Sarabjeet Garcha
The Five Ks
I was meant to nail
the five Ks of sanctity
into my being,
but wore only two:
a kara on my right wrist and
kesh tied into a topknot, secured
by the lotus-flower grip of
handkerchief and rubber band.
My kachhera briefs were far from
the recommended baggy ones
But good enough to contain,
when needed, the unruly bulge
of coming-of-age virility.
One day on the Ahilyabai Holkar Bridge
my brother smashed a mugger’s teeth
with his ridged iron bangle,
one of the solid Ks that encases
a Sikh’s wrist
as if in a guru’s
thumb-and-finger manacle
of reassurance.
I would use mine to plant
noon-burnished glares into
my classmates’ bored eyes.
To make up for the kangha,
the teeth of a plastic comb would
plough my scalp’s dark topography
while Ma sang gurbani, wishing
that her head tilt back
with the imagined weight
of lush black strands.
I honoured my part of the deal,
gave her the long black luxuriance that
the alarmed barber handed me
while in the king-size mirror I saw—
instead of a vacationing teenager’s face—
my father’s sad Sikh eyes
glistening with grief
and my mother’s grip slackening
on the Guru Granth Sahib,
a kirpan grating against
the print of devotion
and collective sighs blowing
the crumbs of karma away.