Hotline to god

It was just before dinner last night. The building supervisor called on the intercom and asked that we move our car from its home in front of the main entrance to our wing of the apartment block, to the back. Okay, my father agreed, but when? Four in the morning, he was told, much to his horror; the suddenly higher pitch in his voice made me demand details. It turned out that the Sikh family who lived upstairs had scheduled a prayer session in the courtyard and wanted clear space for it. Okay, so why at the crack of dawn, or even before dawn wakes up enough to crack? We were told that the puja would be held starting 4am, and that it would last an hour and not disturb anyone, really, truly. Rather astonished by it all, we had the car moved and made some faintly acerbic comments about the way people live their lives and then forgot about it.

A short while later, there was another call on the intercom. That was one of the young bahus of the Sikh clan who lived upstairs, asking if I would come for the puja. At 4am, she announced, and you should have a bath and then join us. And please bring your father, she added, saying that she would see me in the morning. I have never spoken to the girl before, though I may have smiled at her in passing as I rushed in and out of the apartment block on my way to somewhere or the other. But I was my well-brought-up, polite self, promised I would definitely remember the occasion and hung up, telling Papa that he should bathe and go downstairs at 4am. The look on his face was worth the giggle!

Some time before dawn cracked, when I reached one lazy arm out to point the remote (wrong way around, as always at that hour) at the air-conditioner to turn it off, an unusual sound filtered through my cloudy blanket of sleep. Burrowing my nose deeper into my pile of pillows didn’t switch it off, and it was not a dream since I was not deeply enough asleep. And it slowly crept into my head, with a rhythmic clash-thump, backed by a chorus of voices in a wonderfully almost-Vedic drone. Irritably I shook my head, hugged my pillow more tightly and tried to sink back into darkness. But the sound persisted and I had to get up, feed the cat, blearily wander about doing morning chores and get ready to go to work to harass my long-suffering albeit mean and nasty boss (who has never read my blog, so I can safely say blatantly untrue things without him being vengeful about it).

But after I got up, managed to find my feet, tripped over the feline and steeped my green tea, I tottered over to the living room window and peered out over the bougainvillea into the courtyard. There, in the semi-gloom of 6am, sat a lot of Sikh men and women, reverent before a large yellow flag, the genders carefully separated by many feet of dhurrie. They all had their heads covered, eyes closed, and they swayed gently to the sounds of the kirtan they sang. There was an elderly gentleman in immaculate white, his turban darkly coloured in the half-light, serving up glasses of white liquid – either lassi or milk – and handing out small newsprint-wrapped packets to the women. I saw a couple of heads tilt upwards, and retreated fast into the house, kitten in tow, giggling as she peered up, licked my nose and squeaked.

And since then I have been wondering what the ritual had been all about. And couldn’t it have been done later in the day, when everyone was more prepared for the onslaught of sound and fire, signifying what seemed to be a great deal? Or is that the best time to get a clear line to the powers that be?