The Lady and the Sikh
by Stephanie Levin
It was all arranged-Malaysia via Dubai, a few days sweltering in Kuala Lumpur before spiriting off to a Pangkor Laut island, a private pristine resort.
"You absolutely must visit Sepang when you're in KL," insisted my friend.
Timothy who had vast business connections in KL, as the capital was called.
"What's Sepang?"
"Asia's most expansive, architectural extravaganza, the new airport," raved Timothy. "Nothing like it, not even Hong Kong on the water comes close."
"I'll gawk it out on arrival," I promised.
"You won't see it on arrival; it's 50 kilometers south of KL, and it is not actually complete. However, I could arrange a small tour for you."
Timothy, a Brit by birth, an American by naturalization, and a Malayphile by osmosis, had assisted with my itinerary. He'd wangled me two nights in the luxurious Ritz Carlton. I didn't ask how and didn't care to know. Nevertheless, I reminded him that my time in KL was brief and I had no inclination to visit an airport. I declined.
Upon darting out of the arrival terminal at KL, I was greeted by "Selamat-welcome to Malaysia I'm Mr. Singh you're official guide today.
A slender man with delicious dark skin extended his hand. He reminded me of Michael Ondaatje's sapper in The English Patient, with one exception. Other then the wizard-style turban coiled about his head, there was nothing remotely Indian about Mr. Singh's attire. He wore gray slacks, a white long-sleeve shirt and black loafers. He could have been a CEO of a bank, or a Sultan. I found his astute summing up of the awkward situation amusing. I had not asked for a guide.
"Mr. Timothy sent an email saying you should like a guide for your first day in KL."
"Curse email!" I muttered under my breath.
I assured Mr. Singh that I could maneuver KL alone, and thanked him for coming to my hotel and braving the nasty traffic and oppressive heat. I expected him to turn heel and go about his day. No such luck. He stood his ground, opened the passenger door of the air-conditioned mini van and promised me 25 impressive facts about his birthplace. I acquiesced, a little surprised at his persistence, but grateful to step out of the sauna and into the refrigerator.
Adjusting his sunglasses, Mr. Singh fired off a fount of curious facts. KL is a blend of one million people; cricket thrives, and so does superstition. It's prudent to consult an astrologer prior to setting a wedding date and a feng shui expert before building a structure. The people-a delightful cultural stew of Malays, Chinese, Indians and other indigenous mixes-- populate the country. And the, of course, the summation of politics. The Malays control the government and the Chinese have their fingers on the economic pulse. A prosperous, progressive and tolerant country, Malaysia has no unemployment and respects the diverse cultural backgrounds of its peoples.
I stopped taking notes and interrupted.
"The stock market is idling like a yo-yo in the middle of the city, and the government is giving foreign labor a one-way ticket home. Don't you think the economic standstill might tilt the scale of inter-racial harmony a little?"
If the comment tossed a wrench in the unflawed picture of his country, Mr. Singh didn't acknowledge it. Confidently, he said, "Malaysia is not Bosnia." We crossed the river and moved on to architecture.
Like other Asian metropolises, KL has no discernable pattern to its skyline. Skyscrapers interact with sinuous roots and odd angles. Sheets of tempered glass buffer people from noise and pollution, while sacred shrines and ponds draw them outside. Pagodas are preserved, but seldom used, and ornate Indian temples and Moslem mosques abut Christian colonial arches. We whizzed past the railway station redolent of a Moorish fantasy, all spires, minarets and cupolas belonging to another era. At lunch, we stopped at the Jalan Petaling market in Chinatown where a dried ginger-faced man hawked aphrodisiacs and remedies for impotency. His potions lived in big burlap sacks, and although his business wasn't thriving, his shop wasn't empty either. I guess the power of faith can cure anything.
On we went, our van wheezing through the congested streets. I marveled at Mr. Singh's ease and comfort as we moved through his city's diverse environments from opulent to humble. Three hours and thirty minutes into the tour, Mr. Singh pulled up in front of a large dome-shaped building.
"Is this the National Mosque, I asked, noticing the white roof."
"Oh my no," he laughed. This is Sepang, our newest airport.
My emotional barometer rose, but before I could vent, Mr. Singh was around my side opening the door and escorting me into an empty airport where a few people stood attentively as a man spoke. He resembled Mr. Singh, minus the turban.
"Is he your brother? I asked.
"Oh my no," snorted my guide.
Mr. Singh's oh my no's ran together (omyno) like a mantra and were punctuated with a childish chuckle. My tour guide was an enigma-a loquacious, fashion-conscious man who exuded an inner steadiness and joy that I'd encountered only in children and yoga gurus.
"The architect," Mr. Singh continued, "works for the Japanese firm that designed Sepang. I know him well; we are both Sikhs."
"Sikhs!" I squeaked, wondering if they were related to the whirling dervish Sufi's I'd witnessed spiraling and spinning about the UC Berkeley stage. I couldn't imagine the pony-tailed, pierced-eared architect, or Mr. Singh for that matter, whirling in a trance-like state communicating with the divine. We walked through the airport at a snail's pace.
