From Punjab to Smithsonian Poetry

From the Punjab to the Smithsonian
by: Harbhajan Singh ‘Bhaji'

July 24, 2004
Washington, D.C.

Some hundred years ago, people came here from Punjab,
Bringing with them their dreams and little trunks of belongings.
They hoped that they would work here a few years
And return with pockets full.

Some labored in the fields, some worked on the lumber chains,
And shared each others' joys and pains collectively.
People hated them, calling them “Rag-heads” and “Hindoo-men.”
If they ventured out on their own, hooligans would seek to fight them.

Some worked in the field and sold the vegetables;
In San Joaquin, people like Jawala Singh and Visakha Singh became potato kings.
When they felt secure and confident, they recovered a sense of self;
They built their first Gurdwara in Stockton on their twenty-five cent wages.

Living in a land of liberty, they came to realize
That the life of a slave is worthless, and decided to work for freedom.
They raised the slogan of rebellion to make Hindustan [India] free;
  Hindus, Sikhs, and Muslims came together to make a heaven on earth.

When they returned home, a hail of bullets greeted them
None of their kin received their bodies, no one could cry over them.
Those captured were sent into exile,
Never to meet their comrades again.

Whites ruled India, without right to do so;
Why should foreigners control another's country?
One Pakhar Singh challenged with a legal battle,
But denied justice, resorted to the gun.

Yet in America, Dalip Singh Saundh became the first Sikh elected to Congress
And fought relentlessly for human rights.
They [Sikh immigrants] slept under open skies to ensure the roofs now over our heads.
The fragrance of such noble deeds perfumes our joy and prosperity today.

They became Everyman-kings: peach kings, raisin kings, hard-working gas-station kings;
Some became doctors, engineers, scientists, now employing others with pride.

Now we just hop on a plane and come over;
They opened the way for us:
Not even God will forgive us if we forget the great men.

We owe our present joys to the self sacrifice
Of those who wasted their youth some hundred years ago.
They surely forgot the fields and meadows of the old villages of their home,
Surely their departed souls rejoice now, seeing us gathered here today.

Such an arduous journey, now arrived from the Punjab to the Smithsonian:
Yet true equality remains unattained; innocent people like Sodhi are still killed.
We have come a very long way, still striving for further goals;
We languish still behind other communities.

This caravan that left the Punjab a century ago, may find another stopping place
Even at the White House, for some descendant of this land of five rivers.