Fissure in the Homeland: Amritsar, a Holy City

 
Pale blue and confident gold form a fine pair in sight
together creating a sensation both moving and right.

I found myself at an incredible illumination in night. The Golden Temple stood before me, a tremendously fine man-made structure in Amritsar, a Sikh holy city in the northwestern part of India. Pakistan, existing as the "other" to much of India, is but a stone's throw away. Here in Amritsar is a wondrous yet strange feeling of Indian spring, with an array of bare branches and emerging bright green, young leaves. An array of delicious food also makes its home here; more than I can count.

However, this trip is special, beyond these reasons. I stayed up past 3 AM, trying to book flights on the Indigo website, only to learn that the site's payment system was down. So many rounds of entering in the same card numbers and facing the same "payment failed" message. At some point, I just slept extremely nervously. Woke up at 7:30 AM or so when my older sister woke me up, my heart pounding. "What if this was end of the line for Amritsar" I anxiously wondered.

As you may guess, the trip still worked out. (That's how I'm writing this!) Apparently, the rest of my family took notice, though. Dad took it upon himself, during the morning hours, to book the flights for all four of us. (My older sister, sadly, has work.) Finally, this trip was being realized and we were being sent on our way.

Day 1: Amritsar Acclimation

In the airport lounge, feeling a little antsy, I availed myself of kulcha (a flatbread not unlike naan but sometimes stuffed), chicken tandoori, Kashmiri pulao (pilaf), and Hyderabadi biryani. Those first two items both hail from Punjab, the state housing Amritsar, and were naturally quite poignant.

Our trip was happening at last after so much hedging, so much wondering if there was energy for one more trip. Often, deeply held emotions -- like those around my family history -- are slow to rear their head for me. Of course, it took a little nudge to arrive at this point.. On the skies, an arresting pink gradient stirred my heart as the sun dipped, raising my hopes.

Just before takeoff, mom swiftly unpacked my jacket and handed it to me. Truly, a daring stunt pulled on this plane. Noting unusual for a motivated mother, though. Flight itself was perfectly fine -- a chance to listen to some familiar tunes, do some writing, and mentally prepare myself for one full day. In my head, this was all a little short for this symbolic trip.

 

Sri Guru Ram Das Jee International Airport, serving the city, oozes with personality. It is gritty, not very clean, and is under construction; yet, there are neat murals in almost every room. No airport quite like it. Right outside is a rideshare stand, very convenient for our tired feet.

A brisk breeze reminded me that I was here. The low temperature sat below 10C (50 F) degrees, remarkably cold for this country. Turns out my jacket was rather helpful, so thanks mom! Now in the car, we zoomed under a black cover stretching endlessly dotted with stars. I notice a clean city, with relatively little trash, regulated traffic (cameras), and just a few stray dogs dotting the place. Different vibe for an Indian city, for sure!

Bare branches mixed with stubby-looking palm trees along the road provided a shock. Just yesterday, I had been in Chennai's embrace of Southern warmth. Punjab, where Amritsar is located, expresses an aura of spring hard to find in the rest of India. Against this scenery, the city has some remarkably distinct architecture, like this gate near the airport.

 

Hotel offered us refuge of the night. In a short span of time, a shuttle would take us to the awaited Golden Temple. Winding myself down was incredibly hard. Somehow, I won over my body to a cool few hours of shut-eye. Soon a powerful experience awaited.

Day 2: Adventure in Amritsar

Shook myself awake, and slipped on my blue kurta -- the one from Udaipur. Time for the (first) big sight of Amritsar, making up for scarce sleep. The shuttle drops us off against a barrier. We walk past this remarkable gate, lit up before us, and continue through a row of stores, including a McDonalds on the side and more traditional outlets.



The temple awaited us, after some preparation mental and physical, and we moved onward.

Sari wrapped as a turban on my head by a kind stranger,
stepping barefoot across frigid water,
spires, screens, and sacred rites,
sights of glinting,
sanctity observed –
still as the night.

Straight ahead, the Golden Temple complex was absolutely stunning with solemn religious music carrying across and lights shining. Dipped my toes in the pooled water, as customary, to enter. One fear here is to act against Sikh custom, given the privilege of even visiting. Partaking in a sacred ceremony is rare outside of one’s religion; yet, the members of this religion were quite welcoming.

