10/24/12
I started my day around 9 at the Golden Temple, the biggest Sikh temple in India. It's a large marble enclosure around a holy reflecting pool, with the Golden Temple itself in the middle. I waited in line for nearly 2 hours to get inside. On the first floor, where they keep the holy book, a Sikh guy was guarding something that looked like a giant pink cushion with gold sequins. In front of him, there were vases of roses and rings of marigold. Off to one side, there were several women praying and on the other side, men keeping the heartbeat of the temple on drums. In front of the holy book, devotees kept tossing money, and sikhs on their hands and knees would sweep up the coins and bills as soon as they landed. The ceiling of the interior was covered in gold -- 75 kg of it. At the top of the temple, there was another man, reading an identical book on his own gilded cushion. Each man also had a big poofy white fan that looked like a flattened Siemese cat, which they would use to fan themselves as they read. Funny thing was, all around the marble enclosure, there were duplicates of these men in loose white pajama outfits, turbans, white beards and matching mustaches, as if they'd multiplied and fit themselves into every free corner. Totally bizarre.
After I got bored of checking out the sikh clones reading on puffy cushions, I sat down and helped a bunch of women wash the silver metal bowls used to give pilgrims water. These bowls are dubiously washed by the hands of more than 2 dozen volunteers, in a mixture of dirt and finely ground mulch. I have no idea how this concoction actually cleans, but after participating in this process for several hours, i can safely say i wouldn't recommend drinking the water.
Attached to the temple was a museum all about the persecution and martyrdom of the Sikhs. Seems like everyone wanted to kill the Sikhs at one time or another -- the Mughals, the Brits and Mrs Indira Gandhi. The museum was a series of rooms filled with badly done paintings of sikhs being run over by wagon wheels, having their limbs ripped off, or being stabbed in the holy pool. A bit macabre for my tastes.
After lunch, I headed to the Jalianwala Bashi, the memorial park that pays tribute to the spot where many Indians were killed by the Brits. General Dyer fired a total of 1,650 rounds into the crowd without any warning to disburse, and you can see 28 bullet holes in the brick wall as well as this hauntingly deep well where people hurled themselves in desperation. Now the memorial's a lovely green space with lots of people napping, chatting and lounging around. Seems like the equivalent of picnicking in a graveyard.
Some indian guy who introduced himself as the Nowhere man (because his philosophy is that most people see life as "no where" and he sees it as "now here") gave me a tip to head over to the Durgiana temple for the biggest Hindu festival outside Diwali. He told me to speak confidently, take out my notebook and camera, and tell people to let me onto stage because I'm a part of the international press. With this helpful hint and a finger point in the general direction of the temple, he sent me on my way. After having walked for a good mile, dodging traffic and weaving through crowds, I gave up and decided to hail a rickshaw. Of course, I got the one driver who pretended he knew the way but really had no idea what I was saying and drove me straight back to the Golden temple. Back to ground zero.
Following many more useless directions, I ended up exactly where I was when the rickshaw driver picked me up. Turned out I was about 10 feet from the entrance but this time, an hour later, it was much more obvious from the throngs of people parading in, and all the drumming and chanting. Little boys were dressed in silver jackets and silver conical hats and the girls had henna painted hands. The crowd to get to the field where the ceremony was being held was horrific. I've never been in a worse crowd-- no room between bodies, everyone packed in tight, chest to back, shoving from all sides which caused the crowd to sway back and forth just as much as it moved forward.
This was where some asshole guy behind me rammed his fist between my butt cheeks (I just realized it's ironic I called him an asshole). I turned around and punched him _hard_ in the gut. And I tried to face my side so he couldn't access my behind. Guess what? He snuck around to my side and did it again! I was furious so i unhinged my knife from my bag and flashed the blade in his face. His friends started laughing. He refused to look at me. From now on, I'm always going to have my fruit peeling knife handy when I walk the crowded streets.
Dussehra is the Hindi version of Burning Man and a pyromaniac's dream. It's the festival marking the God Rama's victory and subsequent rescue of his wife, Sita, from the wicked king Ravana after a long and bloody battle. Giant wood and paper mache effigies of the 10-headed demon king ravana, his son Meghrad and brother Kumbhkaran and some other villain are crammed full of firecrackers and set ablaze, marking the triumph of good over evil. It's like the equivalent of blowing up multiple 4 story buildings. Everyone runs for cover and clamps their hands over their ears because the noise is deafening. Then after the explosion, the boys pick up pieces of the burning wood edifice and joust each other, as burning paper rains down on the crowd. Blue faced Rama dances on his chariot with live snakes around his neck. There are fireblowers, jewelled men with bow and arrows, and painted monkey boy dancers with spears whirling and twirling, stamping their golden feet to the pounding of hundreds of drums. it's an incredible sight to behold and I did make it to the stage, front and center, with the 'press.' Noone asked me what I was doing; they just assumed I was supposed to be there. And Nowhere man was right, the view was spectacular...I watched the whole procession and ceremony unfold right at my feet.
