Harjas Singh -  Pulling Back The Turban

 

 

Ever since I was three years old and my hair was long enough to be tied into a bun or a joora, my mom and I had developed our daily ritual. I would sit down in front of her, my back towards her, and she would oil my hair, comb it, braid it, then tie it into a bunch. She would then cover it with a 1x1 foot square cloth called a patka. 

 

But there was another daily ritual that I would observe every morning. I'd be sitting at the breakfast table and I would see my grandfather, an older, bearded, Dumbledore-esque [audience laughter] gentleman with a bun on his head. He would take this really long piece of cloth, let's say the length of the stage, and he would hold one end of it, my father would hold the other end and they would roll it from either side until it looked like a long pipe. He would then take it to his room, and he would walk out and there would be this beautiful turban sitting on top of his head. 

 

And to me, it looked like a king wearing a crown. He almost had an aura about him. And I would ask him, “When can I wear that?” And he would say, “When you're older, when you're more responsible.” I had no idea what that meant. I was three. [audience laughter] But all I wanted to do from that day on was be older and more responsible. 

 

So, when I woke up on the morning of my 13th birthday, I was bursting with energy because today was finally the day. Today, I would transition from boy to man, and it would be marked by my very own turban-tying ceremony. See, the turban-tying ceremony is not too dissimilar from a Bar Mitzvah or a more religious sweet 16. [audience laughter] But instead of reading from the Torah, we read from the Sikh holy book, the Guru Granth Sahib. But more importantly for me, my grandfather would switch out my patka with a 16-foot long dastar or turban. 

 

So, I shower quickly that morning, I put on my favorite Bugs Bunny sweater [audience laughter] and I make my way outside. I see my grandparents and I touch their feet to seek their blessings. My parents, they're so happy on this day, because for them, with the turban on my head, I would be fully accepting my identity as a Sikh, that I live an honest life, I give back to society and I remember God. I was really, really excited, but it had also been a little while since I was three years old, and I had seen some stuff. 

 

Before the ceremony started, I thought back to my first day at St. Xavier School. I was five years old and I would be attending the same school that my father had attended when he was a child. I was so proud and I almost felt like I had bragging rights. Like, you know, kids who go to Harvard and say, “Oh, my parents went to Harvard.” 

 

My mom and I went through our daily ritual like we did every morning. She oiled my hair, combed it, braided it, tied it into a bun, covered it with a patka. I put on my school uniform, my navy-blue shorts, sky blue shirt and tie, and my grandfather dropped me off at the bus stop, me riding behind him on his LML Vespa scooter. 

 

As a kid who'd grown up in a Sikh family and in a Sikh neighborhood, I thought, everyone is supposed to have a bun on their head, or wear a patka or have a turban. So, it was to my surprise, when I get to the bus stop and none of these kids look like me. No one is wearing a patka. No one has a bun on their head. But these kids keep looking at me funny. For all they could care, I must have looked like Shrek to them. [audience laughter] But instead of being ugly and green and an ogre, I was ugly and had this thing on my head, this turban. 

 

So, after my grandfather had left, some of these kids started circling around me like vultures. One of them came close to me and said, “Hey, what's that thing on your head? Is that an egg?” And another kid said, “No, dude, that's a tomato.” [audience laughter] And then, another kid said, “So, you put a tomato on your head every morning and then you cover it with a piece of cloth? Eww.” Five-year olds can be pricks. [audience laughter] And then, out of nowhere, one of these kids comes and smacks my forehead trying to squash that tomato. Pride turns to shame and shame turns to fear. It's the first time I realized in my life that I could be hurt for no other reason than how I look. 

 

I go back to the bus stop every morning and this game continues. I suffer this day after day, and I don't tell anyone until one day it becomes too much. I go back home crying to my mom and I ask her, “Why do I look like this?” My mom's first reaction, she rolls up her sleeves and says, “Who are these damn kids, [audience laughter] and what are your teachers doing not protecting you?” And then, she calms down and looks at me crying, wipes my tears, gives me a hug and she says, “Beta, my son, we are Sikhs. The turban is a part of our identity. It's a gift given to us by our Gurus. And who are you to try and blend in when you were born to stand out?” [audience applause] 

 

Easier said than done for a kid who's just trying to fit in with his friends. But things only got worse after 9/11. It was almost as if anti-turban rhetoric had taken hold of the world. It didn't leave my small town of Ranchi in India. This game of whack a mole that started at the bus stop continued for the next couple years. And the more I would tell these kids not touch my patka, the more they would want to do it. So, one day, I was at school and this kid tried touch my patka and my joora and tried to like rip it off. And I told him, “No, don't touch it.” And he said, “Why? Are you hiding a bomb underneath there?” 