An older Sikh man asks me what is in the bag (“bag kya hae?” in Hindi/Urdu), revealing my noticeable Nike shoes. I am asked to put shoes in the storage room; somehow, I manage to put them away myself. (May have missed a step here.)

 

By the water’s edge, my family and I reunited for observation and photos. Noticing my turban slipping puts me a little on edge (in the other way) and I try to correct it. With adjustment made, I see the complex in a better light. Truly a time to focus the camera.

 

 

 

To stand among very coordinated chants, I inched closer to the temple proper. A heavy set drum pounds, announcing someone important. They walk in procession down the stairs. During this movement, handfuls of magenta rose are shared. Everyone showers the envoy with these petals, even me. Where this happened -- to the best of my recollection -- was stuck in my memory.

 

Moved my way up those flower-carpeted stairs, feeling the massive drum’s vibrations. Solemn hush hovering, even the drum quieted by orange wrap. A tome with sizable pages was decloaked of white fabric and an ornate crimson cloth laid with metal slipped into the inside book jacket. Recitations now filled the room, even a little loud one might say. (Naturally, the ceremony’s holiness thoroughly convinces me to focus on onlooking rather than taking pictures.) 

  

 

Hopes rested on one last event: visiting the Langar Hall, where visitors of all faiths received temple food. There was an odd-looking electronic screen among the centuries of history across from the petal-scattering ceremony. To the screen's left was the hall, actually. My dad and I stepped foot and were provided metal plates and cups for the meal.  Not unlike the Jain Temple experience with two key distinctions: here we sat on the ground, and the food was free.  Incredible to feel once more as one community, even if momentarily, with a multicultural gathering.

 

Naturally, food was delicious and filling! Individually, we were offered a ladle full of a spicy yogurt dish, daal, water, and kheer (milk pudding). Plus roti of course. With a little more experience, I knew to limit how much food to accept, and chose to pass on the kheer. There just was not much time, though, before the shuttle came at 6 AM. My mom and little sis arrive close to our appointed leaving time, and we have to get going across the entire complex. (After I fix my turban again.)

One last step: grabbing my shoes from the storage room. Unfortunately, I had misread the situation and put the shoes in myself rather than handing to the desk people. They were confused, requiring my dad’s explanation in Hindi/Urdu; they decided to let me go in myself to grab the shoes. Fortunately, not some big thing. There was a typography thing though: I had read the number as 4070 yet it was actually, wait for it, 5070. Oops. At least, I remembered the location…

With my shoes in tow, we made our way back to the shuttle pickup location. Along the walk, the turban was no longer necessary and I handed mom’s sari back to her. After a little waiting on quiet benches, the shuttle picks us up and takes us to hotel in a ~5 minute drive.

Revelatory moments like the ones at the Golden Temple are incredibly moving; a tug from my own being to consider where in this large world I fit in. However, at the hotel, this simply provided an inkling that a shower and rest were needed. My exhaustion caught up with me around 6:30 AM....and consciousness took a few hours to return.

There's a certain weight to only one full day in a city. I felt a twinge of guilt to nap for 3 hours, even if it was necessary. Noticing rest of my party was knocked out from Golden Temple got me thinking. 

 

Headed down for my second breakfast of nutri keema (offering a very plausible soy-based alternative to minced meat), rice, idli with sambar (sambar sauce running across my plate), a veda, and, finally, a moong dal cake. Followed by a waffle with chocolate sauce and kulcha (filled with potatoes), giving a wide spread of flavors. Nutri keema and kulcha, being two Punjabi dishes, were the unsurprising winners though! I would definitely eat both again.

Still, the three others remained asleep, so I worked out at the gym. Peering out the window, skyline shown for your eyeballs, I noticed a lush city. Pulled out my phone and noticed a small park just a few min away. Hotel staff pointed me down the road and said it was right there.  With this revelation, I decided on a little trip of my own. 

  

Ordinarily, India makes me a little wary of this walk (as a foreigner). Yet, a mostly quiet road -- hosting few cars -- implied that three minutes walk was truly around that length. Got  my clear chance to photograph some of the intriguing trees of the area. As I move across, the increasing warmth of the day arrives, temperatures rising above 20C (69F) degrees.

