KARVA CHAUTA

NAVNEET

         On the fourth day after the full moon Indian women participate in a one day ceremony known as Karva Chauta which is considered to be an "auspicious" occasion. They are required to fast from sunrise until moonrise at which time they pay tribute to their husbands by granting them longevity and safety.  On the day of the fast, women from Punjab awake to eat and drink just before sunrise. It is also a time for the ladies to dress up in their finest clothing, cover their exposed skin with gold adornments and decorate their hands with the ancient Indian art called Mehandi. As a witness to all of the events that took place, I can say firsthand that they were stunning in every detail. 

     

     

       Experts in the art of Mehandi apply a henna paste to the skin with a small metal tipped jacquard.  
I saw it performed on the streets of Patiala as well as watching a young woman apply her art to the hands of 

Navneet, and her niece the night before the ceremony. The process reminded me of cake decorating as a soft and flowing paste squeezed from the metal tip does much the same as frosting flowing from a tube. The artist performing Mehandi creates a series of dots, swirls and intricate patterns on the arms, palms and upper hands. 

The paste is then left to dry overnight and removed the following morning leaving behind the beautiful orange colored Mehandi pattern.  Unlike a tattoo, it is a temporary adornment which washes  off several days to a week later.                   

      That morning of Karva Chauta, I sat across the breakfast table from, Navneet, who abstained from solid foods in anticipation of the ceremony later that night.  There was enthusiasm in her voice as she reminded me of the much-anticipated fashion show later that afternoon.  She said I would witness Indian women doing what women the world over love to do and that is dress themselves up and strut their stuff.  

But in the meantime, I would have a preview of coming attractions with her and her niece in their parlor performance.

      





    

        Later at the country club—where I was cordially received and made to feel welcome--- I didn’t mind the fact that I was under-dressed in my long white skirt, simple blouse and silver adornments; I was too focused on the dazzling display that met my eyes as I entered the room full of women, livened by their brilliantly colored saris and ladies suits. 

     

      The sari consists of a midriff top and yards of fabric draped over the body in a variety of styles leaving a small amount of flesh exposed.  The suit is a knee length type dress under which is worn regular or balloon pants that gather tightly at the ankles. A long and wide accenting chiffon-like scarf draped over the shoulder hangs down at varying lengths.  Both styles feature bold colors and are worn in everyday life, the suit being the most widely used.  Under ordinary circumstances the women look beautiful, even to the peasant women in the rural villages dressed in their electrified colors; these weighty, hand beaded outfits were definitely not for street wear, reserved only for the most elegant of events.

     

        

       In short order, the fashion show/contest began.  One by one the contestants paraded down the aisle, one outfit more beautiful than the other; their gold body adornments shimmering in the light. 

I knew the minute I saw the stunning woman wearing the orange beaded gown that she was the winner, passing my vote of approval on to, Navneet.  

A photographer was snapping pictures as was I, the lady announcer lending her commentary.  That’s when I diverted my attention from the contestants and saw the magnificently adorned lady in her quiet, but elegant pose seated on the stage.

      




      My photography could hardly do justice to the event, but if you’re startled by what you see, then you can imagine the dazzling sight that met my gaze.

    

INDIA AND PAKISTAN FACE OFF FOR A CHANGING OF THE GUARD

      

      After our visit to the Golden Temple, Navneet, Neru, Kuljit and I parted company with our escort, and after a quick freshen up at our hotel, made the 28 kilometer drive to the Wagah, Pakistan border to witness the changing of the guard.  

       

        Every day at sunset the Indian and Pakistan soldiers face off at the border gate in a flag lowering, gate closing ceremony that draws a crowd of thousands. I understood in advance that the two countries were at odds with one another; but it was not until I witnessed that menacing barbed wire fence rising out of the mist, coiled in places like a snake ready to strike, the emptiness of the forbidden ground inside it and the resulting hostile atmosphere, that I, a free American unencumbered by borders, was able to put it into its proper prospective.  

      At the border a frenzy of cars raced to get a space in the parking lot while hordes of lively stepping people converged on foot.  A parking attendant urgently directed our driver into a spot so tight that I could barely squeeze through the car door opening.  I had not expected such a turnout; but then, neither was I prepared for the crowd-pleasing performance I was about to witness.

