Columnists

A Fine Line

T. SHER SINGH

DAILY FIX

June 4, 2012

Some time before we moved to Canada - more than four decades ago - my parents took seven months off to travel around the world.

When they returned, having been to over 40 countries, we couldn’t help pestering them with: “What was your favourite place?”

They said “Japan!” without a moment’s hesitation.

They often talked about their experiences in that country and of being bowled over by every one they met, by their culture and sense of decorum, their humility and their hospitality.

The most revealing example my father gave - and never, ever, tired of citing it over and over again - of the most civilized human specimens they had come across, the Japanese men and women, was the way the latter would place their shoes upon entering their homes, their workplaces, or even public places such as a restaurant or gymnasium.

“Each time they enter the threshold, they take off their shoes and exchange them for slippers or indoor footwear,” my father explained.

“Nothing unusual about that,” he continued, “because we do that as well, as do many others around the world. But what’s unique about the Japanese is that each one of them, each man, woman and child across the nation, spends an extra second or two to leave the shoes neatly, in a perfect line with the others, before stepping away.”

We were baffled with this answer. No tall buildings, no dazzling markets, no grand monuments?

The shoes? Lined up neatly?

So what?

He saw the puzzled look on our faces.

“It’s not just that they are meticulous about how they leave their shoes behind. It’s that they do it each and every time, wherever they are. Each and every person in every home, in every village, town and city. Every day, from birth to death.

“It’s no big deal. It’s no grand gesture. It’s not religious. It’s not required by law. They just do it; it’s part of their psyche.”

So? Big deal! The point was lost on us.

But he never gave up, and never tired of talking about it.

“It’s the discipline! That is what makes them the most civilized people on earth. And the most successful society in the world.”

“Right!” I piped up once. “So explain, please. If they’re so perfect, how come they lost the War? And how do you explain all the terrible things their soldiers did?“

“They’re not perfect. And they too have their fair share of things they are to be ashamed of. The War, for example. Their leaders had turned arrogant; they abandoned the humility that was the very bulwark of their ethos; and started thinking they were better than others. And they paid the price for it!

“But it’s not that they stumbled or failed that’s important,” he hastened to add. “It’s how they fell back on their inherent discipline and bounced back.

“And that’s what makes a man: not that he fails, but how he handles himself when he is down. Each one of us gets to be there a number of times in our lives.”

Like all things that parents (especially) tell you, the moral of this story too did not register.

But since then, as I too have stumbled through life, I have often thought about his homily and have been trying to decipher it.

The process began when, not too long after I heard my father go on and on ad nauseum about the Japanese and their shoes, I next found myself in a local gurdwara.

This particular one is one of the largest in Greater Toronto, and has the most affluent and educated sangat.

As I entered, I almost tripped over … yes, shoes!

A sea of shoes and sandals and slippers scattered wall to wall, as if I had stumbled into a garbage dump. Right inside the front door, starting within inches of the door, and all the way to the stairs leading to … yes, umpteen racks especially made for … yes, storage of shoes!

They were partially full. But to get to them, you had to navigate through another puddle of shoes that spread out evenly along the 100 running feet of shelf-space on that floor alone.

I shrugged my shoulders. And have done so each time I have been to gurdwaras around the world. The scene is the same everywhere … but for some notable exceptions, which are few and far between.

As the years have gone my, I’ve re-visited my father’s words and tried to look at the whole issue freshly.

What is it about the Japanese practice that rushes to my mind the very moment I step into a gurdwara now?

The willingness to make that extra, infinitesimally small effort, to stop, and be careful and neat.

The humility in accepting that you are part of a group or community of people, and need to be considerate to them.

The surrender to the rules and regulations which add up to constitute order in society.

The discipline that no matter how much of a hurry, certain things need to be looked after.

The realization that little things, when done right, add up to become big things that turn right.

The acceptance of the principle that no matter how big a project you’re involved in, the simple and little details are as important as the larger, daunting ones.
 
The spirituality of slowing down at certain junctures, even if they interfere with the task at hand.

The unwavering commitment to doing the right thing, even if no one is watching.

The unequivocal devotion to form and beauty.

Gradually, as I think about it more and more, I am starting to get an inkling of what my father meant when he said once, almost talking to himself:

“Sikhs will become masters of their own destiny once again … but not until they learn to place their shoes in a neat row, in the right place, when they enter a gurdwara. Each man, woman and child, every time, in every gurdwara, everywhere!”    

Strange ideas he had sometimes!    

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