saint-soldier (sant-sipahi)	
I was once again litigating the case of

Palestinian resistance to a Jewish mother

who felt there was a double standard,

sending me pictures of her relatives

once exiled from Yemen, asking me Please

do not share these with others. It tears me

up to disagree with friends who I love

so I bicker in my head back and forth trying

to hold her truth, hold mine, hold it all together
as the guard in royal purple looked down

on me disapprovingly. I put away my phone

and looked out again toward the nectar

of the Golden Temple: pilgrims compacted

together in long beams of spectral cloth

shepherded by criss-crossing bannisters. Waiting

several hours – I was not that devoted,

still mimicking gestures of how to pray:

touch the floor then my forehead. A headless

man carries his face in one hand, sword in the other

as pilgrims collapse before him in quiet prayer.
I had a cheap blue brochure, Breakfast with

God that said the burden was endless, so

awake, fight the good fight, fight and win!

I folded it back in my kurta pocket walking

in circles through phulkari suits, salwar kameez

and naked Sikh men submerging themselves

deep in the holy water. I knew nothing of

the verses of Panjab shaking the complex

with tablas and sarangi that clawed at god.
I just knew how to say thanks in bad Hindi,

how to bow my head low, pressing my hands

together in prayer toward them, toward them

and another, another again. I tried not to

take photographs, trying to focus. Eventually

after walking barefoot across the polished

marble, I turned to the gurdwara’s langar

joining a long queue before the thundering

clammer of pots and pans. Rattling thali

plates were handed out, along with spoons

and bowls for water. On long hessian aisles
cross legged, dahl, aloo, rice and pudding

was spooned out from above. To receive

we held out our open hands, hot chapati

slapped upon our skin. The water trolley

stopped and started before each pilgrim

as men walked the aisles calling dahl

dahl   chawal chawal   pani pani  forever

offering more. Slowly, we departed toward

a long queue of dirty dishes, donations,

dipped toes in renewed ablutions and went

back to our circling prayers. Thoughts still
swirled in me about victimhood, about what

it meant to be religious. A long museum

of Sikh sacrifices, wars and martyrs sat

in the wing of the temple, each with a name

and fate: Shaheed Bhai Jai Singh who was

skinned to death by Mughals for refusing

to carry a bag containing a King’s smokes.

Was this the cost of continuing a culture?

Perhaps it was a bad translation, but there

were plates commemorating big Holocausts

I’d never heard of. ’84, when the temple burnt,
yet another justification to carry a knife

tucked in the turban, one more by the ankle.

A syncretic religion that discovered opponents

surrounding them. Lines were drawn through

the country, leaving the faithful to peer

at holy sites through far away binoculars.

I left the temple backwards, touching

for one last time, the floor, my forehead,

the two sides of my temple, and went back

to the hostel where butts littered the rooftop.

Swiping Instagram stories of not in my name.

I had no religion, an atheist again, watching

children fly kites in the polluted sky. They asked

what country you from?     how long you here?