      There were several military guards collecting tickets at the entrance to the event, all trying their best to maintain tight security. Amidst that difficult task, loud speakers were blasting music and voices cheering, causing the excitement to build  inside me.  One of the guards had all he can do to keep up with the mad rush of people shoving their tickets in his face, much less our driver and the two uniformed border policeman that met us at the gate who were trying hard to garner his attention above all the others. We could not enter until he checked our names against the VIP list of reservations… compliments of the very accommodating colonel's wife. In the midst of numerous interruptions, the guard finally managed to find our names and at long last the gate was opened allowing us to push our way through the crowd and gain entry.

      A dynamic street scene, much the same as that of a New Years parade awaited us. Two sets of bleachers filled the entire side of a two lane road accommodating twenty or so rows on one end and six rows on the other, all taking up at least a fourth of a city block.  They were already nearly full to capacity and the crowd from outside had yet to enter.   

On the opposite side of the road, two rows of spectators had taken their seats, but seven front row seats remained empty. A guard looked at our tickets and led us to four of those seats where we were positioned front row and center of the two countries' gates; no doubt providing us some of the best seats available. 

       

One end of the roadway was dominated by the India gate where two armed sentries looking dwarfed atop their lofty spot flanked an enlarged picture of India’s beloved, Mahatma Gandhi.   

About a sixteenth of a mile farther down the road a twenty to thirty foot long red and white metal gate lay open to the Pakistan border where another towering gate featured an enlarged photograph of some notable figure. 

Amidst the incoming spectators, armed Indian border police and soldiers worked hard to keep an overzealous crowd in check. A German shepherd with its nose to the ground sniffed the area around the bleachers. The loud speakers vibrated with the sound of Indian music leaving the crowd entertained by a large group of young girls showing off a traditional dance in the street.   

Even the two members of Mother Teresa’s Missionary of Charity seemed charged by the impending event.

       

      As the sun began its ascent the crowd chanted and cheered jumping up and waving their arms high above their heads.  People of all ages were getting in on the act, to include me, foot tapping and itching to get in the thick of it.  On the other side of the gate, I could see the empty Pakistan bleachers and a small crowd—paled in size to the Indians-- attempting to cheer on their soldiers; but they were no match for the uproarious Indians. A sense of patriotism pervaded; pride was written on the faces of India’s citizens.  I could feel the goose pimples rise on my arms at the sight of it all.

       

      At the onset of sunset six foot extra plus, modern day Adonis’s all head adorned, decorated and spit shined line up in formation on the street, reigniting the anticipating crowd.   

 One by one the soldiers carried out their breathtaking spectacle of  high stepping, arm thrusting and foot stomping march that ended up in a face off at the gate with their Pakistani counterparts.   

      With the sun now settled on the horizon, the flags were lowered, the gate once again closed against another day. 

       I wondered as I watched the stand off between opposing soldiers what they must have been thinking as they stared into each others eyes.  They were, after all, enemies, united only for a short ceremony.  In the morning, the gates would reopen and allow the trucks from either side to transport their goods, only to be closed again at sunset for a repeat performance. 

       

      Outside, the spectators were gathered around the soldiers who stood on display for  the visitors.  Across the border, two Pakistani soldiers in profile were motionless atop their horses.   

Another soldier standing at ease stared back at me as I aimed the camera in his direction.  A faint smile—or maybe it was a smirk—temporarily parted his lips.  Unfortunately, the girls whisked me away so I did not have the opportunity to tell the Indian soldiers just a few feet away that they took my breath away with every step!

~~

      It seemed more events were in store that morning following the changing of the guard, to include another visit to the border. But not before we stopped for breakfast at the second storey hole in the wall restaurant in Amritsar where I ate the creamy fresh yogurt and mouthwatering, fresh off the fire thin breads…probably made by the man on the street standing on his stool and ladling the delicacies out of a huge wok. 

      

       Our first stop was at Wagah for a very brief but memorable visit with the colonel and his wife, Preeti, whom I soon viewed as being like-minded, for she, too, loved to write and saw life through a similar lens as I; and who, at one point during our conversation, looked me square in the eye and delivered words that rendered me speechless:  “You are a very sensitive person.  You inhale the breath of every conversation.”  Although I wished for our meeting not to end we had no choice as a military vehicle with two soldiers under the colonel’s orders was waiting outside to accompany us on our day’s journey.     

