People

The Turban in the Obama McCain Debate

by ARVINDER SINGH KANG

When the major U.S. news channels first began dissecting the presidential debate at the University of Mississippi last week and around 50 million eyes worldwide were glued to the television, an image of a blue-turbaned Sikh flashed across the screen.

Many of those watching Fox News and CNN screamed "Oh vekho! aapna Sardar!" (Look! A Sardar!).

I was part of the media taking photographs of the political players doing their post-debate Kabuki dance in the so-called "spin alley".

My phone started ringing within moments.

"Is that you on Fox News?"

"Mr. Singh, you are on CNN too!"

Never did I imagine that one turban could bring so much excitement.

I came to the U.S. in the fall of 2005, as a graduate student at the University of Mississippi. From a proud Sikh family, I was the first kid from my village and from my maternal and paternal lineage to come to America for studies.

I brought twenty-something Puggs (turbans). I knew Japji Sahib by heart and had been exposed to Sikh history more than I had been to comics. All through my undergrad years, I had taught my juniors how to wear a turban. There was no doubt, whatever the circumstances might be, I would always be a Turbanator!

While boarding a plane from London's Gatwick Airport, I sat beside a Sikh girl living in Houston who was born and raised in London. "...So it's going to be hard to keep a turban in university", she said in a lovely British accent.

"Much nee te kuch nee!" (What's a man without a mustache) I had quipped.

There was no doubt in my mind. "I would like to meet you again in another six months".

When I arrived at the University of Mississippi, I was not just the only Sikh, but the only Punjabi in the whole university.

"Durka Durka, Jihad", some drunk kid in a pickup truck yelled, showing a finger, while I was walking back home from the department at late hours during the first week. Someone had recently seen Team America, and his "I.N.T.E.L.L.I.G.E.N.C.E" had not been exposed to Sikhs ever before.

Every non-Indian kid I met at the school either thought I was a Muslim or was definitely from the Middle East. Most of them were hesitant to start up any conversation, and even if they did, it was something to do with the Islamic view of the United States. The South was definitely different from the Hollywood‘s America.

On the fifth day of the third month I was in the U.S., I was sitting in a salon, looking dumb and confused. The hairdresser, a petite blonde with short hair in her early thirties, ran her fingers through my hair. "Awww! You have got beautiful hair, you shouldn't cut it, sweetie". The voice of my conscience was speaking through other people.

Had I gone deaf, or had I mastered the skill of overcoming guilt? I still wonder.

The first time I got a White House press-pass was in January of 2006.

Helping a small newspaper, The Sea Coast Echo, on the Katrina-affected Mississippi coast, I attended a press conference by President George W. Bush.

"Is that you?" the security agent asked, looking at my turbaned picture on my driver's license. He then glanced over my potato-skinned face. "I am not sure", I had quipped, before he gave me a stern look, telling me no nonsense was allowed there ... except, I suppose, by a politician.

In 2006, I was chosen President of the India Association at the University of Mississippi.

I wore a turban on all official occasions; however, on normal days, I was all cut and clean-shaved.

In the summer of 2006, the International Program office invited me to give a lecture on Hinduism for the Annual World Religion Festival.

How could my "Sikh activist spirit" keep quiet?

I assigned a lecture on Hinduism to another Indian student and worked to include a Sikh lecture.

"A Sikh should not cut his hair", I preached, wondering if the locks of my inch-long hair were visible through my turban.

For two years, my father, a devoted Sikh, did not know I had shorn my locks. His broken heart was visible on his face when he saw me for the first time on his visit to the States. The mores of his family were broken by his own son. Maybe that's why, ever since, he has had no desire to come back to the U.S.

I had become exactly the very thing that I had disliked all my life - a hypocrite.

Last year, during the summer, I was camping out with an American friend. After devouring barbecued wings and having knocked back a few beers, he asked: "Aren't both of these forbidden in your religion?"

Ahaa! He was in for one of my talks on Sikhism.

"They are, but for committed Sikhs".

"Then what are you?"

"Aaaaa...Where did you get that barbecue sauce from?" was my quick answer.

"It's very easy to become a leaf, being knocked all around by each puff of breeze". The best poetry and random philosophical quotes often flow from situations where no one would expect them to be.

That very weekend, I spent time writing down on a piece of paper where I wanted my life to be in two years. I spent time listening to Singh Sahib Harbhajan Singh Yogi's lectures on Sikhism. For the first time, I started discussing the interpretation of Japji with my brother. I made two promises to myself: "I would not eat meat and would not cut my head hair".

A single commitment seldom works; two compete with each other. I was starting back at level zero.

It has now been a year and a half. I proudly wear a turban everyday to my office. My hair, when loose, falls below my shoulders. And I have not touched meat during the same period. I'm a far better Sikh (a student of life), and above all, a far better human in my own eyes, as compared to the shadows of my past.

Neither vices nor virtues come alone; both come in the company of others like them.

The annual talk on Sikh religion is in its fourth year. The Mississippians, at least in my county, know more about Sikhism now than they knew three years ago. And they hardly feel uncomfortable any more talking to the funny guy with a turban on.

"We saw you on the TV, Bro".

"Man! You should have done the Robot Dance!"

And myself, I am healthier, more content, and happier.

The path from confusion to self-realization is a tough one. However, at the end of the journey, the rewards for commitment are great - being content and feeling comfortable in one's own skin. There is hardly a bigger prize I can think of.

As for me, I'm not there yet.

I'm taking baby steps, but I'm moving towards the path my father and forefathers walked. The journey has suddenly become clear; the doubts have vanished.

I have a long way to go, but hey, I'm only twenty-five!

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