A Good Man
by T. SHER SINGH
I need to get something off my chest.
I've been carrying it for for 14 years now ... not as a burden, but as a promise I gave him to keep it a secret.
But I think it's time to talk about it ... and I hope he will not mind.
It was in 1996, if I remember correctly.
I had asked a whole motley of young lawyers - all Sikh - from the greater Toronto area to join me for dinner here in this sleepy town of Guelph (Ontario, Canada) one summer evening.
‘Young' not in age, but young in the number of years they had been practicing law, at least in Canada.
Back in 1985, when I was called to the Bar, I was alarmed to find that I was the first and only Sikh - certainly, the first turbaned Sikh - lawyer in the country. Our kids were then mostly drawn to medicine, engineering or business.
Mercifully, that had begun to change as the millennium approached its ‘000' crossroads, and more and more had started to join law schools. As well, law societies - lawyers' governing bodies, really - had begun to allow lawyers from India to practice here after a period of retraining in Canada.
So, I wasn't surprised that over a dozen of my colleagues turned up that evening, albeit in response to a cryptic message that I had something important to discuss with them.
I did.
I had discovered only a few months earlier, while researching an article I was penning on the history of Sikh-Canadians, that 1897 was the actual year the first group of Sikhs had travelled across Canada - at the invitation of the Canadian government - and a few of those may have been the very first ones to settle down here and make this land their home!
The icing on the cake was that I had also unearthed a name of an actual person from that group - and a portrait of him as well.
It didn't take me long to figure out that the oncoming year - 1997 - could then be the centennial year of the first Sikh settlement in Canada!
The dozen or so of us first gathered at my place for tea, and then sauntered over a couple of blocks to the Diana Restaurant for dinner.
The restaurant owners, East African Ismailis of Indian descent, graciously gave us privacy in a large room attached to their eatery.
I told the gaggle of lawyers that curiously stared back at me, of the discovery I had made; reminded them of the times in history lawyers had led their communities forward; congratulated them on their privileged status as lawyers in this society; and urged them to use it and the tools they had available to them to help pull up the Canadian community which was still reeling from fallout from 1984 and India's shenanigans around the 1985 Air India tragedy.
A rich and meaningful discussion ensued over dinner. There was interest and enthusiasm, and yet some healthy hesitation and self-doubt.
I reminded them of the work that had been done in recent years by two Canadian organizations - The Macauliffe Institute of Sikh Studies and The Sikh Foundation (Canada) - and floated the idea of consolidating it under a new name and carry on the task of rebuilding self-esteem in the community.
And 1997 begged to be celebrated in a big way! At the same time, if done with class and aplomb, it could launch a new era of hyper-activity and, who knows, even rejuvenate us all.
We talked and talked - as lawyers are wont to do - and tabled the whole matter "to be thought over" during the next few days and weeks.
I wasn't happy. I had hoped we would have come up with something concrete that night, and all I appeared to have done was provide a fun social evening.
It was late, around ten, when we straggled back towards my apartment.
Mid-way, a hand grabbed my wrist and held me back from the crowd.
It was Manjit, a fellow I had heard of from time to time, but met only that day. A tall, handsome Sardar, quiet, serious and thoughtful, who hadn't said much that evening.
I must confess that I wasn't much of a fan of law grads from India, and had privately dismissed him and his role - along with a few others - as potential non-participants.
"Can I talk to you for a sec?" he whispered, and quickly added, "Alone!" He nodded towards the others, indicating that we should lag behind.
The two of us stayed about fifty feet behind everyone else, as we continued to make our way back in the shadows of the downtown streets.
Manjit spoke up: "I like what you said in there. Let's go for it! Let's do it!"
I told him I appreciated his comments and support ... that it meant a lot.
"No," he said, "I mean business. We'll hum' and ha' till doomsday, and nothing will happen. Let's just do it."
I walked quietly along with him at a slow pace, not knowing what to make of all of this, other than that I did catch the glow of encouragement.
"Here, wait!" he said, as he stopped under a street light, as the rest of the crowd disappeared around the corner on Carden Street.
He pulled out something from his pocket. And a pen. It was a cheque book. He scribbled something. Tore off a cheque, grabbed my hand, and crumpled it in it.
"Here's $1500. It's blank, so fill in the name you want to give the new organization. If you want more, just call me ... this is only a start .... And I'll courier you more. But I want you to start ... tomorrow! Whatever you want to do, but let's begin tomorrow!"
And he walked away, leaving me standing there, stunned, under the street light.
Then he stopped and retraced his steps. "But one condition!"