       I rode in the back seat crammed next to the other women, staring out the window as we bounced along the narrow winding country roads that passed lush fields of crops and tall pampas grasses in full feathery bloom, stopping finally at a small military installation only a stone’s throw from the Pakistan border. 

      

      The only thing interrupting the calm and peaceful country atmosphere of this modest base was the hostile barbed wire fence and watch tower separating the two countries.   

Otherwise, it seemed a lovely place where one might escape the madness and pollution of the city to breathe in the clean air and take a leisurely stroll along the avenue of trees that meandered in contrast alongside the ominous looking fence. 

Off in the distance, though, the faint outline of another tower was a constant reminder that someone might be watching my activities with suspicious eyes, sending a tiny shiver of fear down my spine as I took aim with my camera.

      

       At one o’clock we sat at an outside table where the soldiers began piling our plates with food that came non-stop. Afterwards we were introduced to life on a border base.  

      Several soldiers, male and female appeared on the scene and I began to feel those all-too-familiar stares that had become my constant companion. News had traveled fast on this small complex, and I supposed that they had come to satisfy their curiosity and meet the American woman visiting their base, because they all eagerly posed for a group photo positioning me in the center. 

       We traveled back along the same winding road where, at some point, we stopped to let our escort out to join two other soldiers waiting at the entrance to the small village of Dera Baba Nanak. 

By now I was dizzy from all the events, this time being hurried down a narrow street in the company of the now three guards who, for obvious reasons, weren’t overly keen on my stopping to have a peek at the sights along the way.  Outside the very modest gurudwara where shoe removal was a must, I was beginning to develop an intense dislike for the reluctant buckles of my sandals that always left me lagging behind the other women. The guards stood patiently by my side watching my struggle.  Shoes off, scarf now positioned on my head, camera secure around my neck, I entered the holy place feeling the cold marble slabs on my bare feet, witness now to the reverence being displayed by those standing before the glass encased, five-hundred-year-old wedding dress of the tenth guru, Guru Nanak, which was on display in this most modest of gurudwaras.

        

       There was pride written on the face of the turbaned man who told the story of the guru who once wore the now, age-worn garment, and of his wife who embroidered the cloth below it. “I am the 17^th generation descendant of the guru,” he said in broken English.   

His was a long dissertation, mostly in Hindi, so I let my eyes wander and my lens do its work.  Finally, he honored us four ladies with the orange cloth which we wrapped around our necks. Others who had entered the gurudwara after us seemed to pause and view us as special…and I suppose we were special for aside from the Guru Sikh, we were the only ones wrapped in orange.  In fact, for two days we were given nothing shy of the royal treatment; first from our escort at the Golden Temple the day before; and finally when we were met by, Preeti, and her military entourage who came to wish us farewell on the road leading out of Wagah.

      ~~

      My sincerest thanks go out to the colonel and his wife who made it all happen…and in a way that I will never forget.  And to those escorts who assured our safety, I also extend my gratitude.  And finally, to all those splendid looking soldiers, some of whom I managed to capture up close in spite of their high stepping…you are an asset to your country. 

            

     

       

THE DARBAR HARMANDIR SAHIB

       

     

     
      We were four women and a driver crammed into an economy car, off for an overnight excursion that would take us to the Golden Temple in the city of Amritsar. Later that same day, we would travel to the Pakistan/Indian border  to witness the changing of the guard

     By now I was well acquainted with Indian driving and quite happy with my front seat position, completely unruffled by India’s version of, Mario Andretti, gripping the wheel, honking and weaving his way in and out of the maze of vehicles.  Navneet, and her two lady friends, Neru, and Kuljit, a trio of chatty magpies, were oblivious to all but the conversation that was non-stop most of the two-hundred-fifty kilometer trip.  I caught enough of what they were saying to know they were being typically female and that Navneet was feeding their curiosity about me.  Many Indians speak Hinglish---a combination of Hindi and English which is quite commonly spoken amongst the educated class. Occasionally, Navneet, would come up for air and chime from the back seat; “Any questions, Nanine?” 

