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Diary
Posted by the lazy knight
on
11:43 PM
My journey begins on a muggy July morning at the crack of dawn. The Shatabdi express to Amritsar leaves at half past seven in the morning, which means that mom wakes me up at six. I have to drag myself out of the bed, through a bath and into the car as we drive down to the station. The New Delhi railway station is buzzing with life. Its daylight now and it’s a normal day at the platforms. All the usual sights are there. Freshly arrived passengers being hounded by auto and taxi wallahs. Coolies hanging on the stairs, some smoking their bidis, some casually waiting for a heavily loaded customer to come. The platform ticket checker’s seat is empty and the entry to the over bridge linking the platforms is without any hindrance. Nothing at the station makes one feel that just a few days back, powerful bombs ripped through trains in Mumbai. There is no sign of the ‘Red Alert’ or the heightened security measures that one read about on the front pages of the newspapers. It’s almost as if no one has noticed what happened a few days ago. Life is going on at its usual place. Is this a measure of our strength? To move on without letting our heads drop? Or is this our biggest weakness? In a country of so many billions, how does the death of the few matter?
As I settle down on my seat in the Shatabdi express, I haven’t yet been able to shake off the sleep from my body. And I realize much to my dismay that I do not have a window seat; which deprives me of my favorite pastime when on a train – just gazing out of the window at the passing countryside. The Amritsar Shatabdi is equipped with the new swanky looking coaches; at least they look fresh from outside. On the inside, they are dull and kind of dingy. But the one thing I like the most about the Shatabdi is the leg room its seats offer. The economy class seating of domestic airlines is cramped to say the least. In the Shatabdi you have to reach out to touch the edge of your food tray when it is opened up, while in the air economy class the food tray will gently brush against your chest as you lean forward to eat. Wider space also means that your chair can recline more and there are fewer murmurs of protest from those sitting directly behind. Through the five and a half hour journey, the audio system of the train plays instrumental tunes of old Hindi songs, interspersed with muffled announcements whenever the train reaches a station with a halt.
The stillness and quiet inside allows me to sleep and the catering staff is kind enough to let me be without butting in with something or the other every few minutes. (On the smaller routes, they almost irritate you with the frequency with which foodstuff arrives. Everything has to be served within a short time to provide value for the ever rising ticket prices).
We reach Amritsar ten minutes past one. I was hoping for an overcast sky to make my trip slightly comfortable, but I am greeted by a clear blue and a blazing sun. It is humid and sticky. We board a rickshaw and start making our way to the Golden Temple, a fifteen minute ride from the rail station. Being a Sunday, the markets are closed and we make our way smoothly to the old city and the temple vicinities. It is there that the chaos greets us. The older parts of the city are not too dissimilar to Chandni Chowk, it is crowded with narrow road space. Cars, rickshaws, tempos, bicycles and pedestrians all merge together into a complete logjam. There is honking, shouting and cursing going on all around. We are stopped about a hundred yards short of the temple by a traffic constable. The remaining way will have to be made by foot.
The chaos outside is in complete contrast with the feeling of serenity that greets you the moment you step inside and see the sight of the gold glinting in the sun. Being a Sunday, there is a larger crowd than usual (all my three previous visits were on weekday evenings when the crowd was sparse). There is commotion in the sarovar and all around the parikrama. We make our way barefoot across the marble; for some strange reason the colored marble stones feel hotter than the plain white ones. Around us volunteers are filling buckets from the sarovar and splashing the water on the floor to cool it down.
Walking around the parikrama is itself an experience. It allows you to seep in the sight of the Harminder’s magnificence and of its tranquility (the one quality I have not found in any other place of worship so far). It is hard to imagine how this place would have been two decades back, when the number of guns inside the temple premises could have easily outnumbered the number of Guru Granth Sahibs in it. There are no visible signs left of those days of turbulence. As I stand in front of the north gate, it is impossible to imagine army tanks moving in over the marble steps and blasting away at terrorist trenches. No Sikh alive in 1984 can ever forget Operation Bluestar, but the temple on the face of it, it seems has. The rooms where Jarnail Singh Bhindrawale’s men hid are today either locked or occupied by granthis with snowy beards reading the Holy Scripture in deep thought. On entry and inside, I saw not a single armed guard. Guns are not allowed by the SGPC anywhere near the temple premises. And yet in those turbulent days of the mid eighties, the Golden Temple boomed with mortar and rifle fire. It was the most unlikely of all battlefields with the most unlikely of all battles. For the first time in its history, the Indian army conducted such a massive operation on its own soil against an entrenched enemy. Both sides underestimated each other; the army underestimated the strength of the terrorists and Bhindrawale underestimated the government’s resolve to knock him over. Casualties were heavy on both sides (with many innocents pooled along) and the physical damage to the temple premises was matched in gravity by the damage to the psyche of a community and a nation.