I looked up at him ... he's taller than me!
"No one should know about this. I don't need a receipt. I don't need my name to appear anywhere. Anywhere! This must remain quiet. You promise?"
I nodded, still speechless.
Well, the next day The Centennial Foundation of Canada was born, and inherited the legacy of the two existing groups as a continuum, with the immediate goal of celebrating 1997 with a bang, and then taking on an annual event ... and more, much more!
More than a dozen years have gone by. Tonight, Centennial celebrates its umpteenth Vaisakhi Gala in downtown Toronto. Building on the 25 years of history and legacy it has inherited and nurtured, it is the biggest Sikh, Indian or South Asian event of any given year here in Canada.
Yet, no one knows of Manjit's role to day.
Why am I talking about it now - even though, through the years, I've asked him if I can recognize him and honour him for making it all happen?
True, it's that initial seed, that push, that kick, that boost that indeed make it happen.
I know from experience that that is how institutions are born, not with a whimper ... but with a bang (if I may be forgiven for warping T.S. Eliot!)
But, ‘No‘, he said, never, every time I approached him. He has never sought - or accepted - acknowledgement, never sought recognition, never sought a plaque or trophy, never sought acclaim, never sought honour.
But why today, why this break of a promise today?
The man I talk about is Sardar Manjit Singh Mangat, Esq.
He was in the news recently.
He is the innocent man stabbed several times with a knife by a bunch of hooligans in Brampton, a collection of thugs who know nothing of Sikhi or freedom or Canada or human decency.
Manjit is fine now, still recuperating from his wounds.
A gentle soul, this man.
I have had no other dealings with him ever ... other than I run into him from time to time in the gurdwara or somewhere. We exchange greetings and small talk.
Though I know nothing more about him, I can tell you with all the strength and conviction I can muster ... He is a good man.
And I don't use the word ‘good' lightly.
Like ‘nice', ‘good' is often used innocuously and frivolously to the point of being meaningless.
Not in his case.
He is a good man in the highest sense of the word.
I know what was going through my head that night. And I know that nothing would have happened thereafter, but for this man. The Centennial Foundation owes its existence to his Sikhi.
Wish we had more good men like Manjit Singh Mangat.
April 17, 2010
sikhchic.com | The Art and Culture of the Diaspora | A Good Man
by T. SHER SINGH
I need to get something off my chest.
I've been carrying it for for 14 years now ... not as a burden, but as a promise I gave him to keep it a secret.
But I think it's time to talk about it ... and I hope he will not mind.
It was in 1996, if I remember correctly.
I had asked a whole motley of young lawyers - all Sikh - from the greater Toronto area to join me for dinner here in this sleepy town of Guelph (Ontario, Canada) one summer evening.
‘Young' not in age, but young in the number of years they had been practicing law, at least in Canada.
Back in 1985, when I was called to the Bar, I was alarmed to find that I was the first and only Sikh - certainly, the first turbaned Sikh - lawyer in the country. Our kids were then mostly drawn to medicine, engineering or business.
Mercifully, that had begun to change as the millennium approached its ‘000' crossroads, and more and more had started to join law schools. As well, law societies - lawyers' governing bodies, really - had begun to allow lawyers from India to practice here after a period of retraining in Canada.
So, I wasn't surprised that over a dozen of my colleagues turned up that evening, albeit in response to a cryptic message that I had something important to discuss with them.
I did.
I had discovered only a few months earlier, while researching an article I was penning on the history of Sikh-Canadians, that 1897 was the actual year the first group of Sikhs had travelled across Canada - at the invitation of the Canadian government - and a few of those may have been the very first ones to settle down here and make this land their home!
The icing on the cake was that I had also unearthed a name of an actual person from that group - and a portrait of him as well.
It didn't take me long to figure out that the oncoming year - 1997 - could then be the centennial year of the first Sikh settlement in Canada!
The dozen or so of us first gathered at my place for tea, and then sauntered over a couple of blocks to the Diana Restaurant for dinner.
The restaurant owners, East African Ismailis of Indian descent, graciously gave us privacy in a large room attached to their eatery.
I told the gaggle of lawyers that curiously stared back at me, of the discovery I had made; reminded them of the times in history lawyers had led their communities forward; congratulated them on their privileged status as lawyers in this society; and urged them to use it and the tools they had available to them to help pull up the Canadian community which was still reeling from fallout from 1984 and India's shenanigans around the 1985 Air India tragedy.
A rich and meaningful discussion ensued over dinner. There was interest and enthusiasm, and yet some healthy hesitation and self-doubt.
