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Canada?” I asked.
    â€œTwenty-one years. I have been a Canadian citizen for almost fifteen years. Two of my children are born citizens and the other two became Canadians as soon as possible. You know that sometimes people ask me, Where are you from? and I tell them Toronto. Then I tell them about where I was born. I am proud to be Sikh. But I am also proud to be Canadian. You must always take pride in where you come from, but also in where you are and where you will be in the future.”
    â€œI guess I never thought about it. I was born here,” I said.
    â€œLike my two youngest.”
    â€œAnd so were my parents and their parents.”
    â€œAnd before that?” he asked.
    â€œMy great-grandparents on both sides were from Scotland.”
    â€œBe proud of your heritage. But, in this country, we are almost all immigrants. Some find it more difficult to be here than others. Most of their difficulties aren’t in where they are but what they bring with them.”
    â€œI don’t understand,” I said. “You mean like money?”
    â€œMoney is one thing that would make life easier, but I am talking about an attitude. I will tell you a story,” he said. “My wife says I like telling stories too much, that I should be a writer and not a lawyer or a security guard.” He paused. “Not that I am saying anything bad about my wife. She is a very good woman, but here is the story.
    â€œA man moves to a new country. He wishes to know what the people are like in this new place, so he goes to see the king and asks him. The king, instead of answering, asks the man one question, ‘What were the people like where you came from?’ The man replies, ‘They were kind and generous.’ The king says, ‘That is how you will find them here.’
    â€œA second man moves to the country, and he too goes and sees the king and asks the very same question about the people, and the king, in turn, asks him about the people in the country he left. The second man answers that the people where he came from were mean and unfriendly. The king replies, ‘That is how you will find them here.’
    â€œDo you understand my story?” Mr. Singh asked.
    â€œI think so. It’s sort of like who you are and what you’re like will be a big part of what happens for you wherever you live.”
    â€œExactly!” he exclaimed, and he gave me a big pat on the back. “No country is perfect. Here, like everywhere else, there are good people and bad people. Some of those bad people will only look at this,” he said, tapping a finger against his skin. “Or this,” he said, gesturing to his turban. “Instead of looking at the person.” He paused. “But in this country at least we know we are supposed to treat each other as equals. Here, in this country, a security guard can raise children who can become doctors and lawyers and teachers.”
    â€œOr the prime minister,” I said.
    â€œOr the prime minister. We Sikhs love politics. You mark my words, there will be a Sikh prime minister someday. But for today, I will be a proud Sikh soldier, and here are the cats I guard!”

Eight
    There were at least a dozen cats standing, walking around, sitting or curled into balls sleeping, either on the ground or on the roofs or trunks of the wrecked cars.
    â€œThere are a lot of them,” I said. “How many do you think there are altogether?”
    â€œI am not certain, and the number changes all the time.”
    â€œI saw some kittens,” I said. “And some teenager-sized cats.”
    â€œYes, kittens are born all the time, and other cats disappear or die. I find the remains sometimes.”
    â€œDo they just get old?”
    â€œI do not believe that many live long enough to die of old age. It is not an easy life. There are many things: often cars or trucks on the street, sometimes dogs get in the yard through the holes, and