 

I felt hurt, confused, disturbed, angry. “Why had this kid called me a terrorist when I wasn't one?” I went home crying to my grandfather. He was sitting in his reading chair in his room, and I asked him, “Why do I look like this? Why do I need to wear a turban?” And he gave me a little bit of a history lesson. He said, “When Sikhism started in India, five centuries ago, India was ruled by kings. And turbans were a symbol of royalty. Only kings and noblemen could wear them. And these kings weren't necessarily kind. They would put people to death for no other reason than practicing a religion the king didn't approve of. So, the Sikh Gurus had instituted the turban as a symbol of equality, as a symbol of standing up against the injustices of these kings.” 

 

This was the first time I had questioned my religious identity and received an answer I thought I understood. But even though I theoretically understood, why I should be wearing the turban, the world outside kept giving me reasons not to. So, back at the ceremony, as excited as I was about putting this turban on my head, I was also conflicted with all these memories of being treated like I was an outsider. The entire family then started the ceremony. We moved to the prayer room in our house where the Guru Granth Sahib sat atop a palki or a pedestal. My father took his place behind the palki while we sat around on the floor as he read verses from the Anand Sahib, the prayer of happiness and bliss. 

 

Then, from a crumpled purple plastic bag, my grandfather took out this beautiful red and golden polka-dotted turban. It had been custom made for me, just like all the turbans had been made for my father and my grandfather before me. My grandfather held one end of the turban, I held the other, and we rolled it from either side until it looked like a long pipe. I knelt down in front of the Guru Granth Sahib clutching one end of the turban in my mouth, and my grandfather put down layer after layer of this turban over my head. And with each layer that he put down, the weight of the turban started to feel more real. I realized that it wasn't just the weight of the turban. It was the weight of history on my shoulders. It was a weight of expectations that I wasn't sure if I was ready to carry just yet. 

 

When the ceremony was over, I bent down to touch my grandparents and my parents’ feet to seek their blessings. I then went into my room, stood in front of the mirror and looked at myself with this turban on my head and I thought, I look weird. I now was looking at myself like those kids had looked at me at the bus stop, like I was Shrek. And I realized, I started to question in that moment that there were other kids who I had grown up with, other Sikh kids. But instead of wearing turbans now, they would wear baseball caps. Instead of keeping their hair and their buns, they would now shave their hair off. I would wonder, is it worth continuing to fight for your right to just exist instead of just trying to blend in? 

 

I realized after the ceremony that the turban had been given to me wasn't something I had accepted. My grandfather had tied the turban on me, but it wasn't my turban. It almost felt like an organ my body was rejecting. But I also wanted to be proud of my religion and my culture, just like my father and my grandfather were. 

 

So, over the next few years, I tied the turban off and on, mostly on special occasions like friends’ birthdays or family events, because those felt like safe moments where I could put the turban on and become comfortable with its weight. And every time I tied the turban by myself, the weight of the turban started to feel lighter, as if the turban itself was evolving to fit with my head, becoming one with me. 

 

So, on the morning of my high school graduation, I woke up and I went through my morning ritual again. I oiled my hair, combed it, braided it, tied it into a bun. I put on my school uniform, my navy-blue pants, sky blue shirt and tie. But instead of choosing to wear the patka like I had for so many years before this, I chose to wear my turban on this day. I decided I was done feeling afraid of who I was, and I wanted to be proud of who I am. I rolled the turban from either side into a long pipe. I carefully put down layer after layer of the turban over my head. When I was done tying, I stood in front of the mirror again and I asked myself, why do I look like this? Why can't I just blend in?” But this time, the answer came from within, why try to blend in when you were born to stand out? Thank you.