I reminded them of the work that had been done in recent years by two Canadian organizations - The Macauliffe Institute of Sikh Studies and The Sikh Foundation (Canada) - and floated the idea of consolidating it under a new name and carry on the task of rebuilding self-esteem in the community.
And 1997 begged to be celebrated in a big way! At the same time, if done with class and aplomb, it could launch a new era of hyper-activity and, who knows, even rejuvenate us all.
We talked and talked - as lawyers are wont to do - and tabled the whole matter "to be thought over" during the next few days and weeks.
I wasn't happy. I had hoped we would have come up with something concrete that night, and all I appeared to have done was provide a fun social evening.
It was late, around ten, when we straggled back towards my apartment.
Mid-way, a hand grabbed my wrist and held me back from the crowd.
It was Manjit, a fellow I had heard of from time to time, but met only that day. A tall, handsome Sardar, quiet, serious and thoughtful, who hadn't said much that evening.
I must confess that I wasn't much of a fan of law grads from India, and had privately dismissed him and his role - along with a few others - as potential non-participants.
"Can I talk to you for a sec?" he whispered, and quickly added, "Alone!" He nodded towards the others, indicating that we should lag behind.
The two of us stayed about fifty feet behind everyone else, as we continued to make our way back in the shadows of the downtown streets.
Manjit spoke up: "I like what you said in there. Let's go for it! Let's do it!"
I told him I appreciated his comments and support ... that it meant a lot.
"No," he said, "I mean business. We'll hum' and ha' till doomsday, and nothing will happen. Let's just do it."
I walked quietly along with him at a slow pace, not knowing what to make of all of this, other than that I did catch the glow of encouragement.
"Here, wait!" he said, as he stopped under a street light, as the rest of the crowd disappeared around the corner on Carden Street.
He pulled out something from his pocket. And a pen. It was a cheque book. He scribbled something. Tore off a cheque, grabbed my hand, and crumpled it in it.
"Here's $1500. It's blank, so fill in the name you want to give the new organization. If you want more, just call me ... this is only a start .... And I'll courier you more. But I want you to start ... tomorrow! Whatever you want to do, but let's begin tomorrow!"
And he walked away, leaving me standing there, stunned, under the street light.
Then he stopped and retraced his steps. "But one condition!"
I looked up at him ... he's taller than me!
"No one should know about this. I don't need a receipt. I don't need my name to appear anywhere. Anywhere! This must remain quiet. You promise?"
I nodded, still speechless.
Well, the next day The Centennial Foundation of Canada was born, and inherited the legacy of the two existing groups as a continuum, with the immediate goal of celebrating 1997 with a bang, and then taking on an annual event ... and more, much more!
More than a dozen years have gone by. Tonight, Centennial celebrates its umpteenth Vaisakhi Gala in downtown Toronto. Building on the 25 years of history and legacy it has inherited and nurtured, it is the biggest Sikh, Indian or South Asian event of any given year here in Canada.
Yet, no one knows of Manjit's role to day.
Why am I talking about it now - even though, through the years, I've asked him if I can recognize him and honour him for making it all happen?
True, it's that initial seed, that push, that kick, that boost that indeed make it happen.
I know from experience that that is how institutions are born, not with a whimper ... but with a bang (if I may be forgiven for warping T.S. Eliot!)
But, ‘No‘, he said, never, every time I approached him. He has never sought - or accepted - acknowledgement, never sought recognition, never sought a plaque or trophy, never sought acclaim, never sought honour.
But why today, why this break of a promise today?
The man I talk about is Sardar Manjit Singh Mangat, Esq.
He was in the news recently.
He is the innocent man stabbed several times with a knife by a bunch of hooligans in Brampton, a collection of thugs who know nothing of Sikhi or freedom or Canada or human decency.
Manjit is fine now, still recuperating from his wounds.
A gentle soul, this man.
I have had no other dealings with him ever ... other than I run into him from time to time in the gurdwara or somewhere. We exchange greetings and small talk.
Though I know nothing more about him, I can tell you with all the strength and conviction I can muster ... He is a good man.
And I don't use the word ‘good' lightly.
Like ‘nice', ‘good' is often used innocuously and frivolously to the point of being meaningless.
Not in his case.
He is a good man in the highest sense of the word.
I know what was going through my head that night. And I know that nothing would have happened thereafter, but for this man. The Centennial Foundation owes its existence to his Sikhi.
Wish we had more good men like Manjit Singh Mangat.
April 17, 2010
sikhchic.com | The Art and Culture of the Diaspora | A Good Man
