Asun Prem Umahra

Asun Prem Umahra

Sikh Turban

A matter of honour & Pride
by Roopinder Singh

The French government’s move to ban the turban has triggered protests from Sikhs across the world. This is not the first time the turban has run into trouble. It has seen some trying times on foreign shores during its long and chequered history. It has stirred opposition, curiosity, ridicule and was even spurned in cultures unfamiliar with what it stood for. The turban has existed in India since time immemorial as a symbol of pride and honour. After 9/11, turbaned persons have been targeted by bigots in the US and Europe. Much like the enterprising Sikh, who ventures unafraid to distant lands, the turban too has endured. The turban tells its tale of travails and triumph in the words of Roopinder Singh.
Sikh students of a school in France
Come to think of it, I am just yards of fine muslin cloth in a myriad of colours and, sometimes, designs. Yet when I adorn the head of those who wear me, I am the epitome of grace, culture and honour. Wars have been fought over me, people have become brothers when they exchange me with another of my kin — Maharaja Ranjit Singh gained the Kohinoor diamond in this fashion. I am a turban.
Now they want to ban me in schools in France. But how can they do it? So many men who wore me died fighting for France. I have been a crown on the heads of historical figures, and of those who are not even footnotes of history. I have made my presence felt in the continents of Asia and Africa for centuries. And if you look back at civilisations, you’ll find my mention in the Old Testament and in Egyptian, Turkish and Indian texts and art; in fact, almost everywhere where civilisation made an impact. Why, even relief medallions at Sanchi and Bharhut stupas, dating back to 2nd Century BC or earlier, feature me.
The Egyptians called me pjr, I am referred to as the turban in Biblical texts, in Persian I am called dastar and in Arabic one of the words for me is imamah. In Hindi I am called pagree and in Punjabi am referred to as both pagari or dastar. Other terms for me include murassa, khirki-dar, Faruq Shahi, atpati, kuladar, pechdar and Safawi, named after the dynasty of the same name in Iran.
I am a symbol of honour, which is why if someone talks of soiling a turban, it implies being dishonoured. In fact, a great honour being conferred upon someone by royalty is dastar a fazilat. Today, I will confine this narration to India and, in particular, to the Sikhs. In passing, let me mention that I was an item of formal wear in the southern states, where Iyers used silk cloth. In Maharashtra, there was the pheta and, of course, Rajasthan is well known for my colourful cousins called pagari, pencha, sela, or safa. Museums in Udaipur and Jodhpur have hundreds of styles on display.
What is my ideal length? Actually, it varies, based on the area, style and the person. Historians will bear me out when I tell you that Prince Salim, the 16th-century Sultan of Turkey, wore 11 yards of malmal, and other Muslim nobles followed suit. Nowadays, it varies from 5 to 8 yards. The Nihang Sikhs wear turbans, which are many times this size!
In Mughal India, when a reign changed, the new Emperor evolved a style uniquely his own, which was, of course, widely followed. Just look at how Emperors Babur, Hamayun, Akbar, Jahangir and Shahjahan, and their successors changed the style.
For the Sikhs, I am what Guru Gobind Singh ordered his Khalsa to wear at all times. However, because of my distinctiveness, the Sikhs have gone through various trials and tribulations in the last three centuries. They were easily identified and persecuted during the reign of the Mughals and from time to time thereafter, but have remained steadfast in their devotion to me and all that I stand for. The slogan: "Pagari sambhal oye Jatta," by Shaheed Bhagat Singh's uncle became a clarion call for independence from British colonialism.
They have refused to take me off, even if asked to do so as a safety measure. Memorably, in World War II, Sikh soldiers who were fighting for the British refused to wear steel helmets, despite knowing that the causalities among them would be higher if they did so. When told by their officers that the cost of pensions etc. accruing from their death was too much for the British Empire to bear, they unanimously agreed to forego any pension if they got a head injury. They still refused to dispense with me. Nowadays, the dispute is about crash helmets for motorcyclists, and the governments of Malaysia, Singapore, Australia and the UK have amended their laws to make special allowance for me.