 

 There were pleasant flowers, birds twittering but hiding from my camera, old men comfortably chattering away under a cute gazebo. A few grassless patches, exposing soil, surrounded by green kept the South Asian vibe perfectly intact. Different from the gardens back home in Oregon, but still lovely. I made myself slow down enough to appreciate this little neighborhood park.

Examining hardy roses, emerging earlier than I expected, was quite the sight. After all, I am from Rose City (Portland). This called forth my memory of the rose petal scattering at the Golden Temple. Such a tranquility was in fact interrupted, though. 

 

Around noon, family summoned me with only a few min notice (despite me asking for more time).

We go in a frenzy plotting out the trip downstairs by the lobby. It had been a pretty leisurely stretch until now, giving way to a little turbulence. Our main concern was twofold: 1) achieving our list of objectives and 2) doing so by the hotel checkout time of 3 pm. (A checkout time of 5 pm in Chennai had, admittedly, spoiled me.)  A little stressful, but nothing impossible to handle.

Dad helped us reconfigure the plan. To keep us moving, I talked to the front desk about the process of loaning a driver. Pretty similar setup to Goa with a 4 hrs/40 km package and a 8 hrs/80 km package. The hotel staff, dad, and I determined that our proposed plan would run around 70km, and take maybe 7 hrs. Should be obvious the option we picked.

What is this incredible plan one may wonder. Three major stops came out: the Jallianwala Bagh, the Hathi Gate neighborhood, and the Attari-Wagah border. Under this setup, we would have to pack early because the border was a little closer to the airport. Let me explain each one separately.

 

Why greet the Jallianwala Bagh? It's a famous park near the Golden Temple where Indians advocated for freedom from British colonial rule. There's a white marble monument commemorating hundreds of people who died in the Amritsar Massacre of 1919.

Hathi Gate, on the other hand, is a historical area without looking especially beautiful nowadays. There is a grandeur even to these time-ravaged buildings. Before the Partition of Pakistan and India in 1947, this was a lovely neighborhood, hinted at by the gate itself. For me, in spite of all this city has to offer, this place was the place. My grandmother lived here over eighty years ago -- to the best of my knowledge -- before she fled intense communal violence. 

  

Amritsar, along with the Punjab state as a whole, was virulently divided back then. Lahore, the largest city in Pakistani Punjab and Amritsar's unofficial sister city, was rendered closed off by an iron-clad border. In an attempt to decipher this fissure, and understand my family history, I awaited this inquisition.

Lastly, the border, the elephant in the room. Even referring to it as "Attari" or "Wagah" (border towns in India and Pakistan respectively) can betray a cultural conviction. This particular border is famous for a meticulously choreographed changing of the guards with flag lowering. Though it's often considered relatively safe, shared India-Pakistan borders can be, shall we say, ever-changing. Naturally, we got some advice to not go; however, we weighed the risks, strategized accordingly, and continued. 

Our driver, a friendly, young-seeming Sikh man with a beautiful red turban, took us as close as possible to the Jallianwala Bagh. However, there was a car-free zone for this historic area near the Golden Temple. In fact, this was the same area we had passed in the dead of night. "Night-and-day shift" perfectly fits the intensity of hustle and bustle across the streets now versus the earlier stillness.

It was already past 1:20 pm, my feet were beginning to sore up, and suddenly a mighty statue appears. My first inclination is a little bit of annoyance -- but it is a really awe-inspiring sight. Just look at this lovely black and white contrast.

 

 

Another monument -- commemorating the Amritsar Massacre -- emerged, pleading for our attention. At least we continued moving, towards and past a chilling reminder of oppression. The bagh was up next, adding in a little desperately needed positive energy. 

A little anecdote about the Jallianwala Bagh. Before coming to Amritsar, I read "The Price of Freedom" by famous Indian writer Hasan Sadat Manto. Manto drew from living in Amritsar to write this story.  In fact, he also lived in Mumbai and Lahore -- reflecting a deeply varied perspective of the subcontinent. This amusing quip, translated from Urdu to English by Khalid Hassan, may be a little out-of-pocket after the massacre monument, though it does help restore an inviting image of the park.

