Indo-Canadian Reality
I grew up with, played with, studied with, partied with,
rebelled with, snuck out with, lied with,
sympathized with, adolescented with,
will go to university with, gain my reputation with,
acquire professional power with, get married with,
have children with, gossip with, then as now, with,
the confused minds of my Indo-Canadian generation,
who, dressed in bright orange, pink, yellow, green,
full length Indian suits, played cabbage patch doll
at family parties, in front of uncles and aunties,
serving spicy tea and playing coy during the day,
who, dressed in the latest backless, braless, bright,
Parasuco tops and curvy leather mini skirts,
unleashed their wild inner Barbie girls at night, swaying, displaying,
who, at 18, has known since days spent
playing with little pink dolls,
that she must be at once an intelligent,
ambitious engineering student at MIT
and a head bowing, tea serving, dinner making,
husband pleasing, child rearing,
incarnation of Aishwariya Rai herself,
that goddess of Bollywood movies
and fantasies of sexually charged adolescent males
and their lost-in-the-clouds mothers,
who spend countless hours raging, pleading, fighting,
and engaging in futile efforts to convince parents,
descendents of an ancient civilization
which bore dance masters, painting gurus,
philosophic geniuses, famous poets,
which invented the arts,
to let them pursue dreams to paint, to act, to write
who must resign themselves to ties, stethoscopes,
briefcases, careers, doctors, lawyers, engineers,
which strangle, choke, suffocate them,
who are told to be MEN, not to cry,
but never to argue,
never to stand up to their fathers,
never to disobey their mothers,
who go to McDonald’s with friends,
but can eat nothing, no meat, no hamburgers,
no fries fried in the oil which fries the meat,
who leave the house to party with friends at 8 p.m.
but must be home for curfew at 9:30 p.m.,
who, shopping at Square One with their mothers,
forbidden from tight fitting clothes,
doomed to outfits two sizes too big,
smuggle in tank tops low waist jeans
strapless bras stuffed inside textbooks
hidden at the bottom of bags disguised as gifts for friends
who live out their romances at Central, Streetsville, Meadowvale libraries,
cell phones in hand, meeting the boys in BMWs,
decked out in Ecko, Phatfarm, Nike,
making excuses to their scolding mothers,
sighing at the relief when the phone finally clicks,
another two hours before the next phone call, the next lie,
who, Khandas hanging from their necks, claiming Sikh pride,
their bulging mothers dragging them
to the temple by the ear,
whip out their cell phones in the lobby, smoke their cigarettes
in the back, holler at the good Sikh girls they’ll be meeting
later at 108, or Calypso or Berlin in Brampton,
who sit at family parties bearing the scrutiny
of potential mothers in law who pinch arms to check for fat
while shoving snack after snack, meal after meal in their
faces, mistaking girls with short haircuts for boys,
who chase after Indian girls, looking up skirts,
slapping tight asses, pimping, macking, harassing,
but refusing to respect, refusing to take home,
refusing to marry,
who, brimming with anger beat the white kids,
the white cops, the way their drunken fathers beat them,
who are given scotch on their fifth birthdays,
pass out drunkenly on the porch at family gatherings,
crash brand new Mercedes Benz’ every three months,
who, after countless stabbings backups shootings
run ins with cracked beer bottles take
pride in the scars running down their backs
along their arms across their cheeks,
continuing the violence,
the same scars stripped across their fathers’ bodies
as if they were born branded, Sikh, Punjabi,
fists for life this life that life
the one before it the one after it,
who are ill fated to marry only Indians,
only Punjabis, only Sikhs,
who must give up their Chinese girlfriends Black boyfriends
for husbands scanned versions of their fathers
for wives printed versions of their mothers
after one date one meeting one engagement ceremony,
who are linked, fianceed, married off, by caveparents who sit
night after night at the computer, on the web, searching
through arranged marriage personals advertising daughters as
slim almond eyed quiet obedient excellent cooks,
who hate on each other, he said she said they did oh my god
did you see that gossip insecurity oho aha Monika Deol Much
VJ slut drag her down back down all the way down,
who, turbaned marked with Sikh pride know nothing
of gurus eternal truths religious principals
misunderstand cut their hair throw away turbans
pick up diamond studded playboy bunnies,
who live Bollywooded lives only two characters:
Singhs, translation: lions, constantly growling fighting
proving staking out territory Brampton crew Malton boys
Rexdale thugs ignored by rejected by
eventually married off to Kaurs meaning: princess,
who don’t do much on the picture perspective
look at the Muslims with their welfare fraud stealing and terrorism
or Italians and the mafias with their illegal racing
and gambling or Russians too or rising Tamils
or fucken the all mighty the Nigger,
who wish all people Blacks Whites Chinese were Indians
just like them Arabs Persians Pakistanis
all the same as us all Brown
who, singin bling blingin drive Lexuses, BMWs, Mercedes Benzs,
operate out of 100 000 square foot homes,
life is money money is life spirituality
what deeper meanings what callings what love what cash
yes checks yes diamonds YES!
who, failures the legacy of the American dream parents
who slaved day and night, counted every penny sacrificed fun life spending
for children a better life better education high class jobs,
21 years old still in high school no pencils
no books no grades failures
who never reach adulthood in their parents’ eyes,
remain children incapable of picking their own clothes,
their own husbands, their own homes, even at 37 years of age
incapable of making their own decisions,
who, I’m sorry to say I’ll grow old with,
have children with, continue the cycle with,
sorry for you, sorry for me, sorry for them,
confusion, confusion, confusion.
Sikh or Punjabi?
