimate of say 300 people, that would be near upon a thousand quid, and that is just for the main meal. Then we have to have the boy kitted out in three suits and an expensive watch and gold karra and of course the ring, not to mention the ring for the boys father at milni time where he will put on the obligatory show of “No, no, this is too much” and at the same time extending out his finger. We then go on to the so-called dowry which is supposed to be outlawed but god forbid if this is anything other then top-notch – plasma screens, fridges, washers, dishwashers, cars, houses you name it at some point in time it was been included. Now, this is all old hat, that is to say this is how things have been, but now in all our self-glory to show how modern and ‘with it’ we are, we have decided to add to this endless list items like a four tiered wedding cake, bhangra DJ’s, white limousines, wedding present lists, is it a wonder the parents of a newly born female will look a little stunned.

I shook my head a little, someone stirred in the corner and mumbled in their sleep, “Gibb me bottle, gibb my drink” he kept repeating, he was obviously still at the party. I looked at him with disdain “Kio marddha jandha eh?” I thought, what is it with people. You can get a bottle of Bell’s from the local shop that is open 24 hours and yet these people will drink as if there is no tomorrow. People are so lalachy that a bottle has to be completely drunk dry, god forbid if even a drop is left. I looked over at my new suit bought from M&S last week with a bright red cummerbund to match the colour of my cheeks. Pritam Kaur had gone for a pale coloured Indian style trouser suit with chunni of heavy embroidery, apparently lengas were out this season.

There was a knock at the door, I got out of my warm comfy chair and managed to avoid stepping on anyone’s head. I poked my nose through a small gap in the door to see who it was. “Hi my name is Meena, the hairdresser” said a voice in the dark who was far too bright and chirpy for this time of day. “Hairdresser?” I shouted a little too loud “I haven’t booked a hairdresser.”

“Don’t worry, I did.” came my wife’s voice from behind me “Come on in Meena.” Meena filed past me and went straight into the kitchen and started unpacking her tools, she’d obviously done this before. “Hairdresser, at this time in the morning? Today?” things just didn’t compute this early in the morning.

“Go brush your teeth and start getting ready, we don’t have much time you know. Everyone will be getting up soon and there will be a queue at the bathroom” Pritam Kaur advised me. Women are so much more clued up then we are. If we had to run the home we would make a right ‘bodge job’ of it I thought, there would be used dishes and clothes littered everywhere. But the ladies, bless them, go into a new household and adapt themselves and run it like clockwork.

“But what’s with her” I gestured at Meena.

“She is going to do my hair, followed by Sukies, Harpreets, Jatinders and Kirndeeps” she said.

“Oh, those bouffant type hair do’s that need setting for an hour. How much?”

“Hundred and fifty pounds each” she said matter of factly.

“Whaaaat?” I shouted trying to keep my voice down “that will be, er, seven hundred and fifty pounds?.” I couldn’t believe it “not bad for a mornings work” I thought as I wondered off banging into walls trying to think where the bathroom was.

Considering the house was packed with guests they all managed to get dressed and ready with the minimal of disruption. Everyone stood around in their dark suits and new shoes drinking glasses of hot steaming tea. It was time we all progressed to the gurdwara, so everyone piled into their BMW’s, Mercedes’, Audi’s and some poor soul into his Ford Mondeo.

At the gurdwara we had laid the tables with cups and saucers and the mutthai – ladoos, barfi, chumchum and now stood idly waiting for the jana-ate. Considering that most of them could have walked the short distance to the gurdwara, the jann-ate was nowhere to be seen and it was already 10.30am. We stood in out shirt sleeves braving the stiff breeze. Then a coach appeared over the horizon followed by a fleet of cars and the obligatory stretched limo’. Everything was now running an hour and a half late, but whose counting?

As everyone gathered in the car park for the milni ceremony forming a large circle, with the jann-ate on one side and the girls side on the other side you could tell who were the gursikhs and who were not. For the gursikhs took off their shoes when the giani started the ardaas and clasped their hands in remembrance of the true Lord with whose blessings this whole karaj was about to start, while the rest of us shifted and fidgeted. Those clean-shaven Sikhs amongst us had to be told to cover their heads which they did with great reluctance with white handkerchiefs. The ladies were worst, either unable or unwilling to cover their heads and those that did barely covered the back of their head. A sorry state we are in when for a few moments we cannot even respect our Guru on this happy occasion.