Perhaps the most ironical aspect of the temple is the number of stone engraving of thankfulness and remembrance left by different army formations. All around the marble perimeter walls are inscribed with messages of worship or gratitude to the almighty; majority of them by different army battalions who have served in Punjab. Despite the bitterness over the Army action two decades ago, these still stand proudly with many of them displaying names of martyrs who sacrificed their lives in the three post independence wars. In a small measure the Harminder also serves as a war memorial. The armed forces have found their walls; Bhindrawale and his band of gangsters got not even a square inch. It is a reflection of popular Sikh sentiment and proof that in a democratic state no honor is derived through killing and festering divisiveness.
As we make our way towards the sanctum sanctorum, we get suck in an unmoving queue. It’s only then that we realize that it a day of the sangat and that it has accounted for the extra crowd in the afternoon. It takes us an hour to make out way to the centre of the temple; an hour during which I glance at my watch anxiously several times. I have no plans to miss the train back home in the evening.
The blazing heat is somewhat quelled by the shamiana and the fans hanging from it over the column leading to the entrance of the sanctum sanctorum. Yet, it is muggy enough to cause two elderly women to fell giddy and collapse. I am thankful to the good lord when I finally reach inside and calmly make my way out through the back. We make our way towards the Akal Takht- the seat of the Sikh religion, from where religious (and quite often political edicts) are issued. The sixth guru, Guru Hargobind had set up the Akal Takht as the place of his address to his followers and it was here that he introduced the concept of singing of folk songs and ballads to inspire martial qualities in his followers. Today, it is the seat of the SGPC – which controls the Sikh gurudwaras. Badly smashed up during Bluestar (Bhindrawale’s body was recovered from its basement), it was rebuilt first by the army and then again by the SGPC. I climb the stairs and reach the main hall on the first floor; it resembles the hall of any normal gurudwara with the devotees sitting around listenting patiently to a granthi chanting along. Behind the main hall are rooms which house the SGPC offices. Nothing seems out of place or extraordinary. Nothing gives you the impression that you are standing in what was once a war zone.
At around four we make our way through the parikrama and out towards the main gate. The crowd is swelling and a large band of pedestrians is making its way towards the temple. It is a procession complete with all the noise of accompanying drums and religious chants. Traffic is virtually stuck a hundred yards from the temple gate. There is complete logjam at the nearby crossing with every vehicle of every kind merging into each other. Once again, like at the station in Delhi I wonder how fragile is the security (in fact at the Golden temple it seems non-existent). It is the perfect place for any miscreant and a small amount of explosives can cause massive human casualties. Mom hunts around for a few Punjabi jootis unsuccessfully before we clamber back on a rickshaw and make our way out of the old city. The garment market just beyond the temple has now opened a little and roadside stalls and small eateries are doing brisk business thanks to the procession. In spite of the clear sky and the bright sun, it is comfortable rickshaw ride to the station. The rickshaw can probably be the best exploratory transport for the older any Indian city. It can access cramped lanes and provides an unobstructed view of the surroundings and brings you within touching distance of everything around.
Our compartment on the return journey is a theatre of cacophony. There is tiny girl, maybe three or four, who starts wailing at full blast every time her mother tries to restrain her. There are a couple of foreign ladies in the adjacent seat who keep babbling loudly in what sounds a bit like Spanish. Three young boys from the seats behind us keep running up and down the length of the compartment. When their running ceases, they get down to playing antakshiri and more song and noise follows. In between their family joins in as well and the back of the compartment resonates with sounds of popular Hindi songs.
