Punjabi by nature

There are many reasons why I am proud to be Punjabi—and most of them have to do with love of life in all its forms, particularly the loud ones

By Ravneet Kaur Gill

I am a Punjabi, right to the width of my smile and the twinkle in my eye—and proud of it. This is in addition to the sundry other staple ingredients which make up the sugar and spice, fire and warmed-ice nature of the Punjabi populace. Much has been said and written about the peculiar predilections that comprise the Punjabi nature.

The embodiment of these is that most visible of Punjabi Puttars—one who has wielded the bat, the microphone, and now rides the politician's bandwagon with equal aplomb: Navjot Singh Sidhu. Natty Navjot is always impeccably turned out, bombastic with his bat and his comments alike, vigorously exuberant, and very voluble. He is flamboyant but likeable, irrepressible but easily moved. In short, he is all things Punjabi, right down to his infamous brush with the law.

Most Punjabis are Sardars and thus grow beards, but all have had close shaves with the authorities. This is not because they have a problem with authority, but just because they are simple enough to believe that a little latitude with the law does not really constitute a breach of it. Nowhere else is a parking ticket considered a personal insult, or a son's incarceration in the local police station on charges of armed fighting a favorite anecdote by doting parents.

I have lived in many states across India, but driving down roads in Punjab has its own thrills and chills. That is because each driver considers the road to be his personal domain and resents anyone else using it. Regardless of lanes, Punjabis take the middle path, meaning that they drive smack in the middle of the road. And woe betides anyone who dares overtake even the slowest-moving vehicle.

If looks could kill, all overtakers in Punjab would be under the care of undertakers. But the same community is the first and loudest by far to laugh at Punjabi jokes. What appears to be sheer stupidity to outsiders are just instances of innocent everyday occurrences to the Punjabis who are really simple enough to believe whatever the rest of India scoffs at. Santas and Bantas abound in the Punjabi countryside, as they do in the city, but still manage to ensure the first rank in prosperity for their state in every poll worth its questionnaire. Ironic? I don't think so.

There is a famous saying that the potato and the Punjabi are omnipresent. The majority of the world would tend to agree. There is every chance of finding a Punjabi at the North Pole: the reason why most people might miss him is that he is probably out visiting his cousins at the South Pole. Jokes apart—the world has become the Punjabi’s oyster, and how! I don't even need to start on the immigrant, migrant, emigrant, and even illegal stowaway, success stories to describe the NRP's (non-Resident Punjabi) effortless hold on the global economic fields. They plough these with the same zest and verve, and with the same astounding results, as they have been doing down the ages on their native soil.

The sons of the soil, and the daughters, too, like nothing better than a song and dance and a plateful of food. While on a visit down South, I could not help but be amazed at the painstaking patience and restraint with which our Southern brethren treat their food: the patience with which they make the numerous dishes is offset by the restraint by which they eat them. Lots of dishes, but minute portions; too much to chose from but little overall to eat. Compare this with a Punjabi platter—wholesome, hearty, healthy and huge. That about sums up the massive dishes of saag, the mountains of rotis and lipsmacking butter chicken, washed down with lassi, or rather whisky.

There was a time when the Punjabi youth was known for the will in his work and the tune in his heart. Now, he is known for the glass in his hand and the song on his cassette. Other states promote cottage industries, we promote singers. I beg pardon—the singers don't need promotion, they just need an excuse. Fast poised to become the most flourishing industry in Punjab, singing has surpassed the cottage industry status it used to lay claim to. Everyone is keen to take advantage of the well-known fact that Punjabis need little more than a beat to stand up and dance. The lyrics are barely heard, everyone is too busy downing Patiala Pegs and doing the Bhangra to listen. Singers come and singers go, all that stays and has stayed is the Dhol beat.

This is not to say that all the Punjabi does is dance, which is just one of the pressing demands on his ample time. The others are taking care of his family, being available for his children, earning money and, more importantly, spending it. A first time visitor to Punjab once asked me, “Why is everyone wearing new clothes of the latest fashion? Is today a festival day?” It was hard to explain to her that others might dress up for a festival, every day is a celebration of life here.

People love to eat well, spend their earnings (as proven by a recent survey that puts Punjabis among the highest spenders and poorest savers in India), live well, and stay happy. Being well turned out is a way of life. I have never heard of any husband all over the world matching his tie or article of clothing with his wife's attire, but I have often noticed Sardars coordinating their turbans with their wives’ suits. What better way of showing togetherness and accord than in this subtle, charming way?

Charm is a singular attribute of the Punjabi nature, although subtlety is highly questionable. We are a blunt species that would have been rendered intolerable for stating facts with no embellishment but for the liberal charm, extensive warmth, hospitality and large-hearted spirit that is an inherent legacy of every Punjabi. Like I said, I am a Punjabi—and proud of it.