Simran Kaur and the Picture

Thirty-Two

Simran Kaur counted thirty-two steps to the bus stop every morning.

She had counted them in September, on the first day of school, because she wanted to know. She counted them again the next day to see if the number was right. It was. She had counted them every morning since — not because she doubted the number, but because doing it the same way each day was one of the small things that made a day feel orderly.

Thirty-two steps. Always thirty-two.

This morning was Picture Day. She’d been told at breakfast: “Sit up straight, don’t squint.” Her mum had done her hair in the braid with extra care — a hundred strokes of the kanga, not the usual thirty-eight, because Picture Day called for smooth.

On the bus, Ethan counted the stops: “One, two—”

“Seven,” said Simran.

“I was counting to see how many people got on at each stop.”

“It varies. There’s no reliable pattern.”

“You don’t know that until you count it a few times.”

“I’ve counted it,” said Simran. “Twelve times, to be specific. The number changes every day depending on the weather.”

“That’s still a pattern,” said Ethan. “That’s a weather-correlated pattern.”

Maya, between them, kept drawing a sparrow from memory. “You’re both correct,” she said, without looking up. “The pattern exists. It’s just not a simple one.”

This was the kind of conversation that happened between the three of them often — Simran with numbers, Ethan with explanations, Maya choosing neither side and somehow being right.

The Question

Picture Day at school was always the same: line up by class, go to the gym, sit in front of the grey backdrop, say “ready” when the photographer held up the card with the smiley face on it, try not to squint.

Simran sat in line with her class in the gym corridor. Lily, from across the room, came and sat beside her. Lily’s hair was in two short braids, very tidy, tied with white ribbons.

“Your hair is so long,” said Lily.

“Yes,” said Simran.

“How long has it been since you cut it?”

Simran thought about this. “I’ve never cut it.”

Lily looked at her. “Never? Like, not even a trim?”

“Not even a trim.”

“Why not?”

Simran opened her mouth. She knew the answer existed — she knew there was a reason, a real reason, one that had something to do with Guru Gobind Singh Ji and the Five Kakars and kesh. But she was in the gym corridor on Picture Day with the line moving and Lily looking at her with genuine curiosity, and the real answer didn’t come.

“It’s just our family thing,” she said. “It’s just what we do.”

Lily nodded, like that made sense, and went back to her class.

The line moved. Simran sat in front of the grey backdrop and said “ready” and tried not to squint.

But she kept thinking about what she’d said: It’s just our family thing. It’s just what we do.

That wasn’t the answer. She knew it wasn’t the answer. And she hadn’t been able to find the real one.

The Afternoon

In class after lunch, Simran thought about it again.

She wrote the two words in the corner of her notebook: kesh. Then she wrote under it: why.

She knew the word. She’d known it her whole life. Kesh — uncut hair, one of the Five Kakars, given by Guru Gobind Singh Ji to the Khalsa. She wore it. She’d always worn it. But wearing something and knowing why you wear it were not the same thing.

It’s just our family thing. She had said it without thinking, and then immediately known it was wrong — not wrong the way a maths answer is wrong, but wrong in a fuller way. Like she’d explained the CN Tower and left out the entire tower.

Kesh was not a family tradition. It was — what? She pressed her pencil against the page. Lots of families had different hair. Lots of religions had rules about hair. But this felt like something else. It felt like something that pointed at something bigger, and she had flattened it into it’s just what we do.

Ethan, across the table, was building something with his pencil case and two rubber bands. He had been doing this all afternoon in small pieces whenever Ms. Larson wasn’t looking.

“Can I ask you something?” said Simran quietly.

“You never ask first,” said Ethan. “You usually just ask.”

“Can I ask you something?”

“Yes.”

“If someone asked you why you do something that’s important to you — something that you do every day — and you didn’t know how to explain it, what would you say?”

Ethan unwound one of the rubber bands. “I’d say I don’t know.”

“What if that felt like the wrong answer?”

“Then I’d find out.” He rewound it. “Not that complicated, Simran.”

Maya, without looking up from her drawing: “It’s not about finding the words, though. It’s about knowing what you actually think first.”

