Hello again in 2021. This one is my long story for the year but not as long as Patsy, only 40 parts - enjoy.
Marianne G

Part 1

There are days when you want to leap out of bed in the morning and attack the day with all the vigour you have. I don’t get many of these days lately. There are other days where you really should have stayed in bed and I had just had a week’s worth of those.

I did have to get out every day because I usually needed to eat and my single room accommodation only had enough facilities for toast and anything you can microwave. One can live on spag-bole for only so long. The place was small because I needed something cheap and this one certainly fitted the bill. It was in a ‘mixed’ building. Actually it wasn’t ‘mixed’ until I moved in as everyone else was from the Indian sub-continent and I was the one that changed the dynamic.

I did get on pretty well with my neighbours and played in a Sikh band that we had put together, playing in parades and festivals with the occasional party. Of course, it almost cost more to be in it than what I got out of it but it was fun and had improved my playing a lot. I did sometimes add to my income by busking down at the local mall.

When we played in public we all dressed in traditional costume and I had been given enough to get by. I was a bit worried that instead of the usual long-sleeved jacket the others wore I had been told to wear something that looked like a well-worn kameez; a long top that I had seen the Sikh women wear. They told me that it was better for me with the instrument I played.

I had grown up wishing I had been born in the swinging sixties and had been able to embrace the hippie lifestyle. I did wear my hair long as a token nod to the period but that was generally as far as it went. My original instrument had been the drums but I got tired of trying to emulate Keith Moon and, because of my small unit, I had taken to bongos. I had been playing on the front steps one day when Balnoor, from a floor above mine, had stopped to listen and he asked me if I had ever tried the dholak.

This is an Indian drum that is barrel shaped with a high pitch at one end and a lower pitch at the other. He brought one down for me to try and I was hooked. It allowed one to play complicated rhythms with ease and he sold me two of them very cheaply on the condition that I brought them to a garage around the corner that evening and play along with he and his friends. That’s how I got into a Sikh band.

You’re going to ask how a white boy could play in a Sikh Band and I can tell you that I came from a line that goes back to Spain and, possibly, the Moors. I am swarthy, rather than dark and my hair is jet-black. I would like to tell you that I am tall, dark and handsome but, as a girl I once knew said, I was short, dark and too pretty to be a boy. It was that look that got me into my first spot of trouble.

We had been playing at a party on Monday evening, just up the road, and one of the guys there was a promoter. He got us together at the end of the night and offered the band a steady contract to play at Indian events, which was immediately accepted. The kicker was that I was not part of the deal. Not Sikh, not one of the faith; not tall enough and not bearded like the other four players. It wasn’t my fault that I had been graced with jet-black hair and an inability to grow a beard. He said he had a dholak player who would be able to join them who would be able to match then for skill and for looks.

So that was my part-time job gone. Still, I had an actual day job in an office in the city as a book-keepers assistant. When I say had, come Tuesday when I went in I found out that it had become had had. The boss called me into his inner sanctum and told me that there had been an edict from head office in Brussels to lower the costs and the easiest cost to lower was ‘the hippy tea maker’ who didn’t fit the pin-stripe mould. So, one job down because I wasn’t Indian enough and another because I wasn’t city enough.

Wednesday evening I met up with my current girl-friend and when I told her I had been given notice she gave me back the friendship ring I had given her because she was not going out with a loser anymore. I put the ring on my own finger for safe-keeping. Actually, it wasn’t too bad as it had been given to me by a previous girl who had been given it by a one of her ex-boyfriends. So it all moves around – very Zen, so I thought.

I had another week and a half to work and thought that this may give me time to find something else to earn my wages with. I went along to the labour exchange to see what they had and they told me to come back when I actually had my final paycheque and they may be able to find me something in the waiting or labouring field. I had done waiting once before and did not find it an edifying experience. I had bruises on my arse for weeks after I stopped; I suppose that being a waiter in a gay bar would be the answer to that but I was desperate for work at the time.

Saturday I took my instruments to the local shopping mall to see if I could make some coins by busking. I wore the traditional loose trousers and my long top, put my hair up in a bun and covered it with a patka – a half yard square of cloth that you tie over the top-not. The band had said that I was not able to wear the turban as I was not of the faith. I was happy about that as I really could not see myself winding ten yards of material around my head in the morning. I had the traditional jutti on my feet, the curved toe slippers that were surprisingly comfortable.

I had put together a little bit of equipment for busking. I used two dholaks in frames so that I could have one high and one low pitch or, for some pieces, either both high or both low. I had also made a contraption that I used with my feet to play a small high hat. All of this was easily transported in a converted child’s pusher.

I set up in my favourite place and started to play. My usual procedure was to start with a traditional hymn or two while quietly patting out the beat. As I warmed up I would start to play more complicated rhythms that you get in the traditional raga before having a break and then starting quietly again. Each session could be an hour or more so I did need to stop for a drink. I would put more vocals into the performance if the crowd was appreciative as I had quite a good voice, if a little high pitched when I sang; perfect for the hymns that were normally sung by women anyway.

This day was a good one, sunny but cool, and the bulk of the crowd were of Indian heritage so I had a bit of a crowd for most of the time and the box in front of me was getting a fair bit of coinage tossed in. This changed when a very well dressed Indian gentleman put a decent denomination note in it and asked me if I could play and sing the traditional wedding music. With the band we had done a few weddings so I said I could and did as he asked.

While I was playing and singing I had a good look at him. He was obviously well bred and well off. He had the full kakar on – the five articles of faith. Well I could see four of them as one, the kachhera, are long and loose underpants. He had the long hair that all Sikhs have – the kesh; the kara – the steel bracelet; the kangha wooden comb and I could see the handle of his kirpan, a small sword that is worn at the waist, poking out when his jacket swung open. He had the full domella turban and was, all in all, the very picture of a successful businessman.

When I had played for him for about a half an hour there was a lot more money in my box as I must have struck a chord with all of the married women in the audience. He put another large note in my box and said “Come, I will buy you lunch and we can talk in some privacy. I think that you can get me out of an awkward situation.” I packed up my kit and loaded it on the pusher and asked him if he could watch it while I went to the toilet. I put my money box in my backpack along with my water bottle and went into the gents for a much needed pee. He was there when I came out and he led me to one of the traditional cafes in a side street off the mall.

I had been in this café several times before and was on speaking terms with the owner, Taranjit, so it was not a problem to ask him if I could put my gear into an out-of-the-way spot while my companion was finding a table that he deemed suitable. Taranjit spoke to me quietly “Your friend is good man, has power in community. Whatever he say, you listen.” I nodded and went to sit at the table, wondering what this was all about.

He started the conversation by saying “I am Guptar Hidjeet, I have some supermarkets in town, you maybe have heard of the Hi-jet Marts?” I said that I had as there was one close to the tower block where I lived; they were mostly normal but had a dedicated Indian aisle filled with the products from home. “You live in the Indian quarter?” he asked. I told him that I did, indeed, live in a block that housed about two hundred and ninety nine Indians and me. “That is why you have absorbed our customs, then” and he smiled, carrying on, “I see that you have your hair worn correctly and even have a proper patka over it. I also noted you wear a kara bracelet like mine. Of course, you will not be of the faith but you are certainly well along the path of enlightenment. What is your name, interesting young man?”

Marianne G 2021