Someone has documented that during World Wars I and II, 83,055 turbaned Sikh soldiers died and 1,09,045 were wounded when fighting under the command of the Allied forces
Many Sikhs, settled in the UK following World War II, faced discrimination because of me. In 1969, however, the Sikh bus company employees in Wolverhampton, led by Sohan Singh Jolly, won the right to wear turbans while on duty. This marked the successful culmination of a long-running campaign.
Other skirmishes followed, notably in Manchester, and it was only in 1982 that the House of Lords, Britain's highest court, ruled that Sikhs are a distinct ethnic group entitled to protection under the Race Relations Act. Nowadays, in the UK, turban-wearing Sikhs can be seen in all walks of life, including the police and the army.
In the US, I was called all kinds of names when Sikh immigrants first touched the shores of California at the end of the 19th century. They were derisively called "rag heads" because of me. Turbaned Bhagat Singh Thind served in the US army during World War I, but was denied American citizenship because he was "non-European White." Now many Sikhs wear me proudly, many hold top jobs, but the armed forces still discriminate against me. I have faced problems because of ignorance and bigotry after 9/11, but it has always been a continuing struggle to educate people about what I stand for.
In Canada, I faced problems during the early 1900s and, in fact, the Sikhs were disfranchised by British Columbia in 1907, and the Komagatu Maru tragedy, where 376 passengers of the ship were not allowed to disembark at Vancouver, followed in 1914. However, Canada gave voting rights to these people in 1947 and things changed.
In 1990, Baltej Singh Dhillon proudly wore me and joined the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. Some bigoted Canadians protested, but finally the ruling was in my favour a few years later.
In Africa, turbaned Sikhs did not face much problem, except for dealing with curiosity, which always happens. The same was much the case in New Zealand and Australia, except for one time when some members of the Australian Returned Services League tried to have Sikhs debarred from one of their clubs because they refused to remove their turbans on the premises of the club. I understand that the RSL objectors had to back down.
Anyway, so much for my being discriminated against. Most of the time I strike a distinctive note, which attracts attention. And many people are curious about how I am tied. Well, there are various ways, and indeed many distinct styles have evolved, expressing the individuality of various persons as well as the togetherness of various groups.
The way I have been tied often reflected the society of the time and of course there was always the sartorial element. A matching turban, a contrasting one, a bandhni turban with a splash of colours, a lehariya turban in which pattern makes waves, the African turban with its flat folds. There have been so many turbans, so many ways in which the Sikhs have tied them....
The patterns that the Sikhs wear come primarily from the Rajputs of Rajasthan, where there are thousands of my cousins. Since societal life is stratified in that area, colours and patterns represent specific castes or sub-groups. The way they are tied is also strictly laid down.
For the Sikhs, however, there are no hard and fast rules, though various social groups and geographical areas such as Malwa, Majha, Peshawar, Pothohar and Afghanistan have distinct styles. The Jats tie me differently from the non-Jats. The former, for example, do not wear patterns, just plain ones.
As for the colour, the elderly wear white, which is also a political colour of the Congress Party. The Akalis support royal blue, electric blue and saffron. Most Sikhs have at least half a dozen colours, which they wear to suit the occasion or the attire. Princely states, however, had distinctive colours of their own.