Manto writes, "I would spend the entire day at Jallianwala Bagh. Sitting under a tree, I would watch the windows of the houses bordering the park and dream about the girls who lived behind them."

We entered past a guard and metal detector into the Bagh. A hallway of Sikh warriors cast in metal created a dramatic buildup of great interest to my mom. Moving inwards, a sea of leaves, bristles, and other plant protrusions. This pine type of tree caught my attention with an unusual shape. Past it was a comforting shelter, hiding from the Amritsari sun beating down. I sat down for a quick respite. Perhaps Manto himself took this same safe position as he read books.

 

Red shaded sanctuary from the sun offered a hint of the last area. A curved pinkish brick tower overseeing a pond strewn with lilypads. Stopped for a moment to document it, continuing on the linear path. Around now, passing by more possible seats. I still felt this feeling of rushing around though. My body was hinting that I would need a lot more rest soon.

 

Pushing 2 PM, it was time for the Partition Museum (where photos were not allowed). Right beside it was a remarkable specimen of Amritsari architecture. I almost think of the blazing Mughal artstyle, yet clearly this is a little different. 

 

Museum itself was a lot of stairs and there was little time. Just my dad and I moved through. Pieces on the devastation of the Sindh, Punjab, and Bengal regions being split. Familiar stories of the British imposing resentment on a colony. One fascinating anecdote is Jinnah (founder of Pakistan) defending a Sikh person in court (pre-Partition), showing how truly gray the difference between India and Pakistan can be. Mostly a lot of walking though, up and down. While the museum was fine, I was more moved by its great staging for the Partition history. Perhaps this museum reflects the challenges of honest discussions of Partition. After all, an academic discussion is easier than an intimate one.

 Fittingly, my brush with this subject was coming up shortly, even as I feel tired from this hectic pace. The Hathi Gate was right before us. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A delay due to traffic near the parking garage threatened our schedule. (Being in the car, however, let me slow down a tad bit.) Asking dad to call the hotel and request a little extra time worked out well, though! This eases our stress a little bit. 

 

Hathi Gate neighborhood is straight ahead; the driver maneuvers these tiny alleys, slowing down finely. A couple motorcyclists guide him with shockingly no road rage, stopping and giving directions to avoid scratching the car. Just respectful driving. Driver slotted the car out of the way, like a puzzle block, and we step off.

After a short walk, we somehow passed the area in question. My dad had plotted this route out in advance, and somehow there were still surprises. A few people gave us tips, but we go through a few iterations, trying to find our landmark of Trikha Enterprise. We wander around, seeing a store at ground level, and then turn around and find Trikha. The fabric shopkeeper right across is incredibly understanding of us exploring our Amritsar roots. In this city, many seem to instinctively grasp the impacts of Partition.

This simple building is not necessarily where my grandmother lived. Apparently, she lived in a larger, more prosperous building decades ago. Surely, a much greater beauty before Partition. Still, I was really proud of this pigeon in the shot, perfectly timed and hinting at past glory.

 
The visit ended pretty fast without a massive blow to my emotions. Maybe there’s also a feeling that I try to make small. Reading Partition literature might have created a high expectation for me as well. Partition Museum, in its impersonal demonstrations, didn’t quite ready me in that sense. Maybe the feelings I seek will come later. Either way, rather humbling to sit with.

For all the rushing, there was little to do at the hotel. Due to our decision to go to Attari, we were already set to go. Car ride commences once more.

Pass by some beautiful old colleges, farmlands, and pseudo-historical reports. Mom had me sip some 5 rupee apple juice (almost painfully sour) and water. More rural Punjab zoomed by on this drive a little short of an hour. Soon enough, we arrived in the border town of Attari.

Attari, to my eyes, was not very distinct until near the border. Throngs of people and barricades emerged. Such a touristy event surely could not be *that* dangerous. Of course, it is certainly a dynamic situation, but I never felt afraid.  Basically, my US passport allowed me to get more easily waved in by security. It was safe-ish.

Obviously, this is a pretty big national pride sort of event, with India and Pakistan competing for attention. A big contrast between the two sides was apparent: India featured more colorful outfits, more flamboyant choreography, and louder speaking. The crowd cheered loudly, to a point that I longed for earphones. Main speaker even called out Pakistan while offering a thumbs down, followed by "Jai Ho" playing....It was definitely on the nose. Behind the gate, Pakistan played solemn Islamic chanting over speakers.

