Near the Golden Temple lies a large garden, the site of the Jallianwala Bach Massacre in 1919. It was here that approximately fifteen hundred men, women, and children became victims of India's Revolutionary Movement, when British troops opened fire on a nonviolent protest. Today, a garden, monument, and small museum provide space in which visitors can contemplate the losses of the past and the resulting independence of India.
When we arrive, it's quite crowded, visitors lying in the grass, or visiting the preserved bullet-holes in the walls and the large well, down which over one hundred victims tumbled in search of protection from the shots.
When we arrive, it's quite crowded, visitors lying in the grass, or visiting the preserved bullet-holes in the walls and the large well, down which over one hundred victims tumbled in search of protection from the shots.
It's a sobering visit, to say the least, but a necessary one. I'm in Amritsar to experience the spiritual and the beautiful, but this isn't simply a vacation for me. It's a chance for me to get in touch with the life that I've been so desperately avoiding.
And life is what I receive. We're only a short drive from the India-Pakistan border, and we go to see the Changing of the Guard. As with most places I've visited in India, there are massive crowds and a fair-like structure has formed around them, selling popcorn and various other treats. People are energetic, clearly excited, and I'm getting a kick out of seeing other foreigners after several weeks of being a sore thumb in Chandigarh.
Speaking of racial profiling, we file in through security, nearly making our way to the border and the sound of the gathering crowd, when an officer picks me out of those entering and points the other way. He does the same for a group of college-age French girls. Virali courageously argues with him for about thirty seconds in Hindi, and we finally make our way past. “No passports, he says.”
The end result is that I'm one of the few lucky foreigners in my area of the stands, and I can't complain. This is nothing at all like the Changing of the Guard in D.C.; in fact, it stands in complete opposition to the “Silence Please” signs and the “Please stand for the Ceremony” mentality that ensures the ritual is quite stuffy in the US. Here, there are people absolutely everywhere; they're energetic and enthusiastic. When the Border Guards start playing patriotic popular music, children and women begin dancing in the street. It's like some marvelous block party that Pakistan's not invited to; on the other side of the gate, there's a weak crowd gathered. Every so often, a man comes out the the street to lead the crowd in a round of cheers: Hindustan zindabad! Long Live Hindustan!
When it's time for the actual ceremony, the crowd is so dense that I'm paying more attention to the women leaning on my shoulder or laying a hand on my back than the actual ceremony. The soldiers act when called by an Indian version of Ten-Hut, a shout that lasts for a solid 30 seconds (yes, I counted, it was incredible!) without stopping for air. On the other side of the gate, something similar is happening.
The whole thing has a the feel of two rival groups of children shouting at each other through a fence, or a ritualized game of king of the hill. India shouts, Pakistan shouts, India sings, Pakistan sings, India marches, Pakistan marches, and so on. It's a bit like one of those contests where you cheer for your favorite contestant.
It's all terribly vibrant and exhilarating. By the end of it, I'm proud to be an Indian (and then, just a little confused).
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After a night in a fairly ritzy (yes, another chandelier) hotel, we visit our final destination: Amritsar's Durgiana Mandir. It's fashioned after the Golden Temple, so I can't help but feel a bit of deja vu as we travel toward it in the morning light. The glory of the Golden Temple casts a shadow on this more humble establishment, despite its standing as a preeminent Hindu Mandir in Punjab. Standing alone, this would be a breath-catching establishment, a place that breeds the wonder that makes spirituality possible.
It is Sunday, however, and the puja is being recorded and broadcast live. To prevent disrupting the recording, we are asked to enter from the side, perform a quick darsan, donate, and part. As we part, Virali gripes over the commercialism and monetizing of her religion. Perhaps this was just a weekend for the faiths of Sikhism and Indian Nationalism.
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