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.
I took a liking to the granthi and the shrine, and I returned there many times, to just sit quietly imbibing the atmosphere, or to look at the vivid murals of scenes from Sikh history, which were larger and more striking than the images in our local library's Amar Chitra Kathas (illustrated comics on Indian mythology and history). My parents, practising Hindus, didn't seem to mind these outings, just as they quite enjoyed the hymns we learnt at school and sang at home on Easter and Christmas. On the birthdays of the gurus, though, they would shut the doors on that side of the house to stem the barrage of speeches being broadcast from the gurudwara all day.
At some point, however, these visits tapered off, as schoolwork, games, and friends left no time for anything out of the way. By this time, the gentle granthi had also gone, to be replaced by another that we children found quite funny. This fellow had the habit of singing his kirtans to the tune of popular Bollywood hits. This certainly made the songs memorable, but knocked out quite a bit of the sanctity, especially as he was also off-key most of the time.