Presence of old friend emerges from Sikh family

By Linda Jo Scott
Sun contributor
It was 8:00 on a Monday morning just south of Cleveland, and I had two hours to wait until getting together with a college friend and then driving back to Michigan. My son and daughter-in-law were off to work; I’d already spent nine days with the “grand dogs” and didn’t feel we needed any more quality time together for the moment.

So I gathered my things, locked the dogs inside their home, and drove south toward Richfield, to a rather exotic building which had intrigued me every time I passed it. The sign out front had told me that it was a Sikh Temple. Would anyone be there at 8:00 on a Monday morning? Would they welcome me?
Encouraged when I saw several cars in the parking lot, I proceeded to knock on the door. A beautiful young Indian boy with long hair came to the door and said, haltingly, “Come in.”
Soon his father, Bhai Sahib Suba Singh, 47, a wise-looking gentleman with a long beard and turban, greeted me and asked me to sit and have a cup of sweet, milky tea. Then his wife, two daughters, and a second son all came out to greet me, each of us no doubt full of curiosity about the others.
For close to two hours, we got acquainted. We played music, Bhai Sahib Suba Singh on an instrument something like an accordion, and his older son on a drum. Suba Singh also sang in a kind of chanting style. I played “Edelweiss” on his keyboard instrument, and they smiled. When I told Suba Singh that I also played the violin, he said he would love to hear me play.
Suba Singh, the priest of the temple, has lived there with his family for four years. Both of the sons whom I met are studying with their father to become priests and will eventually go to India for more training.
During the course of our visit, Suba Singh showed me the sanctuary and actually opened the holy book, housed under elaborate velvet wrappings on the altar. Worshipers sit on the carpeted floor.
Similarly, in the large dining room, the 200-400 Sikh members and guests sit on the floor each Sunday, after the services, to enjoy an Indian meal together.
Suba Singh’s English is rather limited, but we nevertheless talked about many aspects of the Sikh religion–and, upon his questioning, many aspects of my life. He was sad to know that I had been divorced twice, for Sikhs marry only once–for life. His own mother had been widowed when he was just a few weeks old, he explained, but she never remarried.
I asked whether the priest’s family had made good friends in their new community. “Only one,” Suba Singh said a bit sadly. “There is a very nice woman named Susan Canaday who helped me learn to drive in America and who helps me with my English. She is writing a book about India. But there is no one else.”
One of my dearest American friends had died in India several months before, during the last of many pilgrimages, and, as I told Suba Singh, visiting his temple had brought me great peace of mind. It was as though I had met the gentle, kind people who had cared for my friend in his illness–and had cared for his body after his death.
I reluctantly left after two hours, promising to return in May with my violin–and my camera. (Suba Singh and his family were not eager to be photographed in their everyday clothes.) I look forward eagerly to attending their service and to eating Indian food with them afterwards.
But most of all, I look forward to seeing my new friends, somehow feeling the presence of my departed friend in their eyes.