Daily Fix

Red Letter Day

T. SHER SINGH

On certain days of the year, as I lie awake in the morning, gradually emerging from a night’s rest, it instinctively hits me with a “Hey, today is ….!”

These are dates I don’t have to, and never do, mark on a calendar. I don’t need to. They have become part of my DNA because of a regimen early in life.

For example, every May 5 or December 5, a flood of memories engulf me. Each was the last day of boarding school, when we’d head home for a two-month long vacation. The sheer excitement that culminated that morning - with the mass, free-for-all pillow-fight allowed in the dormitory the night before, the frantic packing, the promise of no home-work for the foreseeable eternity, and the anticipation of being back in the warm and fuzzy feel of home again - is etched in my mind like timeless graffiti carved on a rock.

Similarly, March 17 and September 29 - St. Patrick’s Day and St. Michael‘s Feast Day, respectively.

Why? Because the school where I, well, actually lived, not just studied, for years and years, was run by Irishmen and St. Paddy’s Day was like Vaisakhi for them. And our school was named after St. Mike who also gave it its motto: Quis ut Deus - Who is like God?

Which meant, simply, that each of the four meals served in the dining hall on those two days - breakfast, lunch, afternoon tea and dinner - included special treats, mitthaees, to honour the special day!

For a young’un, if that didn’t make it a red letter day, what would?

So I wake up this morning - May 9 - and as I go over the day’s inventory, it hits me ...

It’s May 9! Another red letter day!

It’s the day we as a family celebrated the founding of my father’s business. A kind of a personal Thanksgiving Day.

The store, started in 1948 in ancient Patna City (now “Patna Sahib”) was originally named “Motor Spares”, renamed “M.I.T. Motor Spares“ when it was moved to the new part of the city, Patna Junction, in 1950. A few years later, the name was abbreviated to “M.I.T. Motors”.

M-I-T? It intrigued our customers to no end, and there were guesses and theories galore, floated around until we’d get a whiff of them, to our utter hilarity. The best one was the rumour that my father had schooled at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology, and hence the famous initials.

Not true. He never had an opportunity to go beyond his high school Matric certificate!

“M.I.T.” stood for Mahinder, Ishar and Tapishar - My mum, dad and I. We were but three in the family when he was looking for a name for his store. 

It began as a retail store that sold auto spare parts and accessories. Later, it expanded into tires and wholesale.

Having arrived in these parts with little in his pocket - he had, like most in the extended family, indeed in the community, lost everything in the Partition of Punjab, his native land - he had to begin life from scratch.

It was an alien land … he knew no one. The language, culture, religion, customs, food … all were new.

But he was a Sikh and a Punjabi. He simply began to work.

Soon as he had set up a basic store-front, he purchased a bicycle and began visiting every auto mechanic in the region, one by one. He’d ask each of them the kind of auto parts they needed in their work routinely and promised them two things: a) in a week, he’d have their needs ready in stock in his store; and b) he would offer the lowest prices, guaranteed.

He’d catch the overnight train to Calcutta on Friday night, spend Saturday in the metropolis picking up his inventory, and head home on the last train that night.

It was a weekly routine … until auto mechanics within a few hundred miles in each direction quickly found out that if they needed a part to fix an automobile, they could simply head to M.I.T., confident that the young Sardar would have it in stock.

Those were times when any auto breakdown meant days, if not weeks, in the workshop, waiting for the part to be ordered and delivered from distant cities. Having a gasket or a fan belt, a spark plug or cylinder piston, brake lining or tire, available for the asking, no matter which vehicle or model, was a revolution.

Dad added a further service which no one else could provide. We lived in the apartment behind the store. So, a customer could knock on the door, day or night, 24 hours, 7 days a week, and Dad would open the door. And there was no premium added for this extra service.

It meant, trucks on long cross-country hauls stranded on the highway, awaiting repairs, could get back on the road within hours … remember, time for them meant money. Privately owned automobiles in town, needing repairs, could be back in operation within hours.

It was unheard of until then!

Needless to say, it didn’t take long for the business to flourish, and for M.I.T. to grow in leaps and bounds.

Dad never forgot those early days and was forever grateful for the windfalls he enjoyed that led to his success.

And it was in that frame of mind that he would bring everything to a halt on May 9.

But it was never a day of hoopla or hullabaloo. No party, no balloons, no cakes, no hip-hip-hurrays.

It was a day of quiet celebration, of thanksgiving, of introspection and circumspection.

