Chapter fro Book - Kirpan (working title

'The story oscilates between childhood up to age 10 in India and then growing up and adulthood in the UK. I am theming it with the five K's of sikhism, this chapter is Kirpan and is part of a book I am working on




Chapter – Kirpan. (type of sword carried by Sikhs)


Jallander, India, 1965

‘This is a Kirpan, not a sword, do you understand the difference?’  I looked more and more puzzled as my chachaji  continued the story.  ‘A sword, is a weapon of offence, a Kirpan is a symbol of defence,  and do you see what I mean?’
‘I am sorry chachaji,’ I said ‘ I do not understand what you mean’.  Mr Kumar, my teacher at school had told me that a Kirpan is a sword, and now my chachaji, who had only ever seen the inside of a classroom whilst peering through a cracked and dirty window as a child,  was telling me that a Kirpan was not a sword.  ‘ Chachaji,’  I mumbled, a little uncertainly,  ‘what do you mean it is not a sword.’
‘The Kirpan, was given as a gift to the Sikhs, by Shri Guru Gobind Singh, not as a weapon with which to slaughter, massacre or oppress, but as a symbol of faith. A Kirpan, my son is used to protect the weak, uphold the faith, combat injustice and challenge oppression and persection.  So you see, it is not a sword after all.  A Kirpan is really in the mind, and this piece of steel, is only a worldly reminder that a Sikh never bows to tyranny, never runs from oppression and never ever  waivers from his faith. That my son is a Kirpan. Do you understand now? ‘. ‘ I think so Chachiji,’ I muttered.

13 July 1985, London.  UK.

Bob Geldof should stand for prime minister, I am sure that he would get elected.  Right now, right here, in July 1985, Bob Geldof is probably the most popular person in the world. Although the Live Aid stage is located in Wembley stadium, its reach is being felt simultaneously around the world. Millions of people are pulling out the credit cards and donating money to help save starving Africans.  But what about the starving, here, at home, in London, here today.  What would Bob have to say about that.  With unemployment at an all time high, Margaret Thatchers battles with the miners unions, leaving many, like me condemned to life on the dole.
I guess the dole ain’t to bad. At least I get to eat, have a roof over my head and not die of starvation, but subsistence living in London is not what it was meant to be.  The dole, it provides some structure to the interminably empty  weeks.  Every second Wednesday the giro check arrives, which entails a trip to the post office to get it converted to cash. On the way back from the post office is the obligatory trip to the pub for a pint of lager, followed by a dash round the discount supermarket to stock up on beans, rice and toilet paper. Then home
Out of the money left, payment to the landlord for the rent is priority, he always visits on a Wednesday. That usually leaves me about 6 pounds for the rest of the week, not much I know, but this is the existence that I have chosen for my self.
When I say chosen, that implies some degree of free will, but when faced with choices that my father had put to me that day, it was really just ‘hobsons choice’.  ‘In my house, you do as I say, or I have no son’. Well dad, you now have no son. I hope that you are very happy with your self.  That was almost two years ago, I remember coming home, full of swagger and the confidence of youth,  my hair cut, dyed and blow dried. I was expecting some comments but not what I got.’ How much did you pay for that you idiot’, was the first words he said as I walked into the living room. My younger brothers watching and waiting to see what would happen next,  envious that I had the courage to go to a proper hairdresser, and not the one shilling barber who only new two cuts, short or very short.  I thought I looked the business, and was not expecting this severe a reaction. Not much I muttered, despite all my bravado, I still, up to that point never had the courage to stand up to my father, preferring always to agree with his demands, whilst self loathing myself inside for not be braver.
‘How much I said,’ he bellowed,’ Do you think I work double shifts so you can waste it on haircuts, bloody punk, tell me how much’. I looked at him, and for the first time, looked him in the eye and said,’ it doesn’t matter how much’, its what I wanted.
I’ll give you  . what you wanted,  he mimicked in a very broken English, as he grabbed a pair of scissors and started to move towards me, I’ll give you a proper haircut. That was the last time I had any conversation with him, if you call that a conversation,  and probably the last time for a long time. Although I submitted to his butchery of my hair, I  vowed to myself that this would be the last time he would bully me in this way.