Choreography on the Indian side featured well rehearsed gun spinning followed by people with colorful red-and-orange hats. While well done, I really was curious for the gate opening, as that was the true part of the ceremony. Pakistan featured more solemn percussive music (less like orchestral band), impressive footwork, and a more austere black and red uniform. 

 

Great tension could be felt between the two sides. Despite the fraying ties, the Indian and Pakistani flags lowering side by side remained a great sign of artistic coordination and diplomatic pursuit. Partition could not deny the  relationships that carry over across the border.

We finished around 6 pm, feeling adrenaline coursing through. The day was certainly starting to run its course, creating some evocative scenes and even more expressive feelings. I was ready to start wrapping up our trip with a bow.

Falling light creates such magical scenes no matter where. This time, a painting of palm trees on the way back towards Amritsar. Our flight, after all, would be during the nighttime, beyond the glow.

 
During car-side discussions, the driver suggested Yellow Chili over Beera Chicken. Now Beera Chicken had been recommended both by my older sister (on a previous trip) and from a kind friend passing on food recommendations from their father. By contrast, Yellow Chili is a sit-down restaurant with air conditioning, likely a better fit for the moment.

 

Once inside, mom helps me hone in on the Amritsari Macchli. I felt confused as my mom tends to not like breaded fish. A little outside my expectations. But apparently it's quite similar to an excellent dish from Lahore (Just a hop across the border). My hunger betrayed me as a I tried to pass the time.

While waiting for this surely amazing dish, I got some lassi (yoghurt drink) with a touch of salty blast. Punjab is known for dairy and fish, among other things. Clearly, again, I was in the right place. My fish was delightful with the ajwain (caraway) flavor permeating the breading; accompaniments were mint chutney, and naan. Food was so tasty I hesitated to share 2 pieces with mom. Turned her down for a third and then felt bad. So I gave a half piece to her. This delicious fish was in fact locally caught sole, helping explain this magically fresh flavor. Certainly a top ten dish in India for me.

 
 

Now heading out, we stop by Bansal Sweets (recommended by the driver) and get kaju katli, gulab jamun, motichoor ladoo and more. With this taken care of, the airport was the very last agenda item. 

 

Our driver did not speak much English but he certainly put in great effort. I said ayngrazee mae ("in English" in Urdu) followed by "Practice makes perfect" (in English), which got him to chuckle a little. Another poignant memory came from us discussing Partition. His family had, in fact, traveled from Lahore to Amritsar, helping me to understand the fissure that had marked us both. We generously tipped our kind driver, and headed into the airport.

Maneuvering the small airport is not too challenging. However, I did notice 20 minutes of confusion when my wheelchair porter did not show up; my dad and sister went ahead to the gate and sent for another person.

 
Around 9:50 pm, I arrived at the gate, facing a little bit of airport pandemonium, and sat on the flight. Take off proceeded smoothly, letting me take in a bird's eye view. Unusual "Tetris" style blocks could be seen of the city from above, a little different from the expected constellations of lights from a city. (Just like I had noticed on yesterday's flight to Amritsar.)

Sleep ate up the entire two hour plus long dance across the sky. A little annoying for my "productivity" metrics, but sleep is important too. Fortunately, brain woke up a little before touchdown, ensuring a smooth landing.

 

Sure, I arrived past 1 AM in Mumbai for this trip. The airplane even placed us at the wrong terminal, forcing a 30 min wait and bus ride to the right one (Terminal 2). Had to wait and fell asleep past 2 am. Though inconvenient, this struggle felt rewarding. After all, I slept only 4 hours on the day we finally booked this trip (a mere week ago) -- it had all come full circle.

Departing from Amritsar provided me one last glimpse of the place my grandmother once called home. Though I would see my grandmother on family trips, I always felt that there was an invisible side to these interactions. Partition did not come up much in conversation understandably for her. Its trauma runs deep, after all. She also passed away Halloween of 2020, removing any subsequent chances. Coming here, an emotionally challenging process, brought some of those hidden parts to life. Pulling me closer to the memories of Partition, experienced with my family. I could see clearly my own aspirations of a brighter world contrasted against this tragedy.