Timothy had been right, the airport wasn't up and running, but that didn't stop airport personnel from scurrying helter-skelter in preparation for the opening. Above my head, big silver plaques flashed and flipped international destinations-Dar Salaam, Hong Kong, Singapore, Bangkok, Bangladesh. An impeccable acoustic system, on par with Albert Hall, according to the architect, chanted accordingly to the flip of each plaque. The140 upscale duty-free shops were free of duty. Native plants added a green touch and the prayer hall a spiritual touch. The prayer hall was not open to public's prying eyes, and I innocently asked the architect about fung shui's role in the exquisite design. He paused, looked through me, and continued his lecture. Stunned, I thought he might not have heard me. Then I realized that my western curiosity had offended his eastern sensibility. He pointed out a five-pointed masterpiece that ingeniously incorporated the five points of Islam into the ceiling. Cool steel columns braced the sacred ceiling- faith and future embracing haute technology.
Sepang was definitely a step up from Dubai's airport where my Air Malaysia flight had refueled. The small Dubai transit building lacked windows and a prayer room. I was on my way to buy a duty-free lipstick when I stepped into a time warp. Prostrated on the floor were 70 men, their obedient bodies folded into rows of tight shells. Bowed toward the east, they prayed. I felt like Hester Prynne standing in the middle of public church, naked.
I shared the story with Mr. Singh on the ride back to KL, and I told him I thought the prayer room was an ingenious idea. I wasn't religious, but I wasn't spiritually bankrupt either.
"Oh my no, of course not," he laughed and offered me a cold Coke Cola.
That's when I noticed his bracelet dangling from his wrist. The architect had worn the exact metal bracelet. I asked Mr. Singh if it was a coincidence, or did they just have the same taste in jewelry.
"Neither," replied Mr. Singh. "The bracelet was given to me by my parents when they gave me my name-Mohan, which means kind man. It's called a Kara, and I never take it off. It is part of the Sikh baptism ceremony or 5 K's-Kesh or unshorn hair, the Knaga, a small comb to keep the hair tidy, the Kirpan, a small dagger to protect the oppressed, the Keshara, an undergarment to maintain chastity and, the Kara. The Kara represents a Mandela or wheel of life. For a Sikh it symbolizes strength, integrity and eternity. One who wears the bracelet should never worry whether he is great or small. The bangle demands the wearer to be an unconditional ally to the Almighty. It reminds us that we are all equal in God's court. We reject the caste system, and believe in monotheism, religious tolerance and social equality."
Images of the Sikh in The English Patient popped into my head. I couldn't imagine Mr. Mohan Singh unraveling his waist-length hair or untying his turban. What I was acutely aware of was his unfaltering sense of pride and self-assuredness about his place on the planet, turban or no turban.
Did I want to go back to my hotel, or make one last stop at the National Mosque, asked Mr. Singh? "The mosque is a splendid place to take a panoramic picture of KL."
I'd never been inside a mosque, so we made that our last stop.
The boldly modern National Mosque holds two honors-it's the largest and most modernistic mosque in South East Asia. Mr. Singh told me to take my time, he would wait in the van.
I noticed people scampering barefoot up the stairs attired in robes from head to toe. The humidity made it the perfect climate to take my clothes off, not put more on. I considered the head lice and spittle and god knows what else might be clinging to the robes. Then I recalled what Mr. Singh had said in the van, "we are all equal in God's court."
A little reluctantly, I slid the faded blue gown over my head, put on my Raybans and headed toward heaven. The steps were divinely cool under my feet and the courtyard quiet for the amount of tourist milling around. The mosque's 18-pointed star dome, mushroomed above the city and gave the appearance of a partly opened umbrella. The star, I later learned, represents the 13 states of Malaysia and the five pillars of Islam. Smaller, but equally impressive popcorn domes blanketed the courtyard. The five-acre sacred site was, indeed, awe-inspiring. Bearded men slumped against shady pillars reciting religious text. I approached the mosque and peaked in. I had no idea of practice or protocol and really little inclination to go in. The cavernous mosque, unadorned except for rugs, contained twenty people. Two tiny women, swathed in silky white robes and veils, and a respectful distance from the women, a handful of men, curled in prayer. All had their backs to me. I backed out of the entrance and admired the open space that contained absolutely nothing. It was stark and empty, yet freeing. I followed my hooded shadow alongside a long reflecting pool. I felt invisible and light and thought this the perfect spot to snap a self-portrait. Removing my sunglasses, I focused my lens. The placid pool mirrored the world as it saw it- fat floating clouds, Moorish domes, solid stone pillars and me. I snapped the photo, and then turned, walked to the edge of the courtyard and took a stunning panoramic photo- the Buddhist, Moslem, Hindu, Taoist and Christian world framed perfectly together.
I did go to Pankgor Laut, and spent a week cloistered and pampered from the real world. There were no Sikhs or mosques or inspiring conversations. It was what it was- an escape, annexed from the economic and ethnic turmoil unpinning in sections of Southeast Asia. Nearly two years later, I glance at my photos of KL and reflect on the tour I nearly declined. There is one photo missing-my panoramic perception of Kuala Lumpur; it's the only one that did not turn out. Serendipity might have played a hand in it, or maybe the mystery of feng shui was at work. It doesn't matter; the view of what the world could be is deeply etched in my memory.