Simran looked at her. She hadn’t thought of it that way.

The Tuesday Bus

The next morning on the bus, Maya had her sketchbook open to a new page — blank still.

“What are you going to draw?” said Simran.

“Don’t know yet. Something from the park, maybe. There was a cedar waxwing yesterday. But I have to remember the exact colours before I start, otherwise it comes out wrong.”

Simran had been thinking about Lily’s question since Picture Day.

“If someone asked you why you kept your hair long,” she said, “what would you say?”

Maya looked up. “I’d say I like it long.”

“But if the real reason was bigger than that.”

“Then I’d say the bigger reason.”

Simran tried it. She said: Guru Gobind Singh Ji, the Five Kakars, kesh, the Khalsa. She’d been turning the words over since yesterday — they came out correctly, in order, complete.

Maya listened to all of it. Then she said, “That’s what it is. But what is it for you?”

Simran didn’t say anything.

She had thought she was answering. It turned out she had said what kesh was, not what it meant — to her, specifically, the person wearing it.

Ethan looked up from his book on bridge engineering. “You gave her the definition, not the reason. Different things.”

“I know that.”

“Then why did you give her the definition?”

She didn’t answer that either. The bus pulled up to the school and she counted the steps from the door to the front entrance. She always counted those too: eleven.

Wednesday

In class on Wednesday, Ms. Larson handed back the maths test from Friday.

Simran got nineteen out of twenty. She’d made an error on the last problem — a subtraction error, the kind that happened when she was thinking about something else.

She looked at the error. She had written 37 instead of 27. She’d been in a hurry.

She corrected it in her notebook and then sat with the corrected number for a moment. Then she wrote below it: definition ≠ reason.

Ethan was right. She had known the definition of kesh since she was small — Guru Gobind Singh Ji, Five Kakars, uncut hair. But the definition was not the same as understanding why. Knowing the facts was the beginning, not the answer.

She looked out the window. Gurdwara Dasmesh Darbar was not visible from the classroom — she was on the wrong side of the building. But she knew it was there: two blocks north, the white dome she counted every morning from the bus.

Some things you knew without being able to see them.

She thought about that. Then she wrote it down.

The Landing

At home that evening, Simran stood in the bathroom looking at her hair.

She had taken her braid out after school — just to look. Her hair hung loose past her shoulders. Long, dark, straight. She had the same hair as her mum, and her mum had the same hair as Nani, and Nani’s mother before her had the same hair. Simran knew this because of the photographs.

There was a photo in the hallway: Nani Ji at maybe nineteen, in a garden in Amritsar. Her braid was over her shoulder. She was laughing at something. Then her mum, in a photo from before Simran was born, standing at Niagara Falls, the mist behind her, the braid in the same place.

And there was a photo of Dad.

This one Simran had always noticed without quite knowing why. He was maybe six or seven — young enough that he was wearing a joora instead of a dastar, the small knotted topknot that Sikh boys wore before they were old enough to tie a turban. His hair was covered in a small patka. He was smiling. He looked like a different version of Simran’s dad, but also exactly the same.

She went to the hallway and looked at all three photographs again.

Three people. Different decades, different countries. Nani in a garden in Amritsar. Mum at Niagara Falls. Dad at maybe six, somewhere in Brampton, in a joora. All of them with the same hair — the hair they’d been given and never cut. All of them, in some way, connected by this one thing across all the distance and time.

She hadn’t known the answer in the gym corridor. She still wasn’t sure she did.

But she was starting to see the shape of it.

The Mirror

The next morning, Simran watched her dad tie his dastar.

She had seen it every morning of her life, but today she watched carefully. He stood in front of the bathroom mirror, tying his navy dastar with slow, practised hands. It took a while — it always did. Nothing about it was rushed. Something in the way his hands moved said: this matters.

When he was done, he met her eyes in the mirror.

“Papa, why is kesh one of the Five Kakars?”

He looked at her. “Did something happen?”

“A girl in my class asked why I never cut my hair. I said ‘it’s just our family thing.’” She paused. “That’s not the right answer, is it.”

“No,” said Dad. “It’s not wrong. But it’s the smallest part of it.”

