Amritsar

The Golden Palace is like a Sikh Mecca. It’s the epicenter of an entire fairh. It was like being in a dream, walking barefoot on the cool marble around the glinting building. I had never even known that it existed until I began to plot potential destinations on a map of India on my wall in Austin. It was just another pushpin denoting something that might be of interest.

Now I was circling it slowy with thousands of faithful followers. To enter the sacred area everyone must walk through a shallow pool of warm, running water to clean their dirty feet. Then you climb a set of stairs and it comes into view. You can not tear your eyes away.

It is covered in gold, a genuinely golden temple. It sits in the middle of a manmade lake of holy water into which many hairy, bearded men would dip themselves. This had been going on since about 1600 AD when the temple was constructed. Around the outside of the pool is this marble walkway and about 3/4 of the way around is a foorbridge to the temple lined with 18 golden lanterns. The place was abuzz with echoes of talking, laughter, and footfalls reverberating back and forth between the white buildings surrounding the whole congregation of people. A loudspeaker boomed out prayers which sounded like poetry and at one end of the facility was a little band of musicians singing and playing tablas and harmoniums and other instruments whose names I could not begin to guess.

The line to cross the bridge and enter the temple was well over 1000 people long and had barely moved since we arrived. We would come back tonight to see the golden building light up the darkness. In the meantime we had another destination in mind about 30 km away.

It was getting cold buzzing along in our auto rickshaw through the Indian countryside. In our quest for the cheapest ride we settled on a slow, rickety three wheeler that was so loud you could barely hear yourself think. The sun was on its way down and there were no buildings to block the wind which rushed down the mountains and through the fields. The further we got, the more nervous I became. It sounded so reasonable from the hotel when we threw back a shot of cheap Indian whiskey and packed up our jackets.

Every night there is a ceremonial closing of the border with Pakistan. The guidebook mentioned it in a little side blurb and every rickshaw ride we had taken in the town ended with a ridiculous rate quote for a round trip journey. We had no idea exactly what a border closing ceremony would entail or how many people would attend.

Also, in light of the recent events in Pakistan, we were not sure if the mood would be tense or if the Pakistani’s would even be there to watch. Our jalopy rolled to a stuttering stop in a bustling little outcrop of buildings. The place was a mad house and there must have been several thousand people here, judging from the number of vehicles already parked in the dirt lots at either side of the road.

Jacob and I joined the trickle of people heading westward down the road, now lined with barbed wire fenses and a pronounced Indian military presence. There was something starting to happen up ahead, a crowd began to roar. The pace quickened and we found ourselves now trotting, now jogging, now running with the excited kids and adults. Coming into view was a little half stadium with soldiers on the walls and stationed at the flag poles about to begin pulling in the orange, green, and white.

We gasped into the inner keep and the crowd became deafening with cheers, chants, claps. Through the furvor we could make out the gates and on the other side, a neatly near-mirrored image of buildings and people, only they were cheering for the Pakistani flag. The soldiers were all dressed regally and their helmets were adorned with a red fabric fan like some exotic mating bird. Their uniforms were a classic khaki and they had tall riding boots and rifles. The Pakistani soldiers had the same fanned headgear, uniforms, boots, and weapons in a different color scheme.

As the flags decended in unison across the stadium, the people grew louder still and complex, aggressive marching maneuvers were performed in precise synchronicity. The flags reached the bottom and a massive roar erupted from the nearly 12,000 Indians and Pakistanis. Near us a chant began for Hindustan, the pet name so many Indians have for their country in hopes of officially becoming the world’s Hindi state. Masses swarmed down from the bleachers to the road and began pressing the military’s chain barricade. I spun around and around in wonder.

The gates were manned and 5 Indian soldiers goosestep charged 5 Pakistani ones, meeting at dead center, inches apart. The gates swung to shut and they gracefully dashed back into their countries. Slam! The border was closed for the night. The crowds again let out a roar, jittery from the experience. Men would approach and shake the hands of the soldiers, children would pose with them for photos. This was the biggest outpouring of national pride I had seen in India. Everyone had Indian flags, Indian visors, Indian shirts, Indian banners. In Pakistan the crowd began to thin out as people tried to rush back to Lahore before nightfall, but in India it was a celebration.

