My
True Tale
Memories
of the KWTC Drill Team
Khalsa Women's Training Camp 1978
Siri Atma Kaur Khalsa
I
take my place an arm’s length distance from each lady on both
sides of me. We are to line up by height and I think I should be before
Prem Siri Kaur but her turban is such a smokestack it makes her about
an inch taller than me. I am twelve years old.
“Eyes, Right” the drillmaster calls.
We snap our heads to the right, adjusting ourselves ever so slightly
so the only thing I see is my own shoulder and the next person’s
body at firm attention.
“Attention!” he calls.
We snap back, arms down and eyes front. Today we are starting the
select drill team. Only fifteen ladies from the whole camp will work
with Hari Singh for hours each day, learning
tight maneuvers and fancy steps, how to follow orders on the clip,
turn on a dime, and handle those beautiful white parade rifles. Every
morning after sadhana, for the first week of camp, all the ladies
march in formation to the call of Hari Singh’s cadence. The
Siri Singh Sahib says we should master
this marching ("If you cannot walk together, you cannot work
together.") to get our minds disciplined and clear so we can
follow orders precisely, without hesitation. Most of the ladies hate
it. I hear them groan and moan about the forced marches, sometimes
at double time, up Shady Lane and down the dirt road from the ashram,
over the dead frogs squashed by the tractor and through clouds of
red dust. Yesterday, somebody even fainted while we were all standing
in formation. I guess they think it’s hard - either the physical
exertion, or the mental focus. It’s clear they don’t like
being ordered around, by “that man”, no less. Hari Singh
is the only man allowed in camp, other than the Siri Singh Sahib,
that is. Maybe that’s why they don’t like it, because
they have to take orders from a man during these sacred, women-only
weeks.
I love it. I’ve finally found something in which I can excel
at this camp. I’m good at precision, and I even like the discipline.
If I know what I’m supposed to do I have no problem focusing
and following through. I’m kind of scared of Hari Singh, but
it makes me want to do my best. It feels so great to know that I’m
looking good with my Khalsa sisters, so beautiful in our white bana,
standing tall like soldier saints. Marching all together, even though
we are fifteen, it sounds like just one pair of feet. I even like
that it’s hard. I revel that I can do this; that I can push
through the heat, the sweat, the exhaustion, and the challenge. I
can coordinate the difficult moves, too - even with the rifles. My
favorite is “With a turn, Left Shoulder, Right Shoulder with
a slight hesitation ... and Pre--sent, Arms!” It took so many
tries for all of us to get that move together but when we did, wow,
it felt so great, like we were all part of one intricate machine,
a Swiss timepiece, with each part moving exactly together. We knew
we looked good. We were proud. See
Video.
Every day, the select team, those fifteen of us that got to use the
parade rifles, worked with Hari Singh for an additional two hours.
Usually it is during the morning classes. I don’t mind missing
gurmukhi class - I can already sound out the phonetic script. I don’t
really get much out of the discussion groups with the other ladies
either, they are always talking about how their husband does this,
or their husband does that. I don’t have a husband yet, and
thank God, won’t for a very long time. So I march. One day,
Hari Singh has us marching up and down Shady Lane, even though it
was the middle of the day, (not early morning after Sadhana, when
there aren’t any cars). He orders me to stand guard, at attention,
blocking the road so no cars can come by. The team is marching up
and down the street moving to the complicated drill calls. Another
lady is stationed at the far rear to block any traffic from the other
direction.
I am incredibly nervous. “What if a car comes and wants to get
through?” I think. “These Espanola people won’t
put up with this. We’re blocking traffic. We should get out
of the street.”
But my commander has given me an order and I have to stay firm. In
parade stance, with my feet firmly planted, shoulder width apart I
hold the rifle with both hands diagonally across my chest. I look
straight ahead, focused on the horizon, down the street towards the
intersection with the highway. Soon, a car turns our way. It is a
purple low rider, crawling slowly towards me. I can hear the stereo
pumping a low base. I can feel the surprise, incredulity; even hate
seep from the occupants towards me.
“Stand your ground,” I hear Hari Singh shout to me.
I continue my resolve. I don’t look at the driver, just hold
firm to the rifle. It is solid wood, but maybe the driver will think
it is real. He blares his horn and yells at me. Will he run me over?
Will Hari Singh come over and talk to him or move the ladies out of
the way? The honking, the shouting, and my monkey mind keep going.
My body is shaking with fear. After what seems like an eternity the
purple car backs up, does a quick U-turn and speeds out of there leaving
a cloud of dust. I stay at attention and let out a huge exhale of
relief and gratitude.
Hari Singh calls the team to Halt, and orders
me back to the formation. At attention, we all listen as he praises
my steadfastness, my focus, and how I caused the gangster, low riders
to retreat since they knew they had no chance against a strong Khalsa
woman. I feel eleven feet tall. --
I
want woman to be strong. I am a believer that when a woman falls,
a generation falls; when a man falls, an individual falls. Yogi
Bhajan
Siri Atma Kaur today
with husband and children
This
article was originally featured on
www.OurTrueTales.com January 29, 2007
Sikh
Women
More
True Tales
Khalsa
Women's Training Camp
A
True Tale by Sat Mandir Singh