There were a few, but my focus was on the passing villages that hugged the roadway, and the simple peasant way of life on display.   

Although the scenes were typical of other Indian villages and towns,  there was one noticeable difference; we were entering the part of India that boasted a large population of Muslims.

That was evident by the women walking in pairs, their faces hidden behind the veils that covered their heads.  If there was a need to slow down because the herd of goats and the man coaxing them along with his long stick were taking up the roadway, then those pedestrians that took notice would stop in their tracks to stare at the awestruck, fair skinned female staring back through the car window…oft times taking aim with her camera. And if there was time, some being photographed would approach the car and tap on the window showing an outstretched hand.

       Five hours later we were approaching downtown Amristar, fighting with the pedestrians, cars, carts, bicycles, motorcycles and rickshaws that were all competing for their little piece of the road.  I have often wondered….where are they all going?  

      

      The city was a mob scene and unlike Patiala--- that is not geared to tourism and rarely sees an American--- Amristar was nothing but tourists who were either dodging the pesky street vendors insistent in their pursuit to push their tourist trinkets on them, hopping on the rickshaws to get to the Golden Temple, or outside the temple sitting on the rows of wooden benches removing their shoes so that they could gain entrance.
      While I struggled to get the strap to my shoe unbuckled my road companions disappeared and were no where in sight. Then, when I was feeling the pangs of abandonment, Navneet, was back urging me to make hast while informing me that her friend, Neru, had a friend whose husband was a big wig colonel in the Indian army, and this friend had arranged for us to have a personal police escort at the Golden Temple. Somewhere in that crowd of people, our escort waited.  It was, I thought, an unexpected but nice touch.  I wasn’t clear as to the reason for the escort, but I would later find out how valuable this man’s services would prove to be.

      There are certain rituals that must be followed before entering the Golden Temple.  Bare feet can not carry the dirt from the outside so you must first wade through a shallow marbled trench of flowing water before entering.  Once inside, the hands that touched the feet for shoe removal have to be washed at one of the series of washtub type sinks before proceeding.

One never need walk on the marble floors of this massive complex and I was extremely grateful for those hemp runners--harsh to the touch though they were—as they  protected my feet from roasting on the hot marble slabs..

       

       Having walked down the final flight of stairs into the gurudwara, I was in awe of the sight of the Golden Temple rising out of an immense pool, and the sunlight playing off of its gold exterior, its reflection cast upon the water’s surface.

      The pool is fed by the Ganges River, and is known for its healing powers; for that reason, pilgrims come from all over to bathe.   

A thin framed, partially disrobed Guru Sikh stood so perfect at the edge of the pool that I just had to chance a shot.  I was offered an opportunity to bathe naked in a special room away from peering eyes, but I declined. 

       Our escort was hurrying us along and I was holding the girls up taking my photographs as there was 

no end to the fascinating faces and sights.   Silently, I was wishing we could move at a little slower pace, but, Navneet, informed me in her gentle but firm way that I needed to catch up and take my photos later. It seemed we had a prearranged appointment—compliments of the colonel’s wife-- to have an audience and take prayer with the Guru Sikh who had the esteemed position of being the Head Priest of the Golden Temple.

         

      

At 1 PM we entered a small room resembling a studio apartment.  The Head Priest was seated on a chair inside.  He was a man of imposing build with plump cheeks that protruded above his curved mustache, and extremely kind eyes that twinkled when he extended his warm welcome. 

There were a few moments in conversation which was spoken in Hindi that included questions about me and the reason for my visit to India, and then a final minute for a silent prayer that brought our fifteen minute meeting to a close. We all stood, the women clasping their hands in the prayer position to show their respect for their priest and we took our exit, the heavy sound of the door closing behind us. I felt rewarded.  

       Our young escort appeared and we were about to continue on our journey when the door opened with the priest now filling the opening; much to my surprise, he was motioning me to come back inside.  I turned to Navneet for an explanation.  “Go, he wishes to speak with you alone.”

