I was born in Delhi to Tamil parents and spent my early years in a flat across the street from a large park. In a corner of the park grounds was a tiny gurudwara which faced the lane dividing my home from the park. Faith was not a factor within communities back in the 1970s, so the gurudwara continued its work quietly, while we didn't even notice the shabads and kirtans (religious songs) that were sung softly in the early morning as we waited for the school bus. However, 'Ik Onkar, Satnam' – the principal chant of Sikhism – was, like the azaan, a part of our tapestry of sounds.
Once when I was about eight – perhaps looking for something different to do during the long summer vacation – a couple of friends and I wandered into the small gurudwara. Only a diminutive granthi (custodian of the Guru Granth Sahib, the holy book containing the writings and hymns of the Sikh gurus) was present, fanning a very large book, covered with a gorgeous bit of brocade, with a peacock feather. He did not seem put out to see a bunch of tousled kids troop in, and merely smiled and said in a gentle voice in English, "Bachhe (children), cover your heads and come," pointing to a boxful of scarves kept near the entrance.