The huge crowd in the street was let through the gate in throngs of a couple hundred. The chain would lift and people sprinted up to get as close as possible to the fence. All were smiling and snapping photos. Behind the chain the mass regrew to an even bigger size that impatiently waited their turn. Jacob and I climbed up the bleachers to take it all in. Gazing across the wall, we watched the sun setting behind an empty shell of a stadium. Some lonely figures collected garbage and small groups of troops whisked by toward unknown destinations.

The world on that side looked like India. It used to be India before the line was drawn on a map some 60 years ago. But here at the gates it was like night and day. Another mess of the crowd was let up to the gate after the first batch had been herded out. People were not leaving until they got right up there. It’s like the edge of a cliff, something compels you to just look down from the rim. After the crowd started to thin out a little Jacob and I went to wait our turn and we too got within a couple feet of Pakistan to look across at the backs of their soldiers’ heads.

Back in our rickshaw we each looked out at the passing landscape. I watched out the back at the sunset and the silhouettes of kids flying kites from the rooftops (oh, so many kites in Amritsar!). I thought about the empty, delapidated mansions that punctuated the fields and wondered what this land must have been like in its prime. We passes war memorial after war memorial with names of wars I had never even heard of. How many lives were emptied in the name of this land? And now there appears to be more trouble brooding over the horizon. I wondered, too how much longer a couple American kids will be able to bumble out here to watch and take pictures.

We almost made it all the way back to the hotel before the rickshaw finally bit it. We had to stop several times to let the engine cool down, but now there was no life left in her. We grabbed a bite and headed back to the Golden Temple.

I had read that there was a “closing of the book” ceremony that also takes place every night. The marble had grown colder since the sun went down and it seemed cruel to make people amble about barefoot, but the temple shone brilliantly. It was illuminated from each side and as I walked it would grow brighter and brighter until I was directly underneath a light and then it would fade back down again. We slowly circled, taking out time despite numbing feet.

At the footbridge we made our way to the central chamber. At this hour there were only a hundred or so people milling about, so we walked straight up to the brilliant glow. The prayers sounded so much more significant from here on the bridge and as we drew close, people began to sit and listen. We joined them. The voice boomed out at the world from a loudspeaker. Words tied together and danced in a strange lilting melody before ending with a warble. There was an old, bearded Sikh reading from the ancient book and behind us a crowd had gathered to sit and listen.

I closed my eyes and listened to the echo. A sense of awe filled me full as I realized that this very spot was where some people had devoted their entire lives to getting to. Someone on this bridge with me. probably many of them, had been saving money for decades to be able to watch this ceremony and bathe in the waters and soak in their devotion.

The voice reached the end of the reading and began a call and response, getting a reply in unison from everyone around me. The book began to be wrapped in cloth and a man sung a feathered stick over the top of it. Everyone rose to their feet and we began a procession through the building. The inside was vaulted and completely covered in gold. There was a chandelier hanging from the center and a congregation of religious musicians on the floor. People all around me dropped to the floor to pay respect to the book, touching their heads to the ground and silently reciting prayers. We walked back around the crowd and I noticed the two golden clocks on the wall, both emblazened with the Omega corporate logo.

We managed to get back to the footbridge where people seemed to be gathering, sensing the start of the next part of the ritual. A golden box was being brought slowly down the way, its presence announced by a large and blasting horn. The book had been completely wrapped and was carried out to much fanfare. Everyone continued dropping to their knees and reciting prayers in an excited mumble.

Again the horn blasted out and the book was placed in the golden carrier and carried back down the path by a dozen men. We watched it all the way back to its nightly resting place and thought that this has been happening every night for over 400 years. How many millions have watched the book on its little walk? The moon was out and reflected off the holy pool of water along with the Golden Temple. A series of fireworks went off elsewhere in the city. There was some holiday taking place today and the revelers were somewhere celebrating the night.

I thought back to a comment that Jacob had made at the Taj Mahal. “I wonder in what year this place will cease to be?” We ambled back to the hotel and I drifted off into a deep and dreamless sleep.