Colours of the turban

Indian armed forces
Black -- Cavalry and Armoured Corps
Green -- Infantry
Maroon -- Special Forces and Para- commandos

Princely states
The following were the colours favoured for formal turbans by the royalty of the princely states of Punjab:
Patiala Pink (court) and lemon.
Faridkot Hara Ferozi (turquoise).
Nabha Maroon
Jind Orange

Black, however, became a colour of specific protest during the British Raj after the tragic killings of the Sikhs at Nankana Sahib, the birthplace of Guru Nanak, now in Pakistan, where the local mahants, in connivance with the British authorities, had killed a large number of pilgrims.
In fact, Baba Kharak Singh, a prominent leader of the time, wore me in black. He was jailed by the British from 1922 to 1927. Hundreds of other Sikhs also wore black at that time and many were jailed, but remained steadfast in their demand till the British relented. In the troubled decade of the 1980s, saffron became a colour of discontent.
Though I am overwhelmingly worn by men, women too sport turbans, especially those belonging to the Akhand Kirtani Jatha of Bhai Randhir Singh and also American women converts to Sikhism. They follow the injunction made by Guru Gobind Singh who asked Mai Bhago to wear the kachera and tie a turban. Though small in number, these ladies do cut a dashing figure.
When you talk of me, you have to keep in mind the royal house of Patiala, which evolved the distinctive Patiala Shahi turban in which a thumb is used to create a depression near the forehead. The Patiala turban was standardised during the reign of Maharaja Bhupendra Singh.
Urdu poet Faiz wrote a beautiful couplet about me. Sari-khusrau se naazi-kaj kutahi chin bhi jata hai/ Kutha-i-Khusaravi se bue sultani nahai jati. While the turban may be taken from the head of a Sultan, the aroma of royalty will not leave the turban.
I am rooted in history that is inseparable from the spiritual journey of the believer. This reason alone is sufficient for me not to be taken lightly or easily dismissed, even though I have, like the symbols that stem out of other religions, become for many followers more an expression of religiosity and cultural values than of spirituality.
I have to be respected for what I stand for, and those who tie me have to reflect on that too, since it is their conduct that will give me the power to stand for honour. "You judge a man by his turban, gait and his speech," maintains an ancient Persian saying. How true.

Courtsey: The Tribune

Wonders of Sikh Spirituality Come Alive

Art Review 'I See No Stranger' Wonders of Sikh Spirituality Come Alive By HOLLAND COTTER Published: September 18, 2006 in New York Times.

Photo: Government Museum and Art Gallery, ChandigarhA king pays homage to Guru Nanek in an exhibition of early Sikh art at the Rubin Museum.

Sikhism, the world’s fifth-largest organized religion, has more than 20 million followers. Many thousands live in New York City. We can spot Sikh men on the street by their turbans and upswept whiskers. And many of us will recall that two decades ago Sikhs were at the center of the news when the Indian Army stormed the Golden Temple at Amritsar, killing hundreds of Sikh separatists, and, soon after, Indira Gandhi was assassinated by her two Sikh bodyguards.
But what about Sikhism itself? Few Westerners have even basic information.

How many people are aware that it was conceived as a universalist, open-door religion?
Or that its view of society was radically egalitarian? Or that its holy book, the Adi Granth, far from being a catalog of sectarian dos and don’ts, is a bouquet of poetic songs, blending the fragrances of Hindu ragas, Muslim hymns and Punjabi folk tunes into a music of spiritual astonishment?

This is precisely the information delivered by the small and absolutely beautiful show titled “I See No Stranger: Early Sikh Art and Devotion” at the Rubin Museum of Art in Chelsea. Vivid but concentrated, it presents, mostly through paintings, a culture’s version of its own origins, the image of history shaped far more by hard work, pluralistic politics and mysticism than by militancy.

Sikhism was founded at the end of the 15th century in northern India, when a young, high-caste Punjabi Hindu named Nanak had a revelation. It led him to believe that God was a formless spiritual force shared by all religions, and that social ranks based on faith, class, caste, gender or race were illusory. Unity was reality. The Other was just another. “I see no stranger, I see no enemy, I look upon all with good will,” is how Sikh scripture phrases it.

Eager to share his vision, Nanak took to the road, accompanied by a Muslim musician named Mardana, who played the stringed instrument called a rabab. Together they traveled, according to official accounts of Nanak’s life, from Sri Lanka to Afghanistan, and west to Baghdad and Mecca, composing and singing devotional songs as they went.

Government Museum and Art Gallery, Chandigarh. A workshop drawing served as a model for the painting above.

They lived at a high devotional moment. The mystical brand of Islam called Sufism was in full flower, as was the corresponding Hindu movement call Bhakti. Saints of all sorts and sects wandered northern India, bumping into and bouncing off one another, turning a subcontinent into a kind of giant love-in. Orthodox thinking was turned inside out. Hierarchies were up-ended. Students taught and teachers learned. The name Sikh — pronounced sick with an enunciated H at the end — comes from a Sanskrit word for disciple.

The exhibition, organized by the art historian B. N. Goswamy of Panjab University, and Caron Smith, chief curator of the Rubin Museum, conveys something of the flavor of all this through dozens of miniature paintings in Hindu and Mughal court styles illustrating the life of Nanak, or Guru Nanak as he came to be called. In them he emerges as a figure of commonsensical wit, unassuming piety, superhuman power and increasing physical bulk.