We’d all head for the big gurdwara - the Takht Sahib - about ten miles away. For the early morning Asa di Vaar kirtan.

The store would be closed for the day.

Each year, Dad would invite someone learned, someone wise, someone spiritual, for lunch, and we’d all spend hours with the guest(s). That was about the extent of the public nature of the day.

The Takht at Patna being one of the great seats of Sikhdom, it attracted a constant stream of the crème de la crème of Sikh thought and practice. There was never a dearth of someone exemplary to honour us by his or her presence for the day.

I remember one frequent visitor on such occasions - Sant Kartar Singh, who had dedicated much of his life in helping fund-raise for the burgeoning Sikh centre that Takht Sri Patna Sahib had become.

He was a quiet, deeply spiritual man. Even as a child, I enjoyed his visits and the time he spent with us. Probably because he had such a keen sense of humour.

I remember once, as we began our mid-day meal, he requested that he be given only khushk (dry, crisp) rotis, that is, without any ghee (clarified butter) slathered on them.

So, we ordered the cook to make some fresh ones quickly … and instructed him not to apply any ghee.

As we waited, Dad made some polite conversation and asked the Sant, “Is it on doctor’s orders?”

He replied, “Let’s eat first. I’ll explain when we’re done.”

Over dessert, he broke into a huge smile and said, “Now let me tell you why I prefer khushk rotis.

“I travel a lot. And I eat out a lot. My one weakness in terms of food is that I like freshly made rotis. But invariably, wherever I go, my hosts have pre-prepared the rotis, and stacked them, so as to have an uninterrupted meal. And inevitably, especially because the rotis have been made in advance, they have to be slathered with ghee to prevent them from going dry. I don’t mind the ghee, but I do have a weakness for phulkaas (swollen, freshly made rotis) straight off the chulha (fire/stove).

“Now, if I said that to my hosts, that would sound awfully rude of me, fussing around like that. So, I ask them for khushk rotis! I know that means they’ll have to make them afresh …

“So, to be honest, this is how I get to feed my weakness, and at the same time I don’t lose face!”

I’ve never forgotten the story, especially because I found it shocking to see a man of his position admit a weakness. I learnt that it only added to his stature.

There were other characters, equally interesting, that Dad would bring in on these occasions to spend the day with us.

I recall a specific one, though I can’t remember his name.

Over the meal, we couldn’t help noticing how he fumbled with his roti, as he tried to break off a morsel. This continued through the meal. It caught our attention because it was agonizing to watch him struggle with the chore.

Moreover, as we watched - we couldn’t help but stare - we also noticed strange discolorations on his knuckles. On all of them. It was like a pattern.

Politely but cautiously, Dad offered to break up the rotis for him. The gentleman accepted the gesture and moved the plate over to him.

As Dad broke up the rotis in smaller pieces, he gently asked: “Would you mind if I asked, is it arthritis that afflicts your hands like this?”

Dad, a closet homeopath, was forever ready to offer remedies!

“No,” said the gentleman, “it’s a long story.”

We went quiet after that, eating in silence for a while. Sensing that it was a long and pregnant pause he’d been allowed, he finally continued.

“I was involved in the independence movement in my youth. On one occasion, we were protesting in a public rally in Amritsar, and a number of us were arrested and hauled off to jail.

“Once there, the Superintendent, a British Officer, decided to make an example of us. We were thrown on the ground and lined up in a row, with our faces down. A constable sat on each one us, with others holding our legs and feet down. Another bunch kneeled in front of us and stretching our arms straight in front of us, held our hands firmly, palms facing down.

“Along came another constable. He had a lathi (thick bamboo baton) in his hands.

“He then proceeded to hammer our knuckles with the end of the lathi, each knuckle, each hand, each prisoner. Until they were reduced to a bloody pulp. And we to unconsciousness.

“They then dumped us out on the street. When we regained consciousness, we were in a gurdwara; the hospitals had been prohibited from tending to us. Our hands had been encased in bundles of gauze-bandage by a make-shift clinic …

“They are fine now. Not too bad. Only a few things I have difficulty doing, that’s all!”

Another year, another May the 9th, it was Baba Gurdit Singh who came over for a meal. He was - I heard the story for the first time then, from his lips - the man who had chartered the ship named Komagata Maru for the historic voyage to Vancouver in 1914. It was also the first time I heard about a distant land called Canada.

But that’s another story, for another day.
 
It is for these and many other memorable afternoons that May 9 remains etched in my consciousness, long after M.I.T. Motors became history, when we moved to Canada, and our father passed away two decades ago, also in Canada.

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