He paused for a moment, thought, and then answered.

“Guru Gobind Singh Ji gave kesh to the Khalsa as a statement,” he said. “That you accept yourself as Waheguru made you. Hair is something you’re born with. It’s what you came with. Cutting it would be saying: what I was given isn’t enough, I’ll change it.” He looked up. “But there’s more than that.”

Simran waited.

“When you see someone with a dastar or a braid or a joora, you can see, immediately, that they’ve made a commitment. Their identity is visible. You can see it from across a room. They’re not hidden.”

“Is that good?” said Simran. “Not being able to hide?”

Dad looked at her steadily. “What do you think?”

She thought about the photographs in the hallway. Nani in Amritsar. Mum at Niagara Falls. Dad in the joora, Brampton, sometime before Simran existed. All of them visible. All of them the same hair across all that distance and time.

“I think it’s a thread,” she said slowly. “A thread connecting all the people who made the same choice.”

Dad nodded once, like he was confirming something she already knew. “That’s a much better answer than it’s just our family thing.”

The Same Hair

At school on Thursday, Simran found Lily at the lockers before class.

“I wanted to answer your question better,” said Simran. “From Picture Day. When you asked about my hair.”

Lily looked up. “Oh — you don’t have to.”

“I know. But I gave you a bad answer.” Simran stood with her hands by her sides. “The reason I don’t cut my hair is because it’s one of the Five Kakars — five things that Guru Gobind Singh Ji gave to the Sikh Khalsa hundreds of years ago. Kesh is the hair. He said: accept yourself as Waheguru made you. Don’t cut what you were given.”

Lily listened.

“But also — when you see someone with a dastar or a braid kept long, you know immediately that they’ve made a promise. Their identity is visible. It’s a thread connecting everyone who’s made the same choice.”

She stopped. It was more than she’d meant to say. But it was the true answer, and she knew it while she was saying it — the way she knew a maths answer was right before she checked it.

Lily thought about it for a moment. “So it’s like a uniform?” she said.

“Sort of. But from the inside, not from the outside. Nobody tells me to wear it. It just — is.”

Lily looked at Simran’s braid. “My grandma always keeps her hair really long too,” she said. “Not for the same reason. She just says it’s part of who she is.”

“Maybe it’s not that different,” said Simran.

Lily smiled. “Maybe.” She turned to get her books. Then she turned back. “I’m glad you told me the real answer. The first one was kind of — I don’t know.”

“I know,” said Simran. “I knew it then too.”

“But you came back.”

“I had to,” said Simran. “I’d written it in my notebook.”

The Picture

The class photos came back on Friday.

Ms. Larson handed them out in envelopes. Simran opened hers and looked. She was in the middle of the back row — she’d been put there for height. Her braid was over her left shoulder. Her kara caught the light slightly, one thin bright line at the edge of her wrist. She looked like herself, which she supposed was the point of photographs.

Maya was next to her in the photo. She leaned over to see. “You look very serious.”

“I’m always serious in photos.”

“You should try not being serious.”

“Then I don’t look like myself.”

Maya looked at the photo, then at Simran. “This is true,” she said. “You look exactly like yourself.”

Ethan opened his envelope on the other side. “I blinked,” he said. “Of course I blinked.”

Simran looked at her photo. She thought about the photographs at home — Nani in the garden, Mum at the falls, Dad in the joora. One day, she supposed, her picture would be up there too. Some future Simran, looking at the hallway, would see this photo: her, Grade 2 classroom, the braid over the left shoulder, the kara catching light.

A thread. All the way forward, all the way back.

Thirty-Two Again

On Monday morning, Simran walked the thirty-two steps to the bus stop.

She counted them. She always would. One, two, three — the familiar rhythm, her bag on her back, the Kennedy Road traffic starting up. The white dome of Gurdwara Dasmesh Darbar was just visible above the rooftops two blocks north. The mithai shop at the plaza wasn’t open yet, but the smell of something warm drifted from somewhere nearby — someone’s kitchen, someone’s morning.

On the bus, Maya had her sketchbook. She was drawing a house sparrow today — she said they were underrated. Ethan was reading about bridge engineering, which he had moved on to from disaster engineering.

