2010

I may have to eat my words from the last post, because having traveled some thousand miles northwards, I must admit that India is actually pretty cold in the winter. "Bone-chilling cold in North India" proclaims the evening news, marveling at the fact that the mercury has dropped -gasp- below freezing. I am however almost glad it was cold and unpleasant, as events and conditions somehow guided my path into a New Year's experience that for the first time in my grown life I am sure I will never forget.

A thousand miles is rarely a pleasant distance to travel, and it is even less so when one spends half of it on a sleeper bus bouncing with such vigor that I was repeatedly tossed into the air and flipped like a pancake within my berth. The train ride after was almost as bad, though this was due to a self-inflicted torture of reading an over-excited, almost ejaculatory history of the Persian Wars that unironically ended chapters with sentences like "The future of Western civilization...and of democracy, hung in the balance." After I finally reached the end of the book, I clambered down from my crow's nest of a berth and looked out the window to see the fertile plains of Punjab and the sprouting green fields glistening in the evening mist. Every few kilometers we passed a little Sikh farming village with its gurudwara, the Sikh equivalent of a temple, with its little white tower surmounting the meeting hall and culminating in a modest onion dome.

Despite my occasional urge to punch myself for reading that awful book all the way through to the battle of Plataea, I made it intact to my destination: the Punjab, land of the Sikhs. I arrived in Amritsar, the Sikhs' holy city, late at night and swaddled in my cold-weather clothes: a 2-dollar pauper's blanket and a bright yellow 25-cent turban wrapped around my ears. Starving, I stumbled into a roadside eatery where gritty construction workers were just getting off a very late shift working on the highway flyover. It was one of these shady cafes that I usually avoid for reasons of hygiene, although the Indian bugs can get you anywhere. Eating in India is essentially a passive form of bulimia; you merely acquiesce to the fact that you may or may not vomit up your lunch on any given day.

The patrons stared as they saw this tourist wobble into the cafe in an apparent state of complete destitution. Rather, I should say that some of the patrons stared at me. The rest kind of just looked with bleary eyes and slumped onto the table, because this was the sort of eatery where the vast majority of the dinner plates were being used to consolidate each customer's assortment of empty whiskey bottles. The waiter hobbled over to me, swaying as his head made great arcs through the chill night air. "We have...." he began, raising a finger every time he listed an item, "daaaal fry....ch,ch,channa masala....iiiidllleeee....RICE." Pausing for a moment, he looked at his fingers with great curiosity and began again "ok ,we have dal fry...dal fry.....rice..." The food, I must say, was less than superb.

The next day, still swaddled in my increasingly grimy wool blanket I hired a rickshaw to take me on a tour of the lesser sights of Amritsar. We stopped first at the "Ranjit Singh Panorama", a bizarre museum consisting entirely of panoramas and dioramas of the career of Ranjit Singh, mightiest of the Sikh kings. The sounds of battle blasted on the loudspeakers, the "information panels" provided little insight except that Sikhs and Afghans really do not get along, and the figures were scaled poorly in a desperately botched attempt to create linear perspective.

From there we went to the Durgiana temple. All I knew was that it was a Hindu shrine of some sort. As I approached through the narrow lane lined with the usual assortment of trinkets and offerings, the bustling scene led me to believe I was about to be impressed. I entered the temple compound, walked through the main gate and saw...a thoroughly second-rate attempt at carbon-copying the Sikhs's Golden Temple downtown. The temple sat in a rectangular pool at the end of a narrow causeway. Just like the Golden Temple, it was a squat box covered in gleaming metal, though this one was brass and had rather ungainly depictions of Hindu gods. The sorry attempt at mimicry was almost pathetic. The Hindus, though incredibly tolerant at allowing various sects into their fold, are comically insecure when it comes to apostasy, and the presence nearby of a truly majestic shrine belonging to a sect that adamantly rejects Hinduism is enough to send the priestly establishment into conniptions. The result in Amritsar was this brass-plated schlock. I chuckled at the thought of some Hindu priest back in the day trying to build this temple and realizing to his consternation that the Sikh temple was still a hundred times better.

I went thereafter to a place called the Mata temple, another Hindu shrine that was just outright weird. Its main shrine was dedicated to a bespectacled female saint, and there were several marble statues of this little old lady with her glasses sitting there with her jowls hanging exhaustedly downwards like she just spilled her porridge. A priest directed me up a narrow staircase, and that's where things got really weird. For some reason, the locals felt compelled to simulate a cave temple above ground, and constructed a diabolically labyrinthine path through the temple's many shrines. The path took me up and down a dozen staircases, through winding, switchbacked halls of mirrors, and on my hands an knees through preposterously artificial-looking "rock" tunnels.