By Puneet Parhar
Faculty of Arts, English Literature Honours
Queen's University
rebelled with, snuck out with, lied with,
sympathized with, adolescented with,
will go to university with, gain my reputation with,
acquire professional power with, get married with,
have children with, gossip with, then as now, with,
the confused minds of my Indo-Canadian generation,
who, dressed in bright orange, pink, yellow, green,
full length Indian suits, played cabbage patch doll
at family parties, in front of uncles and aunties,
serving spicy tea and playing coy during the day,
who, dressed in the latest backless, braless, bright,
Parasuco tops and curvy leather mini skirts,
unleashed their wild inner Barbie girls at night, swaying, displaying,
who, at 18, has known since days spent
playing with little pink dolls,
that she must be at once an intelligent,
ambitious engineering student at MIT
and a head bowing, tea serving, dinner making,
husband pleasing, child rearing,
incarnation of Aishwariya Rai herself,
that goddess of Bollywood movies
and fantasies of sexually charged adolescent males
and their lost-in-the-clouds mothers,
who spend countless hours raging, pleading, fighting,
and engaging in futile efforts to convince parents,
descendents of an ancient civilization
which bore dance masters, painting gurus,
philosophic geniuses, famous poets,
which invented the arts,
to let them pursue dreams to paint, to act, to write
who must resign themselves to ties, stethoscopes,
briefcases, careers, doctors, lawyers, engineers,
which strangle, choke, suffocate them,
who are told to be MEN, not to cry,
but never to argue,
never to stand up to their fathers,
never to disobey their mothers,
who go to McDonald’s with friends,
but can eat nothing, no meat, no hamburgers,
no fries fried in the oil which fries the meat,
who leave the house to party with friends at 8 p.m.
but must be home for curfew at 9:30 p.m.,
who, shopping at Square One with their mothers,
forbidden from tight fitting clothes,
doomed to outfits two sizes too big,
smuggle in tank tops low waist jeans
strapless bras stuffed inside textbooks
hidden at the bottom of bags disguised as gifts for friends
who live out their romances at Central, Streetsville, Meadowvale libraries,
cell phones in hand, meeting the boys in BMWs,
decked out in Ecko, Phatfarm, Nike,
making excuses to their scolding mothers,
sighing at the relief when the phone finally clicks,
another two hours before the next phone call, the next lie,
who, Khandas hanging from their necks, claiming Sikh pride,
their bulging mothers dragging them
to the temple by the ear,
whip out their cell phones in the lobby, smoke their cigarettes
in the back, holler at the good Sikh girls they’ll be meeting
later at 108, or Calypso or Berlin in Brampton,
who sit at family parties bearing the scrutiny
of potential mothers in law who pinch arms to check for fat
while shoving snack after snack, meal after meal in their
faces, mistaking girls with short haircuts for boys,
who chase after Indian girls, looking up skirts,
slapping tight asses, pimping, macking, harassing,
but refusing to respect, refusing to take home,
refusing to marry,
who, brimming with anger beat the white kids,
the white cops, the way their drunken fathers beat them,
who are given scotch on their fifth birthdays,
pass out drunkenly on the porch at family gatherings,
crash brand new Mercedes Benz’ every three months,
who, after countless stabbings backups shootings
run ins with cracked beer bottles take
pride in the scars running down their backs
along their arms across their cheeks,
continuing the violence,
the same scars stripped across their fathers’ bodies
as if they were born branded, Sikh, Punjabi,
fists for life this life that life
the one before it the one after it,
who are ill fated to marry only Indians,
only Punjabis, only Sikhs,
who must give up their Chinese girlfriends Black boyfriends
for husbands scanned versions of their fathers
for wives printed versions of their mothers
after one date one meeting one engagement ceremony,
who are linked, fianceed, married off, by caveparents who sit
night after night at the computer, on the web, searching
through arranged marriage personals advertising daughters as
slim almond eyed quiet obedient excellent cooks,
who hate on each other, he said she said they did oh my god
did you see that gossip insecurity oho aha Monika Deol Much
VJ slut drag her down back down all the way down,
who, turbaned marked with Sikh pride know nothing
of gurus eternal truths religious principals
misunderstand cut their hair throw away turbans
pick up diamond studded playboy bunnies,
who live Bollywooded lives only two characters:
Singhs, translation: lions, constantly growling fighting
proving staking out territory Brampton crew Malton boys
Rexdale thugs ignored by rejected by
eventually married off to Kaurs meaning: princess,
who don’t do much on the picture perspective
look at the Muslims with their welfare fraud stealing and terrorism
or Italians and the mafias with their illegal racing
and gambling or Russians too or rising Tamils
or fucken the all mighty the Nigger,
who wish all people Blacks Whites Chinese were Indians
just like them Arabs Persians Pakistanis
all the same as us all Brown
who, singin bling blingin drive Lexuses, BMWs, Mercedes Benzs,
operate out of 100 000 square foot homes,
life is money money is life spirituality
what deeper meanings what callings what love what cash
yes checks yes diamonds YES!
who, failures the legacy of the American dream parents
who slaved day and night, counted every penny sacrificed fun life spending
for children a better life better education high class jobs,
21 years old still in high school no pencils
no books no grades failures
who never reach adulthood in their parents’ eyes,
remain children incapable of picking their own clothes,
their own husbands, their own homes, even at 37 years of age
incapable of making their own decisions,
who, I’m sorry to say I’ll grow old with,
have children with, continue the cycle with,
sorry for you, sorry for me, sorry for them,
confusion, confusion, confusion.
Sikh or Punjabi?
By Puneet Parhar
Faculty of Arts, English Literature Honours
Queen's University
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