Gunga Din Lite & Other Delights (of Lust and Comedy) is collection of 13 short stories from award-winning writer, journalist and filmmaker, Maninder Chana. The stories in the collection center around themes of love and lust… from career aspirations, to relationships, to betrayal, to racism, to sex and the struggle for the all mighty dollar. Each story is tinged with Maninder's rye wit and acerbic humor.

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His birth made all the newspapers because he was born with the longest hair of any baby anyone had ever seen. Asked how hair could grow so fast on a newborn, Father Singh simply replied, “We’re Sikh. It’s what we do.”

But the questions and interest would not go away. Tired of the spotlight on his son’s hair, Father Singh moved the family northeast to the small community of Paris, Texas, which is home to the world’s 2nd largest Eiffel Tower (the town had long been going through an identity crisis).

Although they were born in the States and considered themselves as American as apple pie, Father Singh made sure they held on to their religious beliefs just as any Jew, Muslim, Christian or Pat Robertson would. But that also meant Iqbal had a rough time in school because of his long hair, which was knotted up and wrapped under a turban. He was called the usual assortment of names like hippy and that person with the thing on his head, only because Texans were not as familiar with religion as they were with guns, so everything they didn’t understand was referred to as “that thing.” Thus gun laws were referred to as “that thing we got to destroy.”
None of the teachers would stand up for Iqbal and they let the kids humiliate him in anyway they saw fit. Then one day Iqbal got fed up and displayed his ceremonial dagger and threatened to slice some bread with it. The fact that it was made of rubber (his parents were too cheap to buy him a real one) didn’t go over well with the principal, Mister Klansman. He brought Iqbal’s parents into his office for a chat.

There the two sat, Iqbal in the middle, in front of Mister Klansman. He eyed them all suspiciously.
“Young man, you’re in a lot of trouble. What do you have to say for yourself?”
Iqbal yelped, “Je n’ai rein fait.”
“What?”
Mother stepped in. She was always proud of the fact that during her pregnancy she’d continued with her French and sang Parisian songs to her fetus. “It’s French.”
“French? This is America.”
“Yes, but when in Paris do like the Parisians do,” Mother smiled.
“This isn’t Paris, France. This is Paris, Texas.”
Father jumped in inquisitive. “Then why the Eiffel Tower?”
“Somehow I pictured it bigger,” said Mother nonchalant.
“So did I.”
“Vie le France!” Iqbal shouted.
Mister Klansman wasn’t impressed. “Quit with the French!”
“It’s a defense mechanism.” Mother began trying to reach out to the parent in Mister Klansman, “You know children.”
“Look. What you’re son did was wrong. Maybe back where you come from—“
“Dallas.”
Mister Klansman looked at Father baffled. Ever since this little talk began, the Singhs had been speaking in what appeared to be authentic Indian accents. He now thought maybe he’d just heard wrong. “Dallas? I mean where you were born.”
“Fort Worth?” Mother beamed.
“You were born in Fort Worth?”
All the Singhs nodded.
“Then why the accents?”
“Doesn’t it make you feel more comfortable?” Mother grinned.
“Vie le Fort Worth!”
“Boy, I’m warning you,” Mister Klansman looked at Iqbal, furious.
“Come on,” Father tried to ease the situation, “It’s a plastic dagger.”
“That’s cos’ you’re too cheap to buy him a real one,” Mother quipped.
Father agitated turned to her, “So now I’m cheap, eh?”
“But in a good way,” Mother stroked Father’s beard gently. He purred and relented. She always knew how to keep him happy.
“All right. Stop this! Listen, you’re son is in a lot of trouble. He’s out of control!”
“Maybe if the other kids were taught tolerance,” Mother suggested.
Mister Klansman laughed, “Tolerance? Tolerance is what that boy should be showing those kids. They come from the best families in the city. One of them is my own kid. He’s having nightmares over this.”
“Tres bien!” Iqbal screamed excitedly.
That bit of French Mister Klansman understood. “Okay Frenchy. If you’re gonna act like a Frenchman, I’m going to treat you like one. You ever heard of the Bastille?”

Mister Klansman took his detestation all the way to the district judge who agreed with him and because they were in Texas ordered Iqbal to surrender the rubber knife and instead purchase a large cache of illegal guns. But instead of bowing down to those that would quash their religious rights for the sake of the N.R.A., Father Singh moved the family up north to an Inuit village in Pangnirtung, Nunavut.

Nunavut is a newly created territory in Northern Canada. Why the Singhs chose to move there instead of Surrey, British Columbia, where there were a whole lot more of their kind is anyone’s guess. Apparently government subsidies allow Pangnirtungians to put out one hell of a “Move to Pangnirtung” campaign brochure.

Pangnirtung for the uninitiated is a magical place of ice and fish. The majority of snow on Baffin Island melts during the summer, but there are nice little isolated spaces where the white stuff lasts all year round. Apparently Santa Claus is thinking of opening a second toyshop near by.

Everyone in Pangnirtung wore parkas and once in a while they got naked, but not for sex, only to go for polar bear dips. Thus the population was in decline. So they welcomed their brown brethren with smiles and seal penises (apparently you couldn’t clobber the seals but you could emasculate them). Seal penises were believed to be an exotic aphrodisiac. Did we mention the population was in decline? That gives you an idea why. Ironically, the Japanese like seal penises and their population is up, so it must be some kind of anomaly.

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