The milnies started with the fathers of the bride and groom meeting formally. Fancy haars were produced which of course got tangled up as one put it over the other and then the other reciprocated. “Edhar edhar” came the instructions from the cameramen. Rekhs father then produced a small red box from his pocket and took out a gold ring. The boys father genuinely looked surprised, I think he should have got an Oscar for it. The inevitable “no no no no ih ta bohut hey” was followed by the ring being eagerly accepted on his finger. The elder statesmen of the families were next, the nanas’, mamas’ and taia’s. As I stood in the crowed I surveyed the scene. Everyone seemed to be enjoying the spectacle. It was now the brothers turn for the milni and someone shouted “chack-dhay, chack-dhay” to which the grooms brother bent down and grabbed Rekhas brother around the legs and lifted him into the air. There were cheers from the jann-ate, and groans from our side. For some reason this is regarded as big bezithi and Tonni had let the side down. “Oi Tonni eh kee keeta?” shouted Fuffer. Tonni held his head in shame. This obviously meant that we had to get our own back and so the whole thing kind of degenerated into a type of summo match, although light hearted and much to the glee of all watching.

The morning tea had finished and it was well past 11.00am I took off my shoes and quickly glanced up at the gold plaque on the wall with my name and donation amount on it, I had no time bask in my glory as I rushed in to the darbar sahib ahead of the throng and did my mutha-take. I sat down to one side, it had been a hectic morning but I could now relax a little, I surveyed the scene.

A long line of jann-atey and guests built up to do the matha-take. It concerned me a little that these people are the same people who come to this gurdwara week in week out and show great respect and ‘adhav’ to our hazzar naazar Guru and yet today they seemed to be so wrapped up in the wedding and all its trappings that the Guru was only of secondary importance. The ladies were so preoccupied with their latest dress creations and jewellery that a quick mutha-take was all they could offer their Guru. The men were so preoccupied with their new suits and who had the latest mobile that they hardly acknowledged His presence.

Next to Guru Sahib Ji’s stage the video cameramen had started installing their mini studios complete with large sturdy tripods, accessories, TV monitors, mixing consoles and miles of cable. Of course each side has to have a video guy who doesn’t just record the events these days but directs the whole proceedings also. All he now needs is a beard and a baseball cap with “Spielberg” written on it to complete the persona. These guys have to get the ‘shot’ and if that means disrespect for Guru Ji they do not care. They will get on stage next to the palki, behind Guru Sahib Ji, have their backs to Guru Sahib Ji, anything goes as long as they get the ‘shot.’ They even ask for re-takes these days. The one from our side was a typical video guy, overweight overhanging stomach with the video equipment slung on his shoulders and 20m to cable wrapped around his waist. The spot lights had been set and he marched up and down the darbar sweeping his lens to and fro. I wondered to myself, maybe their power should be curtailed. Maybe they should only be allowed to set up their cameras on the tripod and only allowed to film from this spot.

The most solemn part of the day had come when even the most hardened soul will shed a secret tear, that of the pullay-di-rasam. This is when the brides’ father ties the grooms’ pulla to his daughter in a symbolic joining of his daughter to her husband. It is quite an emotional time, for all her life the girl has been nurtured and loved by her parents and now it is time for her to spread her wings and fly the comfort of her parents’ home.

The sangat sat listening to the lava and watched to see if the groom and bride would walk too fast or too slow around Guru Granth Sahib Ji and then seeing if adjustments to the speed of walk were made in the proceeding lavas’. The lavas were complete and Sri Anand Sahib Ji recited, so now it was the turn of the purbundhks. The sewasdhars from the committee knew that they had a captive audience and the speeches started. The Stage ‘Sekkutur’ followed by the Pardhaan followed by the Trustees, on and on it went numbing us into submission. Then glory be, the last item. It was Pooa Ji who had decided at the last minute to sing a shabad at the wedding that she had learned twenty years ago. So we had to endure a slightly off-key shabad but we showed our appreciation anyway with a pound coin pay-tta.

At last the Anand Karaj ceremony was complete and there were smiles all round. Isn’t it a great ceremony I thought, so full of Guru Ji’s blessing, so full of colour and happiness, and it’s so informal. The men sit solemnly while the ladies who generally have to look after the kids, take care of them admirably as the little ones decide that they would rather go for ‘walkies’ around the darbar and normally end up infront of Guru Granth Sahib ji attracted by all the flowers and the clanking of the maya in the money box. The darbar Sahib is no cold echo’y place decked out in drab colours where one is reluctant even to cough, but instead it is so full of colour and warmth and friendliness, all Guru Ji’s kirpa I thought.

