Punjab

Two weeks ago, or so, my fellow volunteer, Ruchi, finished up her work with GRAVIS and was going to head to Punjab do visit her Aunt(Mamiji) and Uncle (Mamaji) before she left the country. So, jumping on the opportunity to see a new State in India, I went too. We caught a 12 hour train ride north from our city of Jodhpur, Rajasthan to Kokapura, Punjab. Overnight trains really make the time go by more quickly, so it wasn’t too bad. Our compartment mates were a zealous family just coming from a week long retreat at their religious group’s center near Mt. Abu. They were bursting with ideas of reincarnation, the chosen ones, salvation, the importance of meditation, and Brahmatma / the universal soul / God / whatever you want to call It. Since I know more Hindi/Sanskrit words that relate to spirituality than any other subject, I was able to understand pretty well and ask some probing questions. Ruchi was the stalwart translator as ever, for several hours as we were lovingly proselytized at by these Brahma Kumaris.

Awaking in the morning from my top bunk (definitely the way to go if you don’t want to be disturbed in your sleep), I looked out the train window as we rambled through a bountifully lush countryside. There were wheat fields everywhere! And so much greenery! Even the Sikhs riding by on their motorcycles bursted with bounty. There strong build and big bellies were evidence to the fertility of their land. I have become so used to the deserts and malnutrition of Rajasthan, that I was quite surprised to see that just in the next state over things were so different. While Rajasthan is one of the least developed states in India, Punjab has very high literacy rates and is the bread basket of the country. We trundled through acres and acres of wheat fields. Unfortunately just over that weekend a freak storm hit and flattened one tenth of the wheat crop with grape-sized hail. It will need to be threshed by hand rather than by machine, which will be very time consuming and costly.

Once off the train and driving to Mamaji and Mamiji’s house, I tried to observe everything new about the place. Sikh men ride by on motorcycles with bushy beards, big turbans that come to a peak in front, while rocking their aviator sunglasses! Sweet. For sale on long the sides of the roads in town are athletic pants with Adidas stripes down the side and mimic Asics or Nike tennis shoes. Sikhs love their athletic clothes. Little boys don’t wear the big turbans, only sporting the topknot wrapped in some thin fabric. Sikhs don’t cut their hair, so men must find some way to keep it all contained, hence the large turbans and even beard nets. Yes, like hair nets, except for your beard, this way all your hair gets pulled up into the turban if you don’t want to go for the bushy look. A sense of liveliness and robust joy pervades Punjab. The bouncing Bangra music encourages shoulder shimmies, hip thrusting, and hand motions like “raising the roof”. Punjabis love it.

Meeting Mamaji and Mamiji, I got my first hugs here in India, other than from a few Americans I’ve met. Although men walk hand in hand, or arm over the other’s shoulder (it’s just what buddies do), people don’t really hug. Maybe sometimes if you’re family. Affection is displayed in other ways, but I miss the physical hug. So it was wonderful to get one from Ruchi’s Aunt and Uncle, I’ll attribute it to the Punjabi culture and the fact that I was with Ruchi. Her cousin, Shveta has two adorable daughters, Parisha and Ruhani, who were lots of fun to play with and swing around. Parisha’s hit the climax of the terrible-twos stage and couldn’t understand our reasoning for not hitting her baby sister. Oh well, we just kept reassuring the mother, Shveta, that the phase would pass.

In the morning we headed out for Amritsar. Ruchi’s Uncle lent us his driver and car for the day, which was much faster than the bus and we were able to see everything we wanted to. We enter Amritsar and make our way to the center of town. First Stop: the Golden Temple. We’re not sure exactly where it is, so pulling up to a man sitting high on a cart next to the road, our driver starts to roll down the window but before he has even cracked it an inch or asked the way, the man says to some effect with a tired hand wave, “Temple straight ahead.” He’d been asked the question a hundred times and seeing a foreigner and a nice car, he already knew the question before being asked. Ruchi and I rolled back in laughter.

