reflections of amritsar

Amritsar for me was the most Indian of Indian cities.

For no other reason than the fact that the rising spires of the Golden Temple accentuated the boundless contradictions of that one Punjab capital. Contrary to common misconceptions, beggars do line the streets (even though they could easily make their way to lungar, the 24 hour community kitchen that the Golden Temple runs, where the Mughal King Akbar also broke bread with the masses). But for every beggar woman asking for rupees for her shame, there are civil servants and house wives and rickshaw-wallas doing seva. And for every visit the chief minister makes to the Temple, there are literal gold diggers sifting through the sewers, in search of that 0.0000001 gram of gold. All the drugs that come through Pakistan find its home at first in Amritsar. The breadbasket of India, the Punjab valley also consumes more Scottish whiskey than any other place in the world.

It is often said that people come to India in search of spirituality, or in search of drugs, and so reminiscing over the holy golden city Amritsar (Sikh means learner) in the decadent stretch of Goa’s notoriously drug-laced beaches is only fitting. If these places are as strikingly different as night and day, one thing they hold in common is the feeling of being blessed to discover daily, the bounties of the unexpected. Either way, India really is many holidays with one visa.

To add: They say you should visit the Golden Temple twice – once during the day, and again, at night when it is all lit up and impossibly beautiful.

When you visit the Golden Temple during the day, you will notice that the pilgrims will make a pit stop to purchase Indian sweets wrapped in coconut leaves. They will give this offering before entering the Temple. The many offerings of these many pilgrims are then gathered in one massive pot. As you exit the Temple, men on both ends of the exit will plant a hand-fullonto your palm (if you absentmindedly walk away sweet-less, you can bet on them to beckon you back); this is a gentle reminder to share the sufferings and the joys of the world.

cricket happy

Day two in Amritsar, I emerge glorious: well rested, after a 12 hour sleep (I hadn’t slept since Sunday, which makes 12 hours less egregious). After a light lunch of mixed vegetables, rice, yoghurt, and roti, we headed into town for a day of shopping. The mission was to buy fabric to get kultas (suit tops for women) made. Getting into the main bazaar district, the streets seemed deserted. No salesmen were shoving goods into our face, no shop owners were bellowing that we come “just take look madam,” no small children tugging at our shirts and begging for alms.

This absence of hassle was quickly explained when I walked past a shop with a television set: India was playing Pakistan in the semi-finals for the World Cup. And so we had the day to ourselves, to meander through the narrow alleyways without the usual harassments that make walking a contact sport.

Weaving in and out of streets that seem to open up into more narrow corridors filled with yards upon yards of fabric, with men drinking chai, mending shoes, folding chulpis and inviting us into their crowded shops. Most of them had their eyes glued to whatever television set was within their line of vision, all of them, of course, tuned to the live broadcasting of the India-Pakistan World Cup semi-finals. And for this, we are forever grateful to cricket.

In one of the many narrow streets where we found ourselves, we came across a modest opening, which led us to a small pool of water, quarter the size of the Golden Temple, but just as lovely.

A sudden oasis in a city of no other refuge. It was so eerie and so wonderful to walk around this old abandoned temple site, with walls opening up to dilapidated buildings and crumbling warehouses. All in decay, none less beautiful. And just steps away, the commerce of mortals. Within seconds of stepping out back into the streets, we were again accosted by the smell of men roasting nuts, the screeching noise from navigating rickshaws, sellers and buyers going through the motions of selling and of buying.

And as I write this, at 11 p.m. at night, I can hear fireworks in the distance. A game that began midday must have come to an end right about now, with favourable results. India plays Sri Lanka this coming Saturday. I should watch the game, something tells me. Or I might just go shopping. In peace.

miri piri academy

I am staying in a dorm room of a private boarding school some 30 minutes outside of Amritsar (depending on who is driving, what mode of transportation you are taking, how bad the traffic is, what the weather is like, whether there is a cricket match on, but on average, it should only take half an hour).

Taking the cycle rickshaw from the main road into the grounds, we passed through small vendours selling kitchenware, a gurudawa (place of worship for Sikhs), car repair shops, fields of wheat, and clutching at my bag containing my life for the next couple months, I felt happy for the first time on this trip. It might not be a function of the place, but more the fact that I have been reunited with an old friend, and the prospects of exploring this corner of India with a partner in crime is both reassuring and exciting.

The school is home to hundred or so students, from Singapore to Sri Lanka to Toronto to Tibet (there is one half-Chinese, half-German Sikh girl, who must be so well beyond any old identity crisis). Turban is part of the school uniform, but not all students are practicing Sikhs. Some chose to come because they like that yoga is part of the curriculum, others came just so they could attend school abroad.

In exchange for free room and board, I have offered to help out with the little boys here. I wake them up in the morning (at an unkind 6.45 a.m.), and put them to bed at night (around 8.30 p.m.) after brushing and putting their hair into a braid.