Then followed the suggan ceremony, no orderly queue here, this is basically a free for all with a line forming behind the bride and groom, at least five deep and people deciding to join it wherever they please. The more polite of us being pushed further and further back. I jostled with the other guests desperately trying to find Pritam Kaur so that we could place the haar around Rekha and Joginder Singh. I caught her eye and we pushed right in front of the queue. On a pretence of saying ‘sat siri akal’ to someone in the queue we kind of just stayed there, trying to avoid the evil looks from those around us.

No time was wasted in getting to the Millionaires Club situated not too far from the Gurdwara. The aim was to secure a good table in the reception hall, any ‘reserved’ notes on chairs or tables were promptly ignored or just removed and the table was accosted. We arrived late as we had to attend the “coat” marriage in an adjoining room to darbar sahib. The tables in the reception hall had the obligatory Ready Salted crisps and ‘juice’. Let the part begin!

Just like a Gursikh is attracted to the sound of Gurus’ bani, just like a moth is attracted to a bright light, just like Baloo in The Jungle Book who could not resist the monkey beat, the guests and jann-atey could not resist the bhangra music that started in earnest at a volume that Led Zeppelin would be proud off.

They came leaving their seats and finishing off the last bit of Bacardi in their plastic cups to the dance floor. And oh did we dance. We danced, our arms raised and our shoulders twitching up and down with silly grins on our faces. Just like in the Irish Riverdance where the only part of the body that moves is the legs, in Punjabi Bhangra the only thing that moves is outstretched arms moving up and down at the shoulders, even overweight blokes can do it. Unfortunately they did.

The caterers prepared and served and the people ate, all washed down with something golden and smooth, the women not wanting to be outdone did their damnedest to keep up with the men. The roti came and went, the rasmali and ice cream was also consumed and still the beat continued. The dhole wallas’ did their turn and the bride and groom danced their first dance together, they were looking forward to going on their 'Hanumaan.'

As the afternoon progressed the inevitable scuffles broke out with people shouting “puttaa kaun yaa meh?”, “You know who I am?” Angry young lads and foolish middle aged men were pulled apart, with their pags around their necks shouting profanities that young children should never hear. An afternoon of celebration once again ended up tarnished and tinged with regret. Fingers were wagged and threats issued, “Tenoo fare dhekan-gay.” As the tables and chairs lay untidily across the hall and the confetti covered the floor people melted away into the evening.

As I slumped in my favourite armchair in an empty room, very tired and worst for wear, I reflected on the events. I was reminded of a lyric “You run and run to catch up with the sun, but it’s sinking.” That’s how I felt, a kind of malaise had come over me and I looked around the room at all the things that we had collected over the years. I looked at all the things that meant so dear to me – my Pritam Kaur, the mini-bar in the corner with an array of expensive and rare bottles of booze, my CD collection and sound system. I examined the gold rings that adorned my fingers and the medallion around my neck, I looked outside at my beloved BMW, but you know something, it didn’t mean a thing, not a single thing. All of it was temporary, all of it was fleeting, just a passing phase that left a gaping hole in the pit of my stomach. I felt empty and hollow, a void that I did not know how to fill. Something was missing which I always tried to alleviate with material objects but something inside me was crying out and I always ignored it or pushed it to the back. The voice was getting stronger and stronger and the time was coming when I would not be able to ignore it any more. I looked over at the table and a copy of The Sikh Times lay open and the face of Guru Nanak Dev Ji benevolently looked back at me, a tear appeared in the corner of my eye and I started to cry uncontrollably.

[DhadiMania]

As I walked into the lounge, horror of horrors, someone was sitting in my armchair. I felt like a lost animal, I didn’t know what to do, should I sit on the sofa or on one of the round stools or on the carpet? “The grooves” I thought “the grooves that mould to my body as I sit in my beloved armchair would all be ruined.”

It was an old lady who occupied my place all dressed in pale colours with a white chunni on her head. As I looked closer I could tell she must be in her eighties but her skin seemed smooth and tight. “The wonders of Botox” I thought “even maji here looked 20 years younger.” But her face betrayed a deep sadness, she looked up at me with moist eyes. I could see that something was wrong, “Satsiri akal, mata ji” I said desperately trying to think who she was. I knew we were related somehow on my wife’s side but that was it. I sat down next to her on a low stool trying to look all concerned. WWF was on in a few minutes and it was Hulk Hogans bid to gain some shiny belt. She looked at me unable to speak for a moment and then with a quivering bottom lip she said “Rekha.”