I realize pretty soon that any attempt to sleep will be futile. I try to make friends with the wailing little girl, but the moment I touch her arm as she crosses by my seat, she wails even loudly than before and I quickly retreat and start peering into my book innocently.
Delhi arrives at half past eleven at night. The station like in the morning is buzzing with life. I drag myself out of the platform and to the parking where Dad waits patiently in the car. All I want to do is crash on my bed and sleep soundly for the Monday ahead. I end my day the way I started it, in a state of slumber. Sleep slowly drags itself into my eyes. Its been that kind of a day – it seemed it would be active, busy and touch and go….it ended up running at my pace…slow, groggy and just about trundling along.
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As I settle down on my seat in the Shatabdi express, I haven’t yet been able to shake off the sleep from my body. And I realize much to my dismay that I do not have a window seat; which deprives me of my favorite pastime when on a train – just gazing out of the window at the passing countryside. The Amritsar Shatabdi is equipped with the new swanky looking coaches; at least they look fresh from outside. On the inside, they are dull and kind of dingy. But the one thing I like the most about the Shatabdi is the leg room its seats offer. The economy class seating of domestic airlines is cramped to say the least. In the Shatabdi you have to reach out to touch the edge of your food tray when it is opened up, while in the air economy class the food tray will gently brush against your chest as you lean forward to eat. Wider space also means that your chair can recline more and there are fewer murmurs of protest from those sitting directly behind. Through the five and a half hour journey, the audio system of the train plays instrumental tunes of old Hindi songs, interspersed with muffled announcements whenever the train reaches a station with a halt.
The stillness and quiet inside allows me to sleep and the catering staff is kind enough to let me be without butting in with something or the other every few minutes. (On the smaller routes, they almost irritate you with the frequency with which foodstuff arrives. Everything has to be served within a short time to provide value for the ever rising ticket prices).
We reach Amritsar ten minutes past one. I was hoping for an overcast sky to make my trip slightly comfortable, but I am greeted by a clear blue and a blazing sun. It is humid and sticky. We board a rickshaw and start making our way to the Golden Temple, a fifteen minute ride from the rail station. Being a Sunday, the markets are closed and we make our way smoothly to the old city and the temple vicinities. It is there that the chaos greets us. The older parts of the city are not too dissimilar to Chandni Chowk, it is crowded with narrow road space. Cars, rickshaws, tempos, bicycles and pedestrians all merge together into a complete logjam. There is honking, shouting and cursing going on all around. We are stopped about a hundred yards short of the temple by a traffic constable. The remaining way will have to be made by foot.
The chaos outside is in complete contrast with the feeling of serenity that greets you the moment you step inside and see the sight of the gold glinting in the sun. Being a Sunday, there is a larger crowd than usual (all my three previous visits were on weekday evenings when the crowd was sparse). There is commotion in the sarovar and all around the parikrama. We make our way barefoot across the marble; for some strange reason the colored marble stones feel hotter than the plain white ones. Around us volunteers are filling buckets from the sarovar and splashing the water on the floor to cool it down.
Walking around the parikrama is itself an experience. It allows you to seep in the sight of the Harminder’s magnificence and of its tranquility (the one quality I have not found in any other place of worship so far). It is hard to imagine how this place would have been two decades back, when the number of guns inside the temple premises could have easily outnumbered the number of Guru Granth Sahibs in it. There are no visible signs left of those days of turbulence. As I stand in front of the north gate, it is impossible to imagine army tanks moving in over the marble steps and blasting away at terrorist trenches. No Sikh alive in 1984 can ever forget Operation Bluestar, but the temple on the face of it, it seems has. The rooms where Jarnail Singh Bhindrawale’s men hid are today either locked or occupied by granthis with snowy beards reading the Holy Scripture in deep thought. On entry and inside, I saw not a single armed guard. Guns are not allowed by the SGPC anywhere near the temple premises. And yet in those turbulent days of the mid eighties, the Golden Temple boomed with mortar and rifle fire. It was the most unlikely of all battlefields with the most unlikely of all battles. For the first time in its history, the Indian army conducted such a massive operation on its own soil against an entrenched enemy. Both sides underestimated each other; the army underestimated the strength of the terrorists and Bhindrawale underestimated the government’s resolve to knock him over. Casualties were heavy on both sides (with many innocents pooled along) and the physical damage to the temple premises was matched in gravity by the damage to the psyche of a community and a nation.