The Golden Temple is the most holy site among Sikhs and is a couple hundred years old. Hindu and Islamic architecture merge, as in the religion. The temple rises up in the center of a large blue pool called the Pool of Nectar (Amrit Sarovar, which gives the town its name). People bathe in the pool and prostrate themselves on the walkways. Walking clockwise around the pool we come to the entrance of the bridge out to the temple. Squeezed between Sikhs (silent for once), the line moves slowly towards the inner sanctum. My head is covered with my scarf out of respect and requirement and I bend down to touch the doorstep as the pilgrims in front of me have done before they stepped on to the bridge. When we finally reach the gold, my line is whisked around the side and we enter through a side door. I’m surprised to see that the chanting I’ve been hearing on loudspeakers is being broadcasted by four priests inside the temple, keeping up a continuous chant with the tabla. It’s beautiful and soothing, but as soon as we enter the sanctum we’re churned out by more pilgrims coming from behind. We snap a few photos once we’re back on the walkway and head to the next destination.

Stop 2: Just a few blocks away is Jallianwala Bagh, the open lot where 2000 Indians were killed or wounded when the British Geneneral Dyer ordered open fire without warning on the people who were gathered there in 1919. People gathered in the lot, surrounded by high walls, to protest the Rowlatt Act which gave British authorities the right to imprison any Indian suspected of sedition without trial. If you have seen the Gandhi movie, you were probably stunned by this holocaust-like scene. The lot has been transformed into a memorial park, but Ruchi and I felt that the beauty of the park diminished the gravity of the event, and we would have been more moved if it had been left empty. We touched bullet holes left in the sides of brick buildings and gazed into The Martyrs’ Well, where dozens jumped to avoid the bullets. Only a few people were able to climb the walls and escape the massacre.

Stop 3: After the sense of reverence at the Golden Temple and soberness of Jallianwala Bagh, we were ready for some fun. So we head to the border between India and Pakistan. Although it may seem illogical to go to the border between two nations who are nearly at each other’s necks most of the time, its only because you haven’t heard of the sunset ceremony of the border patrol. The Hindustani (Indian) army guards on one side and the Pakistani guards on the other put on a spectacular show of bravado and mock anger every evening for the delight of roaring patriots on either side. A stadium full of colorful Indians wave flags and dance to the blaring Bangra music that tries to outdo the blaring Pakistani tunes coming from the other side. The Pakistanis are dressed in more subdued tones, mostly whites and greys, and their stadium is not nearly as full. Ridiculously, I pridefully note to Ruchi that “We (meaning the Indians) seem to have a better representation.” Although I may gripe about the strictness of Indian culture or the annoyance of goggling Indian teenagers, as soon as I’m on the side of the winning team I immediately count myself in and practically consider myself a national! Oh double standards, you get me every time!

Anyways, the Hindustan patrol in khaki, green and red, with high white boots and flamboyant turbans march at a frightening pace towards the border, perform a series of leg kicks and stomps that I’m surprised don’t pull a muscle, and grimace at the other side. The Pakistani patrol go through similar displays and then both flags are lowered ceremoniously together, for the closing of the day. The flags must be lowered at exactly the same rate, and the blaring music must stop at exactly the same time. It’s all a very organized affair between the two sides, even the fans must abide by a few select slogans including: Long live Hindustan and Long live Pakistan. But all this doesn’t prevent the Punjabis from coming down from the stands and dancing in the road. One mob for boys and one mob for girls. When a favorite song comes on, two girls, probably sisters, perform an entire synchronized dance on the spot, probably learned from a Bollywood film, for hundreds of cheering Indians. When song starts to wind down, a whole group of girls comes and circles the dancers, sweeping them back into the party.

After a few wonderful days in Punjab, I said farewell to Ruchi and headed back to Rajasthan on my own to continue my work. I’ll miss this good friend, and wish her all the best in her travels to Africa for the next couple weeks.