When we were kids, we didn’t have activity clubs like sports or academic clubs. We had housework club on a Saturday. We would clean, mop, hoover, wash, and dust the whole house under the glare of my mother’s watchful eyes. Then on a Sunday, we had Gurdwara club.
The Gurdwara is a temple for Sikhs. An accurate description from the internet is:
A Sikh temple, known as a Gurdwara, is not just a place of worship but a community hub designed to serve all people, regardless of religion, caste, or background. Its doors are always open, embodying the Sikh principles of equality, service, and humility.
To be welcomed in, visitors are expected to follow simple etiquette:
- Cover your head (scarves or bandanas are often provided).
- Remove shoes and wash hands before entering the prayer hall.
- Dress modestly and maintain a respectful demeanour.
Every Sunday, from about 7.30 am to 4 pm, we’d pile into the car, armed with a bag loaded with books, toys, and our homework. We were in for the long haul.
We’d arrive so early that the main hall was still really spacious. In some areas, they hadn’t yet laid down the white sheets covering the seating areas. We usually set up camp in the sweet spot at the back—perfect placement. Not near the front, where all the religious folks were. Let them sing along with their prayers in peace. The religious folk firmly believed in the ‘it takes a village’. They would administer desi-style punishment at will, including prodding you with their walking sticks. We were by the radiator, prime real estate for my mum for her back. For us it was right next to the side door leading to the langar hall, where all the food was.
Then came the prashad—a buttery, sweet delight made from semolina, offered to everyone who enters the Gurdwara. This stuff was liquid crack for kids. We’d cup our hands as wide as possible to maximise our portion. Once we’d finished, we’d be left with greasy, shiny hands. My mum would force us to rub it into our elbows and face, and our knees underneath our salwar. Old-school moisturiser. Sometimes, they’d let us take some in a plastic bag. We’d squeeze it into a corner, bite off the tip, and suck it out. Unless my mum was watching, then we’d squeeze it discreetly into our palms, like a poo emoji. Licking it off like cats behind a book for cover.
We’d wait for our cousins to turn up. They got to come at a more civilised hour—around 11 AM.
While waiting, we’d round up all the kids our age and head to a small hall upstairs. This hall had four or five windows overlooking the main prayer hall. Each window was covered with heavy velvet curtains—perfect for spying on our parents. Up there, we could be as rowdy as we wanted. Wrestling, running, and playing games.
One of the games we played was “Cat’s Got the Measles.” My sister and I decided to elevate it to “Strip Cat’s Got the Measles.” The rule? If you lost, you had to take off a piece of clothing. There were about seven of us—boys and girls. For some reason, the boys always wore fewer layers and were really shit at the game. They’d be down to their pants in no time. One Sunday, mid-game, the door burst open—one of the boys’ mums stormed in.
She stared. “Tuhade kapere kithe ha?” Where are your clothes?
My sister and I eagerly waiting for the great reveal. Coming from a girl-heavy family, we had no idea what boys had in their pants. Well, we did, but we had no visual reference point.
While the boys’ mum was furiously gathering their discarded clothes, which moments earlier had been launched like grenades, my sister edged towards the door, slipped out and ran.
That was the last time we played in the upstairs hall. Talk about our antics had spread like wildfire. We weren’t personally identified, but somehow, my mum knew we were involved.
She always knew.
By the time our younger cousins turned up at 11 am, my sister and I had already:
- Washed up in the Gurdwara kitchen, scrubbing huge pans and filling bins with food remnants. That food was then taken to a nearby farm and used as pig swill. It stank!
- Served tea—which we had spiked with salt. Then, we’d hide in the langar hall and watch our unsuspecting victims take their first sip.
- If we were lucky, we had a packet of Smarties or Opal Fruits to share. With Smarties, we’d suck off all the colour, let the shell get paper-thin before crunching it into a tiny chocolate ball with our fingers. We’d let it harden and eat it. Opal Fruits were a different game. We’d take one of each colour, roll them out flat with a pencil or pen, stack them, and cut them into rainbow squares. Tried it the other day—not the same.
- Then came our personal favourite—shoe duty.
At the entrance, everyone had to remove their shoes. We’d collect them, place them in cubbyholes, and hand out cardboard tickets with numbers. At first, we took it seriously. But after a while, when we inevitably got bored, we started swapping people’s shoes around—fucking up the whole system.
When our cousins arrived, we’d mess around (quietly) in the main hall. This was until langar (lunch). If we were lucky and our mum was in a good mood, we were allowed to leave with them. They were allowed to go to the park on the way home, leaving early at 2 PM. Otherwise, we had to wait for our dad, which meant not leaving until 4 PM.
Leaving at 4 pm would be so boring as all our friends would have left by then. I mean, we would still be there when the holy book was put to bed. We pulled a longer shift than the holy book on a Sunday!
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