Leaving behind the tourist riddled Golden Triangle, I caught a jet plane for Amritsar.
Amritsar is a siiick city, it so happens to be a Sikh city too.
Amritsar punched a few divisions above its weight. It offered the extra-ordinary.
With the sun managing, just, to clear its way through the dusted air, a new morning was able
With the sun managing, just, to clear its way through the dusted air, a new morning was able
to reveal itself.
We parked in a brutalist concrete parkade along a tarred and dirtied road.
Walking a few steps beyond the parkade a riverine red-paved boulevard gushed pacily past us heaving with tens and tens of tourists and touts. With a bout of trepidation, I gingerly dipped a toe into the raging turmoil. Cringing, I pulled back rapidly. Attempting the double dip, my body acclimatised. ‘On your marks, get set, go’. Diving in, head first, I caught current to be swept along like spawning salmon. In the fast flowing deluge, there i was, being tossed about, helter skelter. Disorientated, necks craning for a gasp of air, managing to gleen a glimpse of a beautifully dynamic bronze sculpture, low rise polished buildings and trinket shops that hugged the ‘rivers’ edge. As the boulevard hurtled to a curve, nearing the bend, there in the distance above the heads of many, I caught sight of the starch white Temple complex. Slowly, surely the frenetic flow of people began to retreat, the people power began to wane gently lapping against the short rise to the temple plaza, the pre amble to the Temple Complex. There we jumped aside for some serenity and a sigh of safety and a free cup of warm Sikh milk for driver Gajendar.
Gajendar, having ‘got milk’, licking his lips, pointed to a scale that sat upon the floor.
Stepping on it, weighing in the early 70’s, he raised a guiding hand encouraging me to do same. Expecting an exchange of rupees I said , ‘no thanks’, to which Gajendar replied, ‘no worry, I’ll pay’. With nerve, stepping on the scale, and expecting feather-weight lightness given my stapled diet, my blister burst. With the needle flicking back and forth around the 85kg mark, the blood in my amigdala began to drain. Stunned, muted, ashamed, limp, and light headed, I zeroed in on Gajendar. “Don’t worry Mr Dan, you have a nice personality”. Sucking on my cheek, I stepped off that scale, bruised, and hurried scurried us towards the Golden Temple.
Barefoot is how you enter the temple. Handing over my boots and socks, I received an identity token and a bout of a dreaded foot disease.
The cold yet smooth of the white marble, the cold water moat surrounding the temple for cleaning ones feet, the soft red carpet soaked by the hundreds of wetted feet , standing knee deep in the halloed water surrounding the temple, the circular circuit we followed circumventing the Temple all engaged my tactile sense.
The morning sun glinting off the rippling water, the reflective shine of the white marble, the golden jewel sparkle of the Temple, the full colour-wheel of garb and the sheer awesomeness of the sight engaged my visual sense.
The morning sun glinting off the rippling water, the reflective shine of the white marble, the golden jewel sparkle of the Temple, the full colour-wheel of garb and the sheer awesomeness of the sight engaged my visual sense.
Like a Liquorice All Sort, the Temple is layered. A third, its base, is of stone, and the upper two thirds are golden yellow. The surrounding buildings are stark white-a pristine backdrop to its shimmery shine. The Golden Temple sits in the middle of a man-made lake. The water is given holiness and worshippers arrive to take a dip in the spirited waters. With worshippers circling the temple in a clockwise direction a vortex of spirituality is created. Coming full circle we headed for the exit.
Slipping socks back on and tying boots back up, we drove towards the extremities of the city to the border gate between Pakistan and India.
Both India and Pakistan have a change of guard. It happens every day, and every day some 20000 people turn up to view this spectacle. The Indian Freddie Mercury-like jester riles his compatriots encouraging them to cry war. The one legged clown on the Pakistan side pirouettes to have his countrymen, more placid, cheer and jeer. Football-field sized flags flutter on either side of the border. Indian pop music beats through its speakers, Pakistani music leaps through its speakers. Patriotism is vigorous. Entertaining are the guards goose stepping, jousting. It is fierce, and it is determined. No cricket team scored more runs than the other, no hockey team scored more goals than the other, we screamed at them and they screamed at us. We left after the two hour ‘spectacle’ having achieved very little. What an oddity.
