Golden Temple

A short rickshaw ride through some of the narrowest streets I have yet seen brings me to the gates of the huge complex. Arranging a pick-up time with the driver, I head off to deposit my shoes and find something to cover my head with. Also, I’ve remembered to leave my cigarettes at the hostel, as tobacco, alcohol and drugs are all forbidden here. Even matches aren’t allowed in, though sacrilegious arson is hardly high on my list of priorities right now.

The Golden Temple is the most sacred site for the Sikh religion, which formed several hundred years ago as a reaction to both Hindu and Muslim orthodoxy. As such, it did away with the idea of a caste system, instead promoting equality; many of its ideals are remarkably modern and liberal, at least when compared with the archaic dogma of many other religions. This insistence upon equality invites the non-Sikh into the temple with as much respect as the dedicated pilgrim, and, provided you obey the few rules, allows you into the holiest and most venerated of the shrines.

The large square courtyard contains a huge pool which pilgrims come to bathe in, and the sight of pot-bellied Sikh doctors from, say, Birmingham, disrobing down to their underwear before descending into the lake would, in other circumstances, be quite amusing. As it is, the place has an awed reverence to it, as the visitors are wowed into hushed whispers by its beauty and stillness.

Everything is pure white marble, which makes the barefoot walk very pleasurable, and the fanned colonnades provide a respite from the sun, which is fighting through the Amritsar haze to keep the air fairly baking. The gilded roof of the centrepiece, though, glints almost as brightly in the sunshine, forcing the viewers to shade their humbled eyes to look at it.

There is a long wait to get inside the central building itself, so I decide to let the heat of the day dissipate whilst I go and get a meal at the temple’s 24-hour free canteen, open to all throughout the year. I’d not really eaten anything in the last day, so it is with a grateful hunger that I join the huddled queue. I look around, and it appears that I’m the only obvious foreigner here, which of course garners some curious glances (one kid wants a photo with me), but at least makes me feel that I’m not just here for the photo opportunity, but am actually becoming part of the temple’s activity, albeit temporarily. I think that this has always been a crucial distinction for me – I find it much more rewarding to interact, even in small ways, with the ongoing life of a place, than to just be shuttled from viewpoint to viewpoint.

Tin tray and water bowl in hand, we are all hurried into the main eating hall as soon as the previous group has finished and the floors have been given a quick sweep. We dash to find places on the mats on the floor. There is some chanting, taken up by the pilgrims as they settle themselves, and a pair of holy men walks up and down, orchestrating the voices and offering blessings to all. After this, the serving starts, with volunteers lugging large baskets full of dhal, rice and chapattis up and down the rows, ladling out huge portions to everyone. The food is simple but filling, and I am offered second helpings of everything, which I gladly accept. My fingertip-eating skills are improving, so I manage to avoid using the spoon provided until only the dregs are left, which impresses (I think) my neighbour, a small wiry man with large eyes and a benevolent smile. I nod in thanks back to him, then tuck straight back in, as the volume of eaters served each day is great enough to necessitate a quick turnaround between sittings. My plate is still half-full when the first people begin to leave. I gulp down the rest as quickly as possible, not wanting to be the foreigner who holds everything up.

I carry my plate out to the washing area, a noisy bustling hive of movement, resounding with the crashes of used trays and cups being hurriedly recycled. The number of volunteers here is exceptional, and the reality behind their dedication to receiving everyone equally is most clear here, as a small army washes, scrubs and dries the immense amount of tableware used many times each day – the cleared items are practically handed straight from the fingers of the last drier into the hands of a hungry devotee.

This experience – being fed for free no matter who I am – is thoroughly heartwarming, and I leave the temple with a great respect for the Sikh faith, one which is often misunderstood. The unfortunate reputation for militarism seems to be overstated, and mostly a thing of the past, even if its orthodox sword-carrying members are still a fearsome sight.

If militarism is ever to be condemned, another nearby site could be used as incontestable evidence by any prosecutor. In 1919, a small group of British troops, led by one General Dyer, opened fire on an unarmed gathering of Indian protestors in a cramped bit of wasteland known as Jallianwala Bagh. They were there to discuss responses to the British imposition of imprisonment without trial for those suspected of sedition, a situation whereby anyone who the colonial rulers took a dislike to could be shut away: several prominent Punjabis had already suffered this fate. (It seems that the restriction of habeas corpus is usually a sign that there is something untenable about a government’s legitimacy).

The soldiers kept firing for several minutes, and left several hundred people dead (no-one knows the exact toll, some put it over 2000). They covered the only exit from the area, so escaping meant climbing over walls around ten feet high. Many, in desperation, dived into an open well for cover – over 150 bodies were recovered from it afterwards. The bullet-holes still on display today are a sad reminder of the slaughter.

The site has now been turned into a memorial park, and as such is one of the few well-maintained public areas I’ve seen (excepting certain holy places). There is a fitting aura of remembrance, and the lush foliage and trimmed grass make me forget about the heat and dirt of the surrounding city. After spending some time contemplating the evils of the world in the silent shade of the main flame-shaped statue, I head off to meet the rickshaw driver, ignoring the swarm of taxi-touts and souvenir-sellers that crowd the single exit.