I was in Africa in 1972 when I met my first Sikh. There were actually two of them, Cocky and Mohinder. I was walking the streets of Nairobi with my husband and an Australian we had met at the youth hostel. We stopped to look in the window of a photography shop. Photos of men in turbans, beautiful Indian actresses and wild animals had been arranged haphazardly in the display window. Loud, discordant music blared out the open door.
“Where are you going, my young friends?” a round, bearded man wearing a lime green turban asked as he stepped through…
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