“No” I thought “what’s happened to Rekha?” They had been married just six months to the day and they were still in that part of the marriage where everything is still exciting and vigorous. “No no” I thought, all sorts of scenarios started to run through my mind “What ever could have happened to Rekha, she looked so happy the last time I saw her smashed out of her face.” The expression on maji’s face told me something real bad had happened.

Maji spoke in a whisper “Kurri agii”

“Ki ?” it didn’t quite register.

“Kurri” she looked up at me “Rekah had a girl” she said.

I stared at the woman unable to speak, a cold dark stare that seemed to unnerve her. I felt like using one of Hogans head locks on her. “Phare ki hoa?” I asked “So what?”

“Phare ki hoa?” she mustered “Khota khoo’ch pey gia.” I wasn’t familiar with that expression, something about a donkey falling into a well or something, but the message was clear, everything had gone down the plughole. I got up and left the old woman with her head in her hands, sitting in my chair.

I walked into the kitchen and found Pritam Kaur making some tea. I could see that all the ingredients had been added to the pan, the tea bags, sugar, the milk, now all it needed was ten minutes good simmering to get it to a treacle consistency. She also looked sombre. “What’s the matter” I asked “I just found out the Rekhas has had a baby and its like someone’s died.”

“Shhh, maji will hear” she said

“Well aren’t you happy?” I asked her

“Of course I am, I’ve just been down to the hospital and both are doing well. Baby looks just like Joginder.” She said cheerfully.

“Thank God for that” I thought “If she had looked anything like Rekha there would be reason to be glum.”

“There were a few more old ladies at her bed side looking like maji as well” she continued “You know what the older generation is like”

“Yeh, but this is going a bit too far, is’nt it?”

“Yes, but the older lot always want a boy, even though he may turn out to be a complete …..”

I cut in “Does that mean no luddu?”

“No luddo.”

My heart started to sink “No!” I said, but there was worst to come “what about the party?”

“No party”

“Nooooooo” I shouted is despair.

“Shhhhh, stop it, maji will hear”

“Stuff maji, all my plans are in ruins, this is a disaster, what is to be done, what is left?”

“There is only one thing left “ she said “it will have to be an Akhand Paath.”

I had a difficult night, tossing and turning, all I could hear was the distant sound of laughter and glasses clinking getting further and further away. But we were at Rekhas house now and I was waiting to catch the first glimpse of the baby. A contingent of old ladies had parked themselves in the middle of the room each holding a steaming glass of tea in deep conversation. I didn’t care to overhear as no doubt they would be gossiping about some one. The rest of the women were in the kitchen making the dreaded pinni’s.

Now pinni or pujiri is a strange but necessary evil. It looks like someone has thrown a load of muck, dirt and sand into a pan and added lots of seeds and nuts and given it a good stir. But apparently it is very good for you, especially for a new mum. A new mum is not allowed to do anything for six weeks and she gets waited and pampered and force fed the dreaded pujiri.

Joginder came into the room looking bleary eyed, I gave him the customary hug and congratulated him on the new arrival. “So, how’s things yaar?” I enquired.

“Oh, okay” he said rubbing his eyes.

“Sleepless nights eh?” I asked

“Tell me about it”

“Has she been named yet?” I enquired

“No not yet” he said “we got the letter from the gurdwara this week so we are deciding yet”

“So what is the akhar?” I enquired, I fancied a stab at naming the baby.

“It’s a susa, we’ve been thinking of Sissi, Sushiela, Susan, Suzy or even Sanchez” he said in a resigned way. It was obvious he had not had much say in the selections.

“Oh right” I said trying to muster up some enthusiasm. “What happened to some of the traditional names” I gingerly asked “like Sukhinder, Sarabjeet, Sukhdeep.” I continued thinking out aloud “or Simran or Sukhmani. Yeh Sukhmani sounds real nice.” I liked the sound of that, and as I repeated it in my mind I had convinced myself that if ever I had a daughter I would love to name her Sukhmani. Every time you say it you would be reminded of Guru Arjun Dev Ji. “Wow, heavy” I thought “am I getting all religious in my old age” but it didn’t matter, Sukhmani had a real ring to it.