       The priest took me by the arm and led me to a table where he produced a length of cloth. I felt dwarfed in size standing beside this towering figure of a man, humbled as he said a few words in English then wrapped my neck with the bright orange cloth.  “Good bye. Go with God,” he said in parting.  Outside, the ladies greeted me with their smiles of approval and informed me that the priest had bestowed a great honor upon me by rewarding me with the cloth. Why had he honored me? That is a question that will forever remain a mystery.

      The Golden Temple is in a surround of majestic buildings and is accessed only by a covered bridge.  Our escort is moving us quickly passed the long double line of people waiting on the bridge to enter. Navneet tells me the wait is often as long as three hours but one more time, we are given special treatment and allowed to enter the temple ahead of those in line.  Heads turn as we pass and squeeze our way through the crowded opening into the temple.  It’s beautiful beyond description inside. There are three Guru Sikhs positioned alongside the altar playing instruments and singing hymns.  At the altar, another Guru Sikh is waving a silver handled instrument with a long white tail resembling that of a horse, rhythmically waving it back and forth over the altar keeping it free of insects. In the background I hear a priest reading scriptures from the Guru Grainth Saib.  People are kneeling and bent over in prayer crowding the area around the altar, but I manage to take a peek and observe the ceremonious way in which it is all being conducted amidst the elaborate fixtures. 

I’m being pushed from every direction by the crowd and there’s little time to stop and take photographs much less take time to study the temple’s outstanding architectural features and beautiful components.  I do, however, feel the reverence exuding from the worshipers who have managed to tuck themselves into a corner or a tiny cubicle for a few moments of silent meditation. 

     

      As is the custom in all Sikh gurudwaras, the langar (free meal) is served at all times of the day or night.  We were all hungry so we entered the immense canteen where hundreds of people were seated in rows cross-legged on the floor, the sound of many voices and clanking utensils echoing off the walls.  We followed suit and were immediately given a stainless steel bowl, a cup, a sectioned plate and a spoon. 

Sikh males rapidly ladle the food onto our plates,  moving down the long line of people serving them one by one.  First the traditional vegetable dishes were served...a different Sikh for each food, then a chapatti from the man with the basket,  then water from a tank on wheels, and finally a sweet rice pudding, all served with lightening speed and astounding efficiency.  Although it was not the most comfortable way to eat soupy lentils balanced precariously on my legs, the food was delicious, hardy, and completely free. As we left, hundreds more waited outside to replace those whose appetites had been satisfied. I could hear the almost deafening sound of metal on metal making it hard for me to hear Navneet’s explanations.  What I was experiencing was an outdoor covered wash kitchen where thousands of metal utensils flashed in the light as a countless number of people engaged in washing and rinsing them. Navneet told me they wash and rinse the dishes three times to assure proper hygiene.  I was so impressed with the assembly line process and the dedication with which each and every person performed his or her duty that I would not allow myself to be swept away before taking the time to walk beside the helpers and soak in that very special moment.

      Our escort was urging us on as it was time to leave and head for the Pakistan border.  I was very grateful for having experienced the Sikhs’ holiest of places, the Darbar Harmandir Sahib (Golden Temple), reminding myself that it was the central worship place for all of the world’s Sikhs, and that it was called the Golden Temple because of its unique white marbled features overlaid with gold leaf.  I  paused for one last look at its stunning reflection before leaving.

   

    

      


      Later that same day we made a return trip to witness the spectacle of the temple lit at night. Unlike our daytime visit, I would enjoy leisurely time without the hoards of tourists and loud voices that had been replaced with near whispers.  I ambled barefoot along the dimly lit corridors and cool marble walkways, sparing my feet the discomfort of the hemp runners that had prickled their bottoms earlier that day. 

There I viewed the devout followers deep in meditation, splashing the healing water on their faces. At eleven o’clock I followed the soothing sound of male voices chanting, and at the temple bridge saw several Sikhs supporting the weight of an elaborately decorated glass container on their shoulders. It carried something resting on a pillow and when I asked, Navneet, what it was, she explained that they were taking the Guru Granth Saib, referred to as the “Holy Book,” to the room where it would be put to rest for the night.  “We Sikhs do not think of the Holy Book as a book like Christians do their bible.  We think of it as our soul which must be put to rest as we do our own.” I felt her eyes reaching into my soul with every word.