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.