“You know what all the fuffers and massis are like” said Joginder.

“What, oh yeh, your right” I said still making a mental note of Sukhmani Kaur.

As I held the baby for the first time a warm feeling came over me. I quickly looked to see if the nappy hadn’t leaked. No, it was something a lot more profound, I looked at its lovely pale brown skin and its rosy cheeks and lips, I marvelled at the mass of silky hair on its delicate head. As I looked into its most beautiful dark eyes I couldn’t help but wonder at this pure soul. It smiled at me and I couldn’t help but smiled back. It clasped my finger with its tiny hand and something tugged at my heart. They say that when you look into the eyes of a newborn you are looking at God, for there is no difference between the two. Both are as pure as pure, both show no malice or bad thoughts, both want total love. A newborn will look upon you with total helplessness and will love you totally. “Wow” I thought “I really am getting old” there was a time when I wouldn’t have given a baby a second thought, but times change, a person changes and as you get older priorities change, outlooks change and I suppose in some ways the call from beyond starts to get just that teeny bit louder.

The lads, which included Juggy, Jussy, Laadi, Bhauld, Joginder and me all sat around a table peeling bags of potatoes. The Akhand Paath was well underway and we were having a good old ghap shap while doing sewa. Various people were stood around huge pots with large karshies in there hands preparing the turkka for the sabzies and daals that needed to be made. Various guests came and went, doing their matha-take and joining the ghap shap groups stood around the langar area. “It is strange” I thought “that our Guru is talking to us with pearls of wisdom that are so deep and profound that the likes of which cannot be found in any text or holy book anywhere in the world, and all we can do is stand outside and gossip about who did what to whom.”

“Saw a DVD last night, Phantom of the Opera, pretty good” said Bhauld,

“I saw the Indian version of that” interrupted Jussy “it was called Phantom of the Chopra, good songs. Infact the main guy didn’t have to wear a mask,” we all laughed. I looked over and I could see the Giani coming over. I got up and made room for him. “Ahjau Giani Ji, behto” I said “come Giani Ji take a seat.” Giani Ji sat down, he was chewing a letchi or cardamom. He offered us all some lechies but we all declined. “Giani ji it will be April soon” I said “will you be giving a katha on Baisakhi and how we should all be shakking Amrit and becoming Guru wallay?” This was a risky thing for me to say as I was anything but a Guru-walla. I surprised myself with this question as it was not something that I would normally say, but I could detect subtle changes in me, I was mellowing out, and dare I say it, becoming a little spiritual!

Giani looked around before he answered “I have only been here a year and a half” he said “I have to be careful you know.” We all looked a little surprised, maybe we were a little naïve but we assumed that that is what gianies did, encourage all Sikhs to follow the true path of Sikhism and this presumably meant urging us all to give up the bad habits, like beard trimming, giving up alcohol, sharaab, meat and so on.

“Ki kendhay hey Giani Ji” asked Laddi, what are you saying?

“Veer Ji I cannot just get on stage and speak my mind. I cannot preach the full message of our Guru you know, I have to watch myself” said Giani Ji, biting on another letchi.

We were all a little intrigued by this revelation. We all moved in a little closer like a rugby scrum, still managing to scrape the potatoes with the peelers. “Giani Ji dhaso, dhaso” we asked, tell us more.

Giani Ji gave out a chuckle as he leaned back in his chair rubbing is round stomach. “Veer’o, have you seen the committee? Most of them trim their beards, they also drink plenty whisky at home and I doubt if any have heard of amritwella never mind experiencing it” again he chuckled, I instinctively rubbed my chin, there was not much hair on it.

“Yes, but shouldn’t you get up on stage and preach Guru Ji’s message and maybe they will also start to follow the true path?” asked Laddi. That was a good question I thought, I leaned over and looked at Laddi.

“Ha, par it would be the last speech I would make” Giani said “they would have me out of here before I could say ‘sat siri akal’ and I am not puckka yet you know, I have another six months for that.” We were all a little shocked by this.

“Is this the state our Gurdwaras are in?” I wondered out aloud.

“No no puttar, not all Gurdwaras are like this” said Giani while he patted me on my back “there are many that have kirpa of Guru Sahib Ji, but his one …..” his voice trailed off, “they are into politics, not Guru di sewa” he continued. “They do not have piyar for Guru Sahib Ji, it is local politics for them and how much money they can accumulate in the bank.”