It is strange to be here, the grass immaculate, the flowers in full bloom, trees tall and proud. The kids have formations before everything: before yoga, before meditation, before group work out, before meals, before getting ready for bed. There is a schedule, and people follow them. Bells are rung, meal times are announced, and snacks are distributed at a set time. Guards patrol the grounds, and workers tend to the field. Everything is so orderly here. Just outside these brick walls is rest of Punjab. With unkempt children running around make shift roads where elephants and auto rickshaws and impossibly massive trucks jostle for space.

at the end of india

Arriving in Amritsar early this week, the first thing we set out to do was to visit the Golden Temple. Sikh religion’s holiest of sites, it sits shimmering above a body of water, referred to as the “nectar tank” (the name Amritsar itself means “holy pool of nectar”). To enter the Temple, you check in your shoes and your bags at the door. Shoes, on your feet or otherwise, are not permitted. You first walk through a small puddle of water (an act of ablution), and climb up the marble staircase.

Here, the Golden Temple emerges from a sea of pilgrims (it boasts more visitors than the Taj Mahal herself). It is smaller than the photos have led you to believe, but is not less lovelier for it. Walking around the Temple, many a men attempt to make small talk with us, offering to share the entire cannon of Sikh history (“no thank you,” we politely decline). Some are with good intentions, others are without.

We then head to lungar, the free meal service recently profiled in this New York Times article. Entering the kitchen premise, I am handed the stainless steel plate that serve as the vehicle for all Indian meals. We are then herded upstairs, where a mob of people wait not so patiently outside a closed door. Here, I experience my first “eve-teasing.” A young man graces his fingers down my back, and the only thing I have to defend myself is the said plate. I grab hold of it like a frisbee, and shoot him a look that hopefully translates in Punjabi to, “You try again, I will hit you with this plate” (later we learn that the lungar line is notorious for all its jostling and its groping).

The door creaks open, and the mob floods into the dining room, where a series of long straw mats indicate the seating arrangement. Even before everyone can sit down, men carrying buckets and ladles come around serving up daal, rice, and coconut rice pudding. A man skillfully pours water into the bowl with precision that hints at years of practice. Another serves up “piping” hot rounds of roti to raised hands. Not sure if it was the experience of breaking bread with hundreds, or the fact that this was my first meal in over 12 hours, but the food is absolutely delicious.

And so I was sad to get up as the cleaning crew swept in to wipe the floors and get ready for the next round of lungars. We were again shepherded downstairs, where an impressive line of workers receive, clear, rinse, wash, and dry the hundreds of thousands of plates, bowls, and spoons.

After lunch, we met up with Gur’s friend, Hardeep. Hardeep is an educator/metal worker/travel agent/translator/shopkeeper. A jack of all trades, whose main source of income comes from selling Sikh knives, bracelets, and other amulets of interest to the white Sikh community.

Recently married to an Alaskan Sikh woman, Hardeep is such a fascinating character that we let him show us his knife collection just to hear him talk. He shows us all the different manner in which the weapons can be used to inflict pain. In exchange, I show him the whistle that the American Embassy gave me after completing a self-defense class. Needless to say, Hardeep thinks this is just about the funniest thing ever. Even as I show him all the moves I learned (hit the soft spots, use their weight to your advantage), to a man who just described how one might use a tiger’s claw, a yellow and green whistle (in the shape of a dolphin no less) must seem like a bizarre accoutrement at best.

As the discussion descends into the existence of god, we decide it best to walk around in search of the famed Amritsari cuisine. Our first stop is Goenka’s, where we pick up a box full of milk cake, saffron squares, coconut bars, and other unidentifiable and delicious sweets. The shop claims to use all mineral water (by mineral, they mean not carbonated, but filtered water) and apparently, has been demanding that the food inspection team come prove them right.

Our next stop is Brother’s Dhaba, which claims to use “pure desi ghee” in preparing all dishes (“ghee” is purified butter). I let Hardeep order, and is more than satisfied with the plate of black daal, eggplant mush, curd (yoghurt), and roti. My menu reading skills haven’t progressed much since Day 1. Still, the only two words I can pick out are “aloo” (potatoes), and “ghobi” (cauliflower).

In giving us tips on how to ward off the army of unwanted male gaze that seems to trail us everywhere, Hardeep tells us that the best way is to be stern. Do not respond. If you respond in kind, you have already bitten the bait. And baits are aplenty. Even in a city where the dominant religion is one that teaches that a woman older than you is your mother, a woman younger than you is your daughter, a woman your age is your sister, men descend on us “western girls” like hawks.

“Amritsar is at the end of India,” Hardeep explains. “After this, it is Pakistan. It is not normal for men to come say hi to women here. You smile at them and they think you are in love.”

So no greeting strangers with kind smiles here in the heart of Punjab. No making of new friends on street curbs. But a whole lot of delicious warm roti cooked in pure desi ghee. I think I am okay with that.