“I answered Lily’s question properly,” Simran said. “I told her about kesh.”

“What did she say?” said Maya.

“She said her grandma keeps her hair long too and it’s part of who she is. For a different reason.” Simran looked out the window. “I said maybe it’s not that different.”

Ethan looked up from his book. “Different reasons for the same thing. Does that make it the same thing or different things?”

“Both,” said Maya.

“That’s what you always say.”

“Because it’s usually true.”

Simran watched the white dome of Gurdwara Dasmesh Darbar pass between the buildings. She counted the seconds it was visible: three. The same as every morning.

The bus went over the bump at the intersection and then smoothed out again. Maya turned to a new page. Ethan went back to bridges. Outside, the 37 route sign came up and passed.

Thirty-two steps. Seven stops. One thread connecting things she hadn’t been able to see from where she’d been standing.

She thought about the photographs in the hallway. How long they had been there. How she had walked past them every day and never stopped to ask what she was looking at. Sometimes you needed a question from someone else to see what had always been in front of you.

She wrote in her notebook, not her sketchbook: I told Lily the right answer. It took me three days to find it. That seems like the right amount of time.

Then, below that: The definition is not the same as the reason. The reason is what you carry.

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Gurbani Verse

ਮਨ ਤੂੰ ਜੋਤਿ ਸਰੂਪੁ ਹੈ ਆਪਣਾ ਮੂਲੁ ਪਛਾਣੁ ॥

Man toon jot saroop hai aapnaa mool pachaan.

“O my soul, you are the very image of the Divine Light — recognize your own origin.”

— Guru Amar Das Ji, Ang 441, Sri Guru Granth Sahib Ji

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Discussion Questions

Let’s Talk About It: Simran told Lily “it’s just our family thing” — and immediately knew it was the wrong answer. Have you ever given an answer you knew wasn’t quite right? What did you do?

Let’s Think About It: Simran’s dad says kesh means “accept yourself as Waheguru made you.” What does it mean to accept yourself as you were made? Is that easy or hard?

Let’s Talk About It: Simran says kesh is “a thread connecting everyone who’s made the same choice.” What are some threads in your own life that connect you to people you’ve never met?

Let’s Think About It: It took Simran three days to find the real answer. She says “that seems like the right amount of time.” When is it worth taking time to find the right words for something?

Let’s Try It: Think about something important to you — something you do every day or something you believe. How would you explain it to someone who’s never seen it before? Try putting it into words.

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Word Meanings

Word	Meaning
Amritsar	A city in Punjab, India — home of the Harimandir Sahib (the Golden Temple)
Dastar	A turban
Gurdwara	A Sikh place of worship — “the door to the Guru”
Joora	A small topknot of hair worn by Sikh boys before they are old enough to tie a full dastar
Kanga	A small wooden comb — one of the five articles of Sikh identity
Kara	A steel bracelet worn on the wrist — one of the five articles of Sikh identity
Kakar	One of five articles that initiated Sikhs wear or carry, given by Guru Gobind Singh Ji
Kesh	Uncut hair — one of the five articles of Sikh identity, representing acceptance of oneself as Waheguru made you
Khalsa	The community of initiated Sikhs, founded by Guru Gobind Singh Ji in 1699
Patka	A head covering worn by Sikh boys, covering the joora
Waheguru	The Wonderful Creator — the Sikh name for God

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About This Story

This is the third story in the Simran Kaur series — five stories set in Brampton and Toronto, each woven around one of the Five Kakars (the five articles of Sikh identity given by Guru Gobind Singh Ji to the Khalsa in 1699). In this story, the Kesh — uncut hair — is shown as what it truly is: not a rule or a tradition, but a statement of acceptance. I am as Waheguru made me. And more than that: a thread connecting every person who has made the same promise across decades and distances. Simran gives the wrong answer first. She finds the right one three days later. That is the whole story.

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Explore More

• The Five Kakars — Articles of Sikh Faith — What the Five Kakars are and why they matter
• Simran Kaur and the Knot — The second story in the Five Kakars series
• Simran Kaur and the Fence — The fourth story in the Five Kakars series