He proceeded to paint a grave picture at the Gurdwara, how he was told to do menial work like clean out the toilets and even make the committee members tea when they had their many chit chats in the office. How raggis - who have travelled from India leaving their loved ones behind to come and do ‘kirtan sewa’ and earn enough to send back to their families – are not allowed to keep the kirtan paytta that is bestowed upon them by the sangat but instead get a very basic flat rate payment from the committee. The committee knows that the raggies cannot complain, and they get to keep the rest of the sewa. How none of the raggies can do proper parchaar because they know they will never be invited back.

“Ha ji ha ji sewadhar baot achey hey” said Giani Ji loudly, which caused puzzled looks all-round until we noticed the pardhaan walking towards us. “Theek taak ho?” the pardhaan asked, we all stared and nodded in unison, while stabbing the potatoes in our hands with the peelers.

I love functions like this where all relatives and friends get together. We did sewa late into the night, cutting and peeling and washing and chopping as instructed by the many aunties and uncles who had taken it upon themselves to be the chaudhries. It was well past midnight when all the work was done. The sabzies and daals were made, the milk and ‘jaag’ was put to rest wrapped in a blanket and in the morning it would be wonderful yoghurt. The kheer was made and rice was done. The tables had been laid out for the morning tea that the sangat would have. We sat down, a little tired and grateful for the glasses of hot steaming tea coming our way. We all took our glasses from the tray and slurped loudly. “Isn’t sewa great” I said loudly, everyone looked up. “Just think, if this was a party we still would have had to do all this work right?” I asked. “This way, we are doing sewa, and this sewa will come in use to us in the future, it will be part of our lakha.” I could see Bhauld looking a little puzzled. Juggy always looked puzzled.

“Think about it. All this work is for the sangat right?” they nodded “and who resides in the sangat, Guru Nanak Guru Gobind Singh Ji” some eyes lit up. “So, the sewa we are doing is the sewa of our Guru, what could be better then that?” almost everyone’s eyes lit up at the revelation.

“That’s a little deep for you, Sarwan” asked Laddi.

“Sewa we do here will be written down and will give us great dividends in the future” I was on a roll. “The more sewa we do, the more our sins will be washed and the more closer we will become to Guru Ji.”

Juggy’s eyes now lit up, a full two minutes after everyone else’s.

The bhog was set for 10.00am so that all the sangat could arrive in plenty of time. We all sat in darbar sahib listening to the slokes, and the raagmala. After Sri Anand Sahib it was my favourite, arti in raag dhinasari, which was sung by the kirtanees. Did you know that the arti starts off with Guru Nanak Dev Ji’s arti shabad followed by the arti shabads of various bhagats. Bhagat Dhunna Ji had said that he wanted to compose an artaa instead, which is why in his shabad he writes “Gopal taira artaa….” The devaan bhog was followed by the langar and we did sewa all the way through. We even got a pat from the gyiani. The new arrival was duly named Sukhbir Kaur, much to everyone’s relief and she was handed around to all who wanted to give her lots of cuddles.

We arrived home, Pritam Kaur carrying a number of bags with plastic cartons. Some contained Aloo Paneer, some maha di daal, some Khutta, chawal and my favourite, kheer. We were both tired, Pritam Kaur had worked tirelessly in the kitchen bailing the roties and later on washing the thallies and sweeping up. I walked into the lounge and looked at my armchair. I remembered what that nasty old lady had done to my grooves. “Pritam-Kauray” I shouted into the kitchen “put some coffee on” I sat into my chair wiggling my backside trying to reform the grooves “this .... may.... take .... a .... little .... while.”

[Singhstah]

FUNNY STORY !!!! are there any more parts.

[Balwinder Kaur]

yea post more parts if there are any......i love every single bit.

[DhadiMania]

if you actually have a look at the 4 other topics of mine below this one, you should realise that it says "PART 1", that leads to "part 2" and so on.

i got that from www.info-sikh.com

theres only 5 parts to the story, and yet i find this so funny, yet so true at the same time"!

gustaphi maaf

[kaur_khalistani_lioness]

OMV

this story was soooooooooooooo funnyy...

( i mean some parts) and reallly good one to open our eyes to the world that we love so much! :nihungsmile:

[hardykaur]

hey don't eman to be controversal(spelt the word wrong soz) but were they only married for about six months cus for a babay to be born it takes nine. u get where me is going but the story is kinda funny :-)