FESTIVALS IN PUNJAB

      When asked what I wanted to do while I was in India, I emphatically stated: “Immerse myself in the Indian culture.”  That’s not a difficult thing to do when you are the invited guest of  Navneet and Baljit who have introduced me to their large circle of friends and family members, all of whom are eager to share all aspects of their culture.

       To my Indian and Hindu friends who may read my interpretation of the festival, I beg your indulgence if I make an error. I attempt only to present the facts as I best understand them.

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      The state of Punjab, where I am staying, is a region in the northern part of India, and home of the Sikh religion…the fifth largest in the world.  The Sikh Gurus are highly revered in Punjab and are easily recognized by their turbans, long beards and the  knives hanging from a black belt slung over their shoulders.

I find the most impressive Sikh costume to be that which was originally worn by the soldiers of the first Guru Nanak in the sixteenth century.  It is deep royal blue in color with a turban to match; an orange cloth is worn around the neck as well as being an added accent to the turban.  Although many followers of the Sikh religion are bearded and do not cut their hair, some have liberated themselves from this custom, wearing the silver colored bracelet on the left wrist to identify them as Sikhs.

     Upon my arrival, Punjab was honoring the first guru, Guru Nanak’s, birthday, April 14, 1469, in a celebration known as a gurupurab.  Nanak, was the founder of the Sikh religion which incorporates a “spiritual, social, and political system of beliefs that considers spiritual life and secular life to be intertwined.” Sikh temples all over the world offer a langar (free kitchen) twenty-four hours a day, 365 days a year, to anyone in need, regardless of race, color, creed or cast. People with maladies come to the Sikh temple at Patiala to pray.  By offering a handful of salt and a small hand-held broom to the Gods you are asking with your prayers to be healed.  Baljit’s brother was plagued with painful growths on the bottom of his feet.  His offering left him completely healed.

      Early in the morning I can hear male voices chanting their hymns from the temple  that rises beside the wall of Shangri La. It is in that same temple that I was an invited guest the second night of my arrival.  

      Shoes must be removed and left outside the temple, heads covered, and all must squat or sit cross-legged on the floor during prayer.

      With that ceremony I wintnessed Hindu worshipers make offerings to one of their many Gods (Baljit informs me that Hindus worship more than a thousand Gods depending upon the occasion) and dance to music accompanied by a man beating on a drum. I was encouraged to participate in all aspects of the ceremony and made to feel a welcomed part even though I was not of their religion. At its conclusion we were served a sweet grainy ball by the priest.  It had a peanut buttery flavor. After that, we sat on the floor where we were fed a meal from a traditional silver metal plate.

       The third day found me an invited guest in the Hindu neighbor’s home.  There, I witnessed a ceremony celebrating the return of Sita, the wife of King Rama who was abducted by the Sri Lankan King but later returned after a bloody battle was fought and the Sri Lankan king’s head was cut off as a punish ment for his ill deed.  Whether historical or mythological, to the Hindu woman, Sita, is considered to be the “esteemed standard-setter for wifely and womanly virtues.”

      I am asked to sit in a chair while the Hindu woman sits cross-legged on the floor beside me. There is a table nearby, covered with silver plates of assorted foods. It is not irreverent to speak during the ceremony so I ask questions. I’m told that the figure of a man drawn with wheat flower is the King Rama, Sita’s husband.  The ten rolled wheat balls placed within the figure represent the ten gurus. The woman’s two sons enter the room and all three engage in silent prayer to the figure of a God placed in front of the offerings. The son produces a box filled with freshly green sprouts grown especially for the occasion. 

The woman plucks small clumps from the box and places one over each of the foods now displayed around the figure of Ram.  The purpose of the grass she says is to purify the offered foods. A bowl of red dye is uncovered and each forehead, to include mine, is smeared with a small red circle…also a sign of purity.   

The same red dye is used by the son to finger paint a swastika-- the symbol of peace in the Hindu religion—in a log book  Also recorded in this log are the names and dates, past and present, of those in attendance, to include mine.   

I am honored by the fact that each year when the book is revisited, I will be remembered. Afterwards, I sit with the family for a traditional meal of lentils, fresh yogurt, chapatti and garbanzos which settle quite nicely on my empty stomach. Before taking my leave, the woman presents me with a book written in English telling the story of the battle fought by the King Ram.

       The festival comes to its startling conclusion a week later.  I’m not sure what to expect as the descriptions are coming at me fast and furious, and some things do get lost in the translation, but I have the general idea that the story of King Ram and Sita will be reenacted on an outdoor stage in town. 

What I’m not prepared for are the throngs of people that gather to witness the event. 

        It’s a short walk to the park from Shangri La and I must watch my back as the horn-honking vehicles come within a breath of me.  

We enter the park and

as usual all eyes are on me while I move through the crowd with Navneet and Baljit to a stage where four giant effigies symbolizing the four evil heads of the Sri Lankan king rise above the crowd.  The visit is short because Baljit has arranged for us to avoid the crowds and see the fireworks and the burning of the effigies from the rooftop of a friend’s home directly across the street. 

       The daughter of the owners swings open the heavy, ornate, iron gate, allowing us entrance onto the property. I’m introduced to the host and hostess who are busy serving their other guests absorbed in a program on the wall-mounted large screen television. They stop to give me a very warm welcome and I compliment them on the design of their gorgeous home. 

It is a stunning piece of Indian architecture supporting curves and angles in every aspect of its design. I simply can not resist taking a shot of the staircase which is the center piece of the room. 

       On the rooftop night sets in and I meet Kuljit and Kipu, the well-matched, close friends of Navneet and Baljit.  Kipu is a cricket coach for a college; his son, a celebrity cricket player, whom, Navneet had pointed out one evening during one of his television interviews. I will later spend many wonderful evenings in the company of this fine couple. The women are off to one side engaged in endless chatter, the men, off to another, drinks in hand.  I am standing at the wall, camera ready, staring at the brightly lit effigies and watching the park fill to overflowing.  I see the figure of a bull passing under a street lamp of clamoring insects, then disappearing around a corner. 

A loudspeaker is sounding the voices engaged in the reenactment…”Ah Ha Ha Ha Ha,” a gruff male voice finally says.  The crowd is cheering.  Fireworks begin to light the sky, popping, cracking and whistling against the night.  The audience moves from one stage to the other where the effigies are ignited into a fiery inferno lighting the darkness around them, forming a tall screen of sparks that cascade into a pile of burning embers. The king is dead.  The festival has come to its conclusion.  There’s a mass exodus as thousands rush to the street and the bull makes one more loop. 

        It’s late, but not too late for an Indian to eat the tastefully seasoned and irresistible curries, noodles and vegetables that are arriving at the table. I am answering a slew of questions in between bites to an audience that seems to hang on every word.   My plate is never empty, even when my hand goes up.  Indian’s don’t take no for an answer, especially when it comes to food.  Everyone is complimented by my obvious appreciation of the fare and pile my bowl full of the noodles that light my face with every bite. I make it a point to let them know how much I enjoy each and every one of their dishes. Now, I must blame King Ram for the added inch on my waistline.