Lately, I'm quadruple-tasking, studying for the GRE with one hand, scrolling through job listings (dismal) with the other, thinking with one part of my brain about India, while the other portion focuses on July, when, as of now, my life is slated to drop off into the unknown.
When we left Mcleod Ganj—yes, two whole weeks ago, how's this for punctual? Don't tell my potential employers—we hadn't used any form of machinated transportation in nearly five weeks. The seven-hour bus ride was mostly uneventful. We only hit one government truck full of school children.
In Amritsar, a large, dusty city near the Pakistani border, we spent two nights in pilgrims' quarters beside the Golden Temple, the Mecca or Vatican of the Sikh religion. Just about every day since we left I've been trying to think of a way to articulate that experience accurately.
Entering the clamoring temple grounds, the overwhelming din of metal on metal to my right sounded like an exuberant rendition of Stomp. After choosing our "bed," or raised board with one pillow which we were to share in the overcrowded foreigners' section of the free hostel, we took off our shoes (not allowed on the temple's sacred marble walkways), covered our heads (a mandatory sign of respect), and ventured across to find out what the tin clamoring was really all about.
Sikhism is an astoundingly generous faith, born partially out of a movement to do away with Hinduism's caste system. Just as everyone of any station can sleep in the free hostel, everyone who visits the temple is invited to dine in the massive, sacred dining hall that precedes the temple. Rolling up our jeans to keep them out of the sacred mush of dal and curry constantly being mopped off the marble floor, we walked in, washed our hands, received huge metal plates, a spoon, and a bowl for water. Up a set of stairs, the steady but orderly flow of people take seats on the floor in line after line after line.
Volunteers come by one by one: First, chapatti (Indian bread), then ladles full of dal, rice pudding, and some sort of aloo (potato dish) or paneer (cheese curd dish). The food splatters in every direction, especially if you aren't holding your spoon when it gets dumped on. After the initial adjustment to eating food thrown at you from above while you sit bewildered on the floor, I have to say that this is one of the coolest cultural experiences I've had. I say that even though one night the clean-up crew sent food-scrap-spray from the mop over what remained of my food, and an Indian friend we'd met saw me cringe and feign fullness. "It's holy food," he told me with a straight face, "you have to eat it all." And I did.
After cleansing their bare feet, pilgrims walk into the temple. The temple itself is actually rather small, with marble walls and magnificently maintained gold plaiting that reflects in a large mote surrounding it. Visitors walk around the holy pond, pausing at certain sacred monuments, washing themselves in the water and generally being clamorous—a Sikh we met in Mcleod Ganj told us Sikhs are some of the loudest people in the world, and she's right. Over loudspeakers, setting the mood and giving the din an unmistakable air of worship, live Sikh hymns are played from inside the temple.
There are so many small things going on inside the temple grounds. First, people were staring at us. A lot. As usual. More than once, mothers pushed their children in front of me and told them to say "hello" and shake my hand. One guy asked us to take pictures with him… then asked us to email the pictures, ostensibly so he could use them to pretend he knew some Americans when he tried to immigrate, which he then asked us how to do. "I was born in America, sir, I really don't know the process…"
The most fascinating part for me, again aware of the chaste Catholic boxes I put things into, was a portion of the water designated for nearly naked bathing (for men only, of course) in the holy water. All the hair they've ever grown (Sikhs don't cut their hair, shave, or shape their eyebrows. They believe all of your hair was given to you by God and is therefore a gift you should not mess with) remains wrapped up in a turban, while they strip down, hand their clothes to compliant wives or children, and go for a dip with their friends. I found myself wide-eyed during our first walk past. Thereafter, I tried to keep my eyes glued to my bare feet on the marble, afraid of seeing a towel slip as they changed in the open back into dry clothes.
I made friends with three young Sikh girls visiting the temple on their weekend holiday. They befriended me because I sat down, exhausted after all of our traveling followed by trying to sleep on half of a board with half of a pillow—Sikhs must not sleep, because the noise doesn't diminish at all, 4 p.m. and 4 a.m. share the same decibel. Anyway, the girls approached me because I sat in the universal position of misery, knees pulled to chest and my head resting on them. "Are you sad?" was their introduction.
The three cousins were really eager to tell me about the customs that affect their life. The oldest was a little bit younger than me, in her second year studying electronics at university. The younger two were still in high school. They were amazed that I was alone, that my parents weren't worried about me—I tried to explain that they probably were, but there's not much they can do. This conversation quickly landed on the topic of arranged marriages, which all three will probably have, even though the oldest has a boyfriend she isn't telling her parents about.
"It's very frustrating, but our parents just worry about us, and want to make sure we end up with someone who will take care of us," the oldest explained to me. "Well, maybe when you have daughters you can give them more freedom," I suggested hopefully (or dumbly?) "No, we'll probably be worried then, too!" At this comment the youngest shook her head vigorously. Not her. She looks with disdain at her strikingly orange sari when I express how jealous I am of their beautiful clothing. This 14-year-old, like her counterparts all over the world, doesn't like wearing what her parents want her to wear. The spark in her eye says she'd give anything for a pair of tight jeans and a "love marriage," as they qualify them.
(I had serious sari-envy at the temple. It may have been the fact that I was—still—wearing my jeans with increasingly large holes in the side, and a 2006 Drake Relays hoodie that saw its better days… in 2006.)
I haven't had the opportunity to post photos, but you can find Jason's shots of the temple, along with other events of the trip, here: http://picasaweb.google.com/pastelnino/TripToDharamsalaDelhiMumbaiMcLeodGanjAndIndiaAtLarge02
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