The German-Born Converted Sikh

by Deepi Harish (Canada)

Making a local connection Canada

After consuming a plate of fresh shrimp marked perfectly by a smoky char, a side of red rice simmered in puréed tomatoes, paired with two ice cold Coronas, I felt my day had hit its peak of happiness. I walked around the sandy, uncrowded, well-groomed beach as the hot sun smacked my body hard, now that I was no longer having lunch in the shade. I heard a female voice graze by me, shouting “Amarpreet, come here! Ardas, you too!” It happened again. Then two, little white girls zoomed past me to greet the adult calling for them. The term Ardas means “a set of formal prayers in the Sikh faith.” Being a Sikh woman myself, I’ve only heard that religious word in Gudwaras. Never as a name, let alone the name of a person who didn’t share my skin colour. At this point, the sweltering heat and the drinks had co-mingled to create a warm feeling inside my body that could have clouded my judgment. I walked up to the adult, Caucasian, brunette with the two blonde, blue-eyed little girls and said, “sorry, did you say Amarpreet and Ardas?” “Yes, these are my daughter’s names,” she replied. Noticeable confusion washed over my face. This led her to say, “I’m Lisa, my husband is a converted Sikh...By any chance, are you staying in Casa Rosa?” “Yes” I said. “You’re staying at our Airbnb,” said Lisa. We left it at that, as I didn’t want to bombard her with my scattered questions. Her daughter’s names gave away her family’s religion and cultural beliefs. I was so antsy to learn more. The next day, as my friends and I were looking for a brunch spot, I noticed a Caucasian man (in his mid-to-late thirties) wearing a white turban having chai with an older Caucasian man also wearing a white turban. I had never seen anyone that didn’t have brown skin wear a turban before. And it wasn't for style. Both of their kirpans were peeking through their clothes, they were both wearing thick, stainless steel karas around their wrists and rocking free-flowing open beards. These men were visibly Amritdhari (baptized) Sikhs. I said to the girls “the younger one must be Lisa’s husband.” My friends chatted with them while I stood there silently curious, as if I was observing local wildlife. We learned that the younger one goes by Simran, Lisa is his wife, he was having tea with his father who was visiting from Germany and that there is a solid German-born, converted Sikh population all over Mexico and Germany. Five years after our brief encounter in Puerto Morelos, Simran got in touch to let me know he had an 18-hour layover in Toronto, where I lived, before landing in San Francisco for a spiritual retreat. I’m not a spiritual person, therefore I was a bit hesitant about how our hang would go. There was an instant comfortability. We spoke in personal stories. We talked about his divorce, his non-Sikh past, how well we know ourselves, our happiness triggers and the power of manifestation. I laughed uncontrollably at his funny encounters with Indian people that never know how to react to a person who is clearly white, yet also visibly Sikh. I was my unfiltered self around him and my weird matched his. I showed him as much of Toronto as I possibly could before the city shut down at 2am on a Tuesday. At our last stop, we talked about how this was the best date, non-date with a stranger we’ve both had. He called an Uber and as I waited with him, he hugged me––it was lingering hug that said so many things without words. This could have been a fairy tale romance or perhaps it was meant to be just an 18-hour passing connection, to remind me that there might not be a sharp contrast between me the stranger I have yet to meet.