Ended the night at my posh guesthouse which has 2 matching green carpets depicting mice pushing shopping carts full of toilet paper rolls. Swam in their freezing cold pool for 25 minutes until my hands were numb. Swimming by yourself with the light of the moon on your back is always a good way to end the day...
I started my day around 9 at the Golden Temple, the biggest Sikh temple in India. It's a large marble enclosure around a holy reflecting pool, with the Golden Temple itself in the middle. I waited in line for nearly 2 hours to get inside. On the first floor, where they keep the holy book, a Sikh guy was guarding something that looked like a giant pink cushion with gold sequins. In front of him, there were vases of roses and rings of marigold. Off to one side, there were several women praying and on the other side, men keeping the heartbeat of the temple on drums. In front of the holy book, devotees kept tossing money, and sikhs on their hands and knees would sweep up the coins and bills as soon as they landed. The ceiling of the interior was covered in gold -- 75 kg of it. At the top of the temple, there was another man, reading an identical book on his own gilded cushion. Each man also had a big poofy white fan that looked like a flattened Siemese cat, which they would use to fan themselves as they read. Funny thing was, all around the marble enclosure, there were duplicates of these men in loose white pajama outfits, turbans, white beards and matching mustaches, as if they'd multiplied and fit themselves into every free corner. Totally bizarre.
After I got bored of checking out the sikh clones reading on puffy cushions, I sat down and helped a bunch of women wash the silver metal bowls used to give pilgrims water. These bowls are dubiously washed by the hands of more than 2 dozen volunteers, in a mixture of dirt and finely ground mulch. I have no idea how this concoction actually cleans, but after participating in this process for several hours, i can safely say i wouldn't recommend drinking the water.
Attached to the temple was a museum all about the persecution and martyrdom of the Sikhs. Seems like everyone wanted to kill the Sikhs at one time or another -- the Mughals, the Brits and Mrs Indira Gandhi. The museum was a series of rooms filled with badly done paintings of sikhs being run over by wagon wheels, having their limbs ripped off, or being stabbed in the holy pool. A bit macabre for my tastes. 
After lunch, I headed to the Jalianwala Bashi, the memorial park that pays tribute to the spot where many Indians were killed by the Brits. General Dyer fired a total of 1,650 rounds into the crowd without any warning to disburse, and you can see 28 bullet holes in the brick wall as well as this hauntingly deep well where people hurled themselves in desperation. Now the memorial's a lovely green space with lots of people napping, chatting and lounging around. Seems like the equivalent of picnicking in a graveyard.
Following many more useless directions, I ended up exactly where I was when the rickshaw driver picked me up. Turned out I was about 10 feet from the entrance but this time, an hour later, it was much more obvious from the throngs of people parading in, and all the drumming and chanting. Little boys were dressed in silver jackets and silver conical hats and the girls had henna painted hands. The crowd to get to the field where the ceremony was being held was horrific. I've never been in a worse crowd-- no room between bodies, everyone packed in tight, chest to back, shoving from all sides which caused the crowd to sway back and forth just as much as it moved forward.This was where some asshole guy behind me rammed his fist between my butt cheeks (I just realized it's ironic I called him an asshole). I turned around and punched him _hard_ in the gut. And I tried to face my side so he couldn't access my behind. Guess what? He snuck around to my side and did it again! I was furious so i unhinged my knife from my bag and flashed the blade in his face. His friends started laughing. He refused to look at me. From now on, I'm always going to have my fruit peeling knife handy when I walk the crowded streets.
Dussehra is the Hindi version of Burning Man and a pyromaniac's dream. It's the festival marking the God Rama's victory and subsequent rescue of his wife, Sita, from the wicked king Ravana after a long and bloody battle. Giant wood and paper mache effigies of the 10-headed demon king ravana, his son Meghrad and brother Kumbhkaran and some other villain are crammed full of firecrackers and set ablaze, marking the triumph of good over evil. It's like the equivalent of blowing up multiple 4 story buildings. Everyone runs for cover and clamps their hands over their ears because the noise is deafening. Then after the explosion, the boys pick up pieces of the burning wood edifice and joust each other, as burning paper rains down on the crowd. Blue faced Rama dances on his chariot with live snakes around his neck. There are fireblowers, jewelled men with bow and arrows, and painted monkey boy dancers with spears whirling and twirling, stamping their golden feet to the pounding of hundreds of drums. it's an incredible sight to behold and I did make it to the stage, front and center, with the 'press.' Noone asked me what I was doing; they just assumed I was supposed to be there. And Nowhere man was right, the view was spectacular...I watched the whole procession and ceremony unfold right at my feet.
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