Born in a nondescript town in Odisha, I was a curious, well-behaved but a wondrous kid. It was time to join school and after a big racket, my businessman father gifted two fans and bingo… off I went on a new journey, holding the scooter handle.
But my enthusiasm was short lived, for I was reduced to an object of interest for the rest of the kids. They reached out with curious eyes and probing hands. Touching my ‘patka’, patting my head and outrightly annoying me. I was taught by mom never to let anybody touch my hair. They were sacred. I was told. And I could never cut it or else my dad would throw me into a deep well. I feared him. Then one of the bright-eyed ears-up kid pumped my ‘Joora’ and squealed ‘Pon pon’. And thereafter, I was crestfallen. The name ‘Paiyyun’ stuck for eternity. Confused by these actions, I simply grinned at it.
As I grew, I outperformed the class in most studies, debates and social activities. But my school days were tormenting and confusing on certain occasions. I invented my way to stay in the positive limelight. I used to regale the class with my funny, clean one-liner puns. I was the favorite of most teachers and that was heart-wrenching for a few. My classmates used to bring alarm-clocks and set them for 12 noon. ‘Bara baj gaye Sardar ke’… confused and angry, I landed on my mom’s lap and thrust this question to her. She asked me to bear it. And added that the tormentors were only jealous “Sadhhde ne saare. Tu nahi bolna, mooh dooje paase kar lavin” was her sermon.
As time progressed, the teen in me was bewildered. “Kyon Sardaron wali baat kar raha hai Paiyyun?” “Tere to Bara baj gaye hain“. “Sardar kahin ka“. Dazed. Flustered. Sullen. Resentful. Fuming. I was an upset teen with a sprouting goatee with the best sense of humor, timing, jovial and the ability to laugh at myself. I was the topper in the class and most proactive idea-churner for initiating social projects. The first school magazine editor, interact club and literacy program for the nearby village were my contributions. Yet, I was an object of ridicule, chuckles and taunts. Was I a buffoon, an idiot or my appearance was too funny? What else could I do?
Another Sikh junior of mine shocked us. He came to school clean-shaven. Again mom’s lap was my Vikramaditya’s seat. My poser shocked her. “Can I too cut my hair?” Tears welled up in her eyes; she held me close and said “Waheguru tainu taakat deve“. I thought I had hurt her badly. I walked off with a heavy heart and looked back “Mumma, I will not let you down”. That moment, realization dawned on me that this thing that they thought was humor; was actually a reaction to my success.
I researched a bit. I learnt how the British had started this campaign of degrading a community that did not allow them easy access in Punjab. Santa and Banta were their produce. Sic! “Angrez chale gaye Racism chodd gaye“.
I found my answers to ‘Bara baj gaye‘. 1738, the era of loot and plunder by Ahmed Shah Abdali under Nadir Shah. Thousands of young women were taken captive. Sikhs pitched in. Decided to attack Nadir Shah’s camp. Raided his camp at 12 midnight. Freed the women and restored dignity to Hindu community. Shame! These stories of valor and courage were forgotten. Kids in school setting their alarms to 12 o’clock. Films taunting Sardars by cutting frames to look at watches.
I did not have a ‘Dhai kilo ka haath’. I learnt kick-boxing since I had a frail frame. And ‘Paiyyun’ decided to take all those brutes head-on. One month of turmoil and disruption. Every time somebody said “Bara baj gaye“, I used to growl the Ahmed Shah Abdali narrative to him. I decided to use my news time in the morning assembly to let the school know that we don’t appreciate this sick humor. “The rescued torment and ridicule the rescuers” and the assembly nodded in hush. Soon, word spread that ‘Paiyyun’ had changed.
I was fortunate I had a formidable faith-driven mom who injected values in me. I refused to take shelter under the Oxford nitty-gritty of tolerance, freedom of speech, ‘taking it too seriously’ or ‘jokes are jokes’. I prayed for civility and fortunately god bestowed this around my academic and social circle.
Civility doesn’t necessarily mean tolerance. Encouraging civility also means showing intolerance towards people who are impolite and discourteous. Look at the western world.
Morality and civility is what we need. Unlike tolerance, civility requires knowledge and courage. Civility is a higher virtue than tolerance. And I can see enough lack of civility and more of apathy and indifference in our society.
Bigotry should not go unchallenged. The physical, psychological, spiritual, exploitation and subjection of Sikhs or Sardars by others have to stop. It is the systemic racism or social institutionalization of the psychological concept of supremacy by the weaker ones.
Sorry! I wandered off in a heavy serious zone. Up from my nostalgic slumber. I have a couple of paradigms or questions to ask? The answers would be your food-for-thought.
- Supposing it is our own sister who has been eve-teased or molested. Would we preach tolerance to her or take upon the tormentor?
- This late September, setting aside religious code, two young Sikh men saved a group of drowning boys in Punjab by tossing their turbans to them. How would the two saviors feel if the rescued comes up to them and says “Sardar, Bara baj gaye the kya?”
That was the feeling in ‘Paiyyun’ when he understood the context of ‘Bara baj gaye’. Millions of Sikh kids in India and across the world undergo such racism in the name of humor. Civility is a higher virtue than tolerance. Let us learn to be civilized and then seek tolerance.
RPS Kohli
(The writer is a social worker with one of the largest educational charities in the Sikh community.)
http://blogs.timesofindia.indiatimes.com/voices/with-malice-towards-none-are-sardar-jokes-hurtful-grin-it-but-dont-bear-it/
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