A pagh doesn’t suit you
Between my oceans of tear, I stifle a giggle
Lenin wouldn’t have liked it
The gianni drones on “Praise the Guru”
Women wail from the next room
Men are frozen like a Shimala Mountain
Black goo floating in your lungs
Something cutting chewing your stomach
Neck and throat, bulbous and closing in
Of course, it’s fine to sip that newly made whiskey
From the pindh you left behind
Who will bellow to me on the phone?
“Hallo Scary Spice!”
Will I be called a junglee, in that Olivier voice?
Long walks with us to the motorway
Faithfully taking my sister to the side of the road
When she moans, “Dump jaana!”
The journey home, panting and wheezing
Rewarded with a comic or a sweet
Stopping off to bet on oddly named horses
Striding in there with that fedora, cigarette dangling like Bogart
Stylish trench coat, you were our Sam Spade
Asking us to choose numbers for the lottery
Grumbling when they never turned out right
Except once for a tenner
Like the broken record, you indoctrinated me
Lenin’s teachings, Trotsky’s teachings
You might have laughed at the comrade bhai‘s speach
“Piara, more like Pataka Singh!” he said
Laughing aloud in that inherited boisterous guffaw
Chuckles abound during the passing over ceremony
Of course, they mispronounced the firstborn’s name
“Gurcharan Singh, Charanpreet, Harcharan!”
Good thing he was named after Tony Curtis
Lectures about exercising
How we rolled our eyes as you laboured on
Like an old veteran soldier
About the bakwaas of the new Indian films
The industry couldn’t spot
This fair, handsome, strapping Punjabi refugee
Hoping to be discovered like some male Lana Turner
At a drugstore in sweltering Mumbai
You snort as your scene comes along
Scowling and doing dishoom dishoom
To that lucky, blood Raj Kapoor
It was hard to focus on the shabad
When the gianni sang with a keyboard
That had a hilarious dhoom chuk Bollywood beat
I can see your arms folded
Scorcese-esque eyebrows squishing in a grimace
How you made us all play outside!
Instead of watching rot on TV
You blew the place down
When napkins were wasted
Incorrigible temper like a furnace
Upset pride as daughters married the goras
When it’s all done, condolences all around
Chai flows like a river
Dadi maa sobbing quietly
No longer barking orders from his armchair
Without his mocking commentary during those masala films
Grudgingly sitting down and watching the silly antics for those three hours
She would work the TV, maybe go outside
Water those pleasing red, yellow, pink roses
You hovered over every summer
She will cope, in this forsaken land of cold
I would cope
Can’t watch Aawara without searching for
That face, sweating like steel mills
That face with the “Paki” and “Go back home” hurled at it
That face sozzled at the pub each night
That face that welcomed me with, “She’s classikh!”
That face that held one close-up
Scowling at us, “Best movie star in the family!”
Glossary of Terms
Pagh – turban
Gianni – sikh priest
Satnam Waheguru – praise the guru
Pindh – village
Bhai – friend
Piara – babaji’s given name, meaning lovely
Pataka – explosion
Bakwaas – bullshit
Shabad – prayer
Goras – white men
Dadi maa – grandma
