MAN STARTS SAYING WAHEGURU JII KAA KHALSA AS HAPPY JOINS IN FOR THE SECOND HALF OF THE PHRASE BUT WRITE IT IN A COOL WAY.
The trio of musicians packed their instruments as the non-crowd filtered out. Shera left the trio and walked towards Happy.
“Yo how did I do?” Shera said.
He sat down beside Happy, careful not to have his back or feet towards to the holy book in its seat.
“You killed it,” Happy said.
Happy slapped him on the back.
“Thanks, time for you to shine brother,” Shera said.
Shera got up, and Happy followed in kind. He was sure to mimic his motions with as little delay as possible. First he stood straight up and clasped his hands flat in front of his chest before raising them to his forehead, which bowed gently. Then he lowered himself again and put both hands on the ground and his forehead on the ground as well to bow as deep as possible. Then he got up and started walking towards the langar hall.
Since the collective prayer or ardaas had ended, the small gathering of worshippers had shuffled ahead of them to the hall to get their food before continuing to the rest of their lives. Most had already seated themselves down in the rows delineated by worn carpet. They waited for the select few who would do seva or holy volunteering to serve them.
That would be Happy today. Shera and Happy washed their hands, a prerequisite before serving people, and walking over to the selection of food on multiple long unfolded catering tables. The most prominent tableware were tall steel buckets with ladles in them. They each held a different vegetarian entree that had been cooked on site by other holy volunteers. There was daal or lentils, dahi or savoury yogurt, saag or spinach and a bucket of white rice. Alongside them was a basket of freshly cooked roti. The lid was kept on to keep them warm to the touch. At the very end was a metal tray of sweets and a serving keg of Indian chai tea with milk and tonnes of sugar.
Happy was grateful he didn’t need to navigate the heavy buckets and was handed the roti basket by Shera instead.
“OK, so you just go around and say ‘parshada gee’ and hand them rotis if they ask,” Shera said.
“Why don’t I ask if they want rotis?” Happy said.
“At the gurdwara, it’s called parshada bro,” Shera said, amused.
Happy pondered the magical transformation.
Happy took the basket under one arm so he could use the other to deliver and walked the rows. His bare feet were stepping in dried daal and wet water droplets, creating a food residue clay on his heels he would have to rub off on carpet later. His rhythmic offers were met with people raising their open palms clasped together. He would take a roti and drop it into the makeshift cup. If they kept their hand extended he would add a second one. For the gluttons, a third one was required before they lowered their palms and Happy could walk on. It was the weekend so he recognized many faces. But the one he dreaded the most was Preety. She was there with some friends her age and gave Happy a smirk as he handed her rotis. It felt like she was fucking everywhere.
He got back to the tables just as Shera was finishing with the saag.
Shera looks at Happy closely, his patka [^2]
“You should tie a patka bro. The ramaal is for kids and your strands of hair dance as you walk. Eventually you may be ready for a paag but a patka is a must, you’re 13 bro. Your beard is also bushy so you’ll look like Freeway from the ROC when your hair is fitted back,” Shera said.
“I don’t know, this thing is easier to tie,” Happy said, lying because his mom still did his hair.
“You gotta get more into Sikhi. It’s like you’re playing a sikh for Halloween instead. Do you know how to make rotis? You can help the bibis in the back,” Shera said.
“I don’t cook,” Happy said.
“You can help do the dishes when the langar is done,” Shera said.
“I don’t know how to wash dishes,” Happy said.
“What the fuck bro, you’re useless. Alright, take the water jug up to the 2nd floor and replace the jug in the visiting granthi’s quarters. Can you do that?” Shera said.
“Yeah, no problem” Happy said, eager to show he wasn’t a complete useless slob.
Shera seemed to know the entire workings of the gods house like it was his own apartment. He knew all the things that needed to be done and how to do them. Happy didnt even know how to take care of himself at a base level at home. His mum still washed his hair and made his food. If he was ever going to get out from under her thumb he would have to learn to be more self sufficient.
He took the jug, walking past the darbar sahib again and heading up the stairs to the 2nd floor. This level was starkly quieter than downstairs, where the live prayer had been replaced with recorded changts. Here there were smaller prayer halls that could be booked for the birth of childen or small weddings. The lighting was tweaked to be sparse and save on the giant electric bill. Prior to becoming a gurdwara the building had been a Canadian Tire big box store. Happy had shooped there as a wee kid. He could still see the grid ceiling and sharp lighting that used to serve as the top of the offfies here, about the humdrum of the store. He’d read of churches getting turned into food banks due to white people losing their religion, but here was brown religion swallowing consumerism as a rebuttal.
He looked for the granthi quarters and found a closed door. He slowly inched it open until he was facing a bunch of Sikh men sleeping head to foot with their gutis open and turbans off. The room smelled like sweat and the crampedness reminded him of his own apartment. One of the granthis stirred awake and looks towards the door. Happy swapped the jugs and closed the door quickly.
Happy hustled back down the stairs to the langar hall and found Shera scrubbing metal plates vigorously as the consumers were leaving their plates there and leaving the hall for home.
“I need to go help my mom at home,” Happy said.
Shera stopped scrubbing and turned to Happy. The heaped pile of dishes between them was dotted with the variant colours of leftover sabji, with smears from where people had worked to wipe up the excess with rotis.
“I’ll write you down for the full 8 hours with the head granthi when I’m done. He’s my uncle,” Shera said.
Happy thanked and him and hustled over to put his shoes back on. He’d hidden his shelltoes in the backracks so some tween didn’t steel them. He hurried out the front door but an older auntie was in front of him. She turned and bowed back to the darbar sahib in the doorway and Happy had to wait.
When it was his turn to leave he walked straight out without turning around.