I rounded one corner in a hall of fogged mirrors to find myself staring at a six-foot giant head with its tongue hanging out and a third eye on its forehead. Just beyond this was a gallery of lingams, the phallic symbol of Shiva. Though there being many of these in the same place was odd enough, on closer inspection I saw that the "heads" of the lingams were in fact all sculptures of the head of Vishnu, and the vaginal bases on which the lingams rested were in fact vaginal forms encoiled by Vishnu's pet cobra. Further on still, I found myself in a gallery of idols of Vishnu in his many forms. Some of them looked a little familiar, and deciphering the Hindi I realized that they were all reproductions of the idols at the country's most famous Vishnu temples, depicting him in all his regional and incarnate variations. At the end of this gallery was a ludicrous entranceway which required one to duck under a low-hanging 'rock' while climbing over another. The pilgrims ahead of me were rolling up their trousers, so I did the same. I stepped through the blackness and, with a splash, immediately realized why. Here I was, two stories above ground, in an artificial "underground river", wading through running water alongside a painting of a giant snake. Hinduism. What the fuck.

Returning to the main shrine and its mush-mouthed saint, I was assaulted by psychedelic images of outer space on hanging television screens as a group of local women shrieked a chant while banging on tambourines, and temple staff served food in a dining hall filled with strings of flashing lights. Not really caring about this saint enough to inquire any further, I turned to leave, and saw that the exit was guarded by a pair of demonic elephants. I live in India and nothing makes any sense any more.

As delightful as touring the Hindu quarters was, I came to Amritsar for the Sikhs, and wandered into the old city surrounding the Golden Temple. Old Amritsar was of course both enticing and completely revolting. Walking down one street would take you through a thriving bazaar, while the next would be a gorge-like alley with open sewers, where fresh human waste could be observed falling the final foot between the upper stories' drainpipes and the gutter, landing with a merry splash and coursing down the street. I eventually discovered the main road leading to the Golden Temple, a wide boulevard completely stalled with swarms of human traffic. Hip young shoppers tried to get to the bazaars as entire families of regally-turbaned Sikhs crammed onto rickshaws crawling through the chaotic scene. Hundreds of sugar-crazed Hindu tourists in matching giveaway Golden Temple nylon headscarves clogged the road as they slurped on ice cream in the midst of the winter cold. I pushed across the mayhem and slipped through the narrow lane that to this day is the only entrance to the Jagiallah Bagh, an urban garden where thousands of unarmed protesters were massacred by the British Army in 1921. The garden is quite nice, and very evocative, as the bullet holes from the slaughter are still preserved on the walls, and at one end is a hauntingly dark and silent well where hundreds of people died trying to escape the British gunfire.

At the end of the boulevard was a large white building with a clock tower. I took it to be City Hall but it was in fact the outer rim of the Golden Temple complex. Below me was a most spectacular scene, the Golden Temple's eastern shoe depository. At the east entrance alone, this sunken structure was abuzz with hundreds of people leaving and retrieving their shoes, and it smelled like hundreds of people were leaving and retrieving their shoes. The visitors were a cross-section of Sikh society: young men in turbans and Nike pullovers, old businesspeople with flowing beards, throngs of curious Hindus who aren't really sure why Sikhs don't shave, grey-cloaked farmers with ragged turbans, and fat little rich kids spilling ice cream onto their bare feet.

I passed through the entrance and beheld the majesty of the Golden Temple. Though the golden shrine itself is not very large, it sits in a serene, reflective lake ringed by gleaming white shrines and great halls that house the heart of Sikh communal life. On the inner side of the compound walls are the 64 holy shrines. The Sikh gurus despised pilgrimages as a ritual superfluous to God and proclaimed that walking around this lake once was equivalent to visiting all 64 of the holiest Hindu shrines in India. Ohhhhhh man does this kind of shit piss the Hindus off. The edge of the lake is patrolled by the temple guards, blue-turbaned warriors with yellow robes bearing the emblem of the Khalsa, the Sikh brotherhood of arms. They wield holy spears with shining tips. Sitting transcendentally in the middle of the lake is the golden shrine itself, the Harmandir Sahib. It is utterly impossible not to be transfixed by it, a glorious centerpiece rivaled only by the Taj Mahal in its ability to kidnap your attentions. And whereas the Taj Mahal stands triumphantly above the commercialized milieu that presses against its precinct, the Golden Temple, miniscule by comparison, sits unperturbed in its traquility amid the impossibly still waters of the lake as reverent worshipers sit in silence by the water's edge, contemplating the temple and all that it stands for.

After gawping at the shrine at length, I tore myself away to examine the surrounding complex. Out through the main gate I found myself at the langar. All gurudwaras have a langar, which is a communal kitchen which serves the masses free of charge. The one here of course is the langar of langars, and as my tummy was just starting to grumble I could hardly pass up the chance to eat there. As I approached there was a startling din of clanging metal as the temple staff under a large awning washes thousands of trays and bowls to return them to circulation. The Golden Temple langar is a massive, 24-hour operation of impressive efficiency. I walked past the dining hall on the first level, completely empty while staff rapidly mopped the floor, pushing great waves of soap, water, and spilled dal before them. I was sent upstairs to the other hall, and took my seat at the end of an orderly row of complete strangers sitting cross-legged on the floor. There were about a thousand people eating together in this manner, and dozens of staff rushed up and down the aisles dispensing bread, rice, and dal within moments of your needing it. Aside from being breathtakingly efficient, the food was also absoulutely delicious, and the servers gladly piled on the second, third, and fourth helpings until everyone had their fill and rose completely sated without having paid a dime.