Perhaps the most ironical aspect of the temple is the number of stone engraving of thankfulness and remembrance left by different army formations. All around the marble perimeter walls are inscribed with messages of worship or gratitude to the almighty; majority of them by different army battalions who have served in Punjab. Despite the bitterness over the Army action two decades ago, these still stand proudly with many of them displaying names of martyrs who sacrificed their lives in the three post independence wars. In a small measure the Harminder also serves as a war memorial. The armed forces have found their walls; Bhindrawale and his band of gangsters got not even a square inch. It is a reflection of popular Sikh sentiment and proof that in a democratic state no honor is derived through killing and festering divisiveness.
As we make our way towards the sanctum sanctorum, we get suck in an unmoving queue. It’s only then that we realize that it a day of the sangat and that it has accounted for the extra crowd in the afternoon. It takes us an hour to make out way to the centre of the temple; an hour during which I glance at my watch anxiously several times. I have no plans to miss the train back home in the evening.
The blazing heat is somewhat quelled by the shamiana and the fans hanging from it over the column leading to the entrance of the sanctum sanctorum. Yet, it is muggy enough to cause two elderly women to fell giddy and collapse. I am thankful to the good lord when I finally reach inside and calmly make my way out through the back. We make our way towards the Akal Takht- the seat of the Sikh religion, from where religious (and quite often political edicts) are issued. The sixth guru, Guru Hargobind had set up the Akal Takht as the place of his address to his followers and it was here that he introduced the concept of singing of folk songs and ballads to inspire martial qualities in his followers. Today, it is the seat of the SGPC – which controls the Sikh gurudwaras. Badly smashed up during Bluestar (Bhindrawale’s body was recovered from its basement), it was rebuilt first by the army and then again by the SGPC. I climb the stairs and reach the main hall on the first floor; it resembles the hall of any normal gurudwara with the devotees sitting around listenting patiently to a granthi chanting along. Behind the main hall are rooms which house the SGPC offices. Nothing seems out of place or extraordinary. Nothing gives you the impression that you are standing in what was once a war zone.
At around four we make our way through the parikrama and out towards the main gate. The crowd is swelling and a large band of pedestrians is making its way towards the temple. It is a procession complete with all the noise of accompanying drums and religious chants. Traffic is virtually stuck a hundred yards from the temple gate. There is complete logjam at the nearby crossing with every vehicle of every kind merging into each other. Once again, like at the station in Delhi I wonder how fragile is the security (in fact at the Golden temple it seems non-existent). It is the perfect place for any miscreant and a small amount of explosives can cause massive human casualties. Mom hunts around for a few Punjabi jootis unsuccessfully before we clamber back on a rickshaw and make our way out of the old city. The garment market just beyond the temple has now opened a little and roadside stalls and small eateries are doing brisk business thanks to the procession. In spite of the clear sky and the bright sun, it is comfortable rickshaw ride to the station. The rickshaw can probably be the best exploratory transport for the older any Indian city. It can access cramped lanes and provides an unobstructed view of the surroundings and brings you within touching distance of everything around.
Our compartment on the return journey is a theatre of cacophony. There is tiny girl, maybe three or four, who starts wailing at full blast every time her mother tries to restrain her. There are a couple of foreign ladies in the adjacent seat who keep babbling loudly in what sounds a bit like Spanish. Three young boys from the seats behind us keep running up and down the length of the compartment. When their running ceases, they get down to playing antakshiri and more song and noise follows. In between their family joins in as well and the back of the compartment resonates with sounds of popular Hindi songs.
I realize pretty soon that any attempt to sleep will be futile. I try to make friends with the wailing little girl, but the moment I touch her arm as she crosses by my seat, she wails even loudly than before and I quickly retreat and start peering into my book innocently.
Delhi arrives at half past eleven at night. The station like in the morning is buzzing with life. I drag myself out of the platform and to the parking where Dad waits patiently in the car. All I want to do is crash on my bed and sleep soundly for the Monday ahead. I end my day the way I started it, in a state of slumber. Sleep slowly drags itself into my eyes. Its been that kind of a day – it seemed it would be active, busy and touch and go….it ended up running at my pace…slow, groggy and just about trundling along.
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