He’s a trim, soft-faced schoolboy in one 18th-century painting, standing in class and holding out a writing board — it looks like a boxy camera — to a teacher. Already by this time Nanak has been lecturing his parents on the Bhagavad-Gita and writing metaphysical verse. Some of these poems, we are meant to assume, are on the writing board. And we know his confounded teacher will give him an A for Amazing.

Another picture shows the adult Nanak asleep on the floor of a mosque in Mecca, with his feet pointed, in a scandalous breach of religious etiquette, toward the Kaaba, God’s house, the holy of holies. When an outraged mullah tries to drag him around into reverse position, the Kaaba turns too. The lesson: no direction is unhallowed, because God is everywhere.
In a third painting, Nanak, now in stout middle age and wearing a sort of zany aviator’s cap, sits with his book of hymns under a tree. Mardana, tuning up nearby, stares blankly off into space. From the left a princely figure, stiff-backed and poker-faced, approaches on horseback to pay homage. Clearly the meeting is a significant one, but nobody seems very into it, or even aware that anyone else is there.

The painting is paired in the show with the workshop drawing, produced by a master artist, that served as its model. The contrast is striking. In the drawing the prince, far from being restrained, practically levitates from his saddle with ardor and leans toward Nanak as if drawn to a magnet. Mardana plays and sings with fervor of a contemporary bhangra star. It is in the drawing, rather than in the painting, that the Nanak Effect, so evident in poems and songs, comes through.

Guru Nanak had nine successors, and each built on what he had begun. The fourth guru, Ram Das, established Amritsar as the pre-eminent Sikh pilgrimage site. The next, Guru Arjan Dev, completed the Golden Temple there, built on a platform in the center of an excavated lake. He also assembled Nanak’s poems, along with others by Hindu and Muslim saints, to create the holy book.

Up to this point, at the very beginning of the 17th century, Sikh history had been peaceful enough despite internal frictions. The site of Amritsar was a gift outright from the Mughal emperor, Akbar, a spiritual seeker and social philosopher who ruled much of India and was admiring of Sikhism’s multicultural character. But after Akbar’s death, rapport with the Mughals disintegrated.

In 1606 his son, Jahangir, an observant Muslim, imprisoned and killed Arjan Dev. When the next guru was also jailed, the Sikhs adopted a stance of defensive militarism and a new social ideal: the soldier-saint. The 10th guru, Govind Singh, formalized this collective identity in 1699 when he established a ritual of Sikh initiation and codified a set of communal symbols that included, for men, leaving their hair uncut, wearing a turban and assuming the surname Singh (“lion”), and for women, using the surname Kaur (“princess”).

Govind Singh also took the crucial step of designating the Adi Granth, the holy book, as the next, last, and eternal guru, under the honorific title of Guru Granth Sahib. The book became and remains an object of incalculable charisma, almost a sentient being, enthroned on cushions, swathed in rich fabrics, and handled with tender, punctilious deference. Reciting or singing from it is the defining act of the Sikh worship. So intense is its sanctity that, while a throne has been prepared for it in the show, the Guru Granth itself is physically absent.

Absence can of course have a presence of its own, as modern Sikh history does in this exhibition. An earlier show, “The Arts of the Sikh Kingdoms,” organized in London in 1999, focused on Sikhism from the British colonial period onward, tracing the entwined political and religious developments that led to, among other things, the calamities of 1984 in India.
The Rubin Museum has late material too, including a splendid set of British-influenced 19th-century drawings of craftsmen at work, and a series of formal portraits of Sikh warrior-chiefs. Unlike Nanak these leaders carry weapons rather than hymnals, which points to reconceived ideals of spiritual and temporal power, though these ideals and how they came about are only suggested here.

All-apparent, however, are the poetry and music that pervade and orchestrate the Sikh view of the world. Traditional hymns play softly in the gallery. A rabab is on display. Certain paintings have the gentle, doleful lilt of evening ragas; others jump and twitch with a bhangra beat. And running through everything, like the harmonium’s beginningless-endless voice, are the words of the holy book:

Wonderful is sound
Wonderful is wisdom
Wonderful is life
Wonderful its distinctions
Wonderful is praise
Wonderful is eulogy
Wonderful the Presence
One sees in the present
O wonder-struck am I to see wonder upon wonder.

“I See No Stranger: Early Sikh Art and Devotion” remains at the Rubin Museum of Art, 150 West 17th Street, Chelsea, (212) 620-5000, through Jan. 29.