Outside the temple compound, a large chunk of the inner city is turned over to gurudwaras. Across from the langar is an open, three-level meeting hall, and all around the entrance gardens are tall gurudwaras serving as free hostels for all visitors. Private rooms are available too, for about a dollar a night. I returned through the main gate, washing my feet in the trough of running water laid before the gate for that purpose. Over the 9-odd hours I spent at the temple, this foot-washing ritual became a little tiresome, as the last thing one really wants to do on the 31st of December is repeatedly dip one's bare feet in cold water. Little did I know what fate and my own impulses had in store that night.

I went to the end of the lake where the causeway to the shrine begins. Across from the causeway are a handful of other important gurudwaras, including the central "parliament hall" of the entire Sikh community. Buildings in this area were being renovated for the umpteenth time. The parliament hall was almost completely leveled in 1984 when the Indian Army blasted its way in to deal with radical Sikh terrorists that had occupied the premises. Its minaret-like towers are still missing, the victims of Indian tank shells. [In my notes, I apparently attributed the damage to Israeli tank shells, proving that Freudian slips can be as political as they can be sexual]. Incensed by this desecration, the prime minister's Sikh bodyguards murdered her in her house later that year. Incensed in turn by this, the Hindus of Delhi went on a murderous rampage killing thousands of Sikhs and burning their homes. In 1994 the catastrophe at the temple repeated itself, though this time the Indian government wisely limited its assault to bullets.

Finally, I joined the massive queue of people on the causeway seeking entrance to the shrine. As I got closer and closer in the slow-moving line, the people surrounding me grew more and more fervent. Halfway across the bridge, the hymns and chants from within the temple could be heard and those waiting outside shouted in call-and-response. People meditated where they stood and others began singing joyously by themselves. Finally I was included in a batch admitted to the marble island on which the temple sat. On the lower levels, the marble was decorated by inlaid stones and gems like the Taj Mahal, while gazing upwards I got a close look at its glimmering sheath of beautifully carved gold leaf.

I entered the shrine. Of all the many places in India I have been, including the very holiest places of the Hindu and Jain religions, and the most sacred space of Indian Islam, this was the most like being transported to another world. Beneath a massive chandelier the entire interior glimmered with intricate floral carvings of pure gold. In the center of the shrine sat a ring of revered old Sikh men (Sikhs have no priests) who read in eerie tones from massive ancient copies of the Sikh holy book. As their voices echoed from the shining walls, those echoes were soon followed by the echoes of voices of transfixed worshipers within, relayed again by the masses teeming outside. Sacred cloths draped other books and delicate whisks brushed faint traces of incense in the air. Up the stairs I entered a carpeted gallery above the ceremony where a hall of tiny mirrors reflected the gold all around me, and finally I ascended to the roof, where a handful of people rested in deep meditation. Dusk had fallen on the end of the year and a red moon rose across the lake. From atop the shrine I could see more and more people pouring through the entrances, coming to join together at the lakeside for the coming of the new year.

Eventually I forced myself to leave the shrine and I joined them. As I stood by on the marble steps lining the lake watching the full moon rise and change from red to yellow for what seemed like eternity, my eyes finally came to rest on the few intrepid bathers who braved the sub-freezing winter cold to cleanse themselves in the lake, the sacred Pool of Nectar, and I knew what I had to do.

As midnight approached and chants filled the air, thousands of people shouting "Good morning!" in old Punjabi in the middle of the night to greet the new year's dawn, I joined a group of shivering young Sikhs preparing for what we in the U.S. might call a "polar bear swim". I stripped to my underwear and noted to my surprise that my boxers were none other than my favorite pair, adorned with silhouettes of polar bears. Surely this was the formless Sikh god at work.

I stepped boldly into the water and carefully descended the stairs in the waters, grasping a metal chain and leaning myself backwards in the local custom, and with a large breath I took the plunge.

Now, as someone who has timidly sampled the Arctic Ocean with his feet in summertime, and has immersed himself nude into New England rivers in the depths of winter, I was able to emerge from the water and to the amazement of my co-bathers declare casually "I've seen colder."

That being said, it was motherfucking cold.

Around the lake, the excitement of the crowd was reaching a climax as I stood shivering in the edge of the waters. A slightly larger number of Sikhs who had been waiting for this fortuitous moment rushed in and joined me with an inglorious splash. I dunked myself again and shook my head beneath the frigid ripples of the water. The warped sounds of the world above penetrated down to me and I heard a surreal booming of warbled shouts and rumbling applause. The waters churned with flailing legs of timely retreating Sikhs.

I emptied my lungs and thrust my head above the surface, the waters pouring over my face as I emerged into the rippling reflection of the year's first starlight.

Top that.