Lunchtime travel

I ate my lunch by the Windward Bound and wondered why there were no seagulls wanting to share.

A sparrow dropped by and I threw him a morsel. He seemed appreciative and left me alone. Only taking what he needed. 

I walked to the park where a group had gathered, and a muffled voice on a microphone bounced off the lawns and the 100 year old trees.

Sat nearby on a park bench and trying to look invisible, respectful, small - I observied the colour, the sounds, the words that I didn’t understand. But I could feel the hurt, the pain and frustration. After what appeared to be a silent prayer, shoes were removed and further prayer commenced.

A peaceful gathering of the local Sikh community. From the placards I determined it was a call for action following  the recent desecration of the Guru Granth Sahib, a religious text that is seen as a living Guru*. Apparently someone had entered a temple and ripped out pages from the sacred scripture.

I was familiar with this book, having visited a Sikh temple as part of a recent trip throughout India. Delhi was our first and final destination. A city of more than 33 million people bookending a turbulent, extraordinary and humbling experience. A hot, heaving, chaotic city of human stories.

On our last afternoon and in a quieter part of Old Dehli, our guide led us to the side entrance of a temple. We were to be prepared for our entry as visitors to this sacred space.

A cardboard box full of colourful scarves were presented for us to choose. I opted for a subdued pattern; self conscious of my alien presence and not wanting to be the glaring novelty that detracted from the tranquility of this place. 

We were shown how to cover our heads, carefully tucking in strands of hair before removing our walking shoes and saddles. Outside we joined the line to dunk our swollen blistered western feet into the channels of tepid water. Purifying at least part of our bodies before we stepped into the pristine foyer.

We were a novelty, from the moment we dipped our toes into the tiny moat until we awkwardly sat quietly behind our tour guide in the main chamber of the temple. The room was an amazing kaleidoscope of mirrors, reflections, fractured lighting, and sound.

Outside was humidity, dust, broken bodies, noise and poverty. Inside was peace, light, humility and reflection. The same people in both spaces. 

Music and the deep tone of a male voice echoed through the chamber. An imposing singer, accompanied by a small troupe of musicians sat on the floor playing into microphones that bounced sound off the curved walls, arches and high ceilings. I am guessing it was one of the 6,000 hymns from the scripture that he was singing. The only non-Sihk people in the space, our heads bowed throughout the proceedings with an occasional glance. We were welcomed and humbled. On the edge of tears and with breath caught in my throat, in awe.

Our guide Ankita had provided us with clear instructions on how to honour the space; how to sit, when to speak and stand etc. I was grateful for her patience and kindness, especially when we didn’t deserve it. When our unconscious privileged western bias surfaced and we became the British empire. 

On an altar at the front of the room was the object of our attention, of everyone’s attention, attention and love, the book. Off to the side against the wall we could see what looked like a small bed. Smaller than a single bed. A child’s bed. Ankita had told us of the sacred book and how every evening it is put to bed and in the morning, it is woken and sat on a plinth in the temple to be worshipped by thousands. Each day this ritual is repeated and the thousands of deciples spill through the doors to kneel and pray. 

Next door to the temple, hundreds of volunteers were preparing vegetarian meals for the poor, hungry and homeless. Massive caldrons of dahl, rice, lentils and towers of naan prepared for the 13,000 diners who are welcomed daily, irrespective of their circumstance, religion or culture. An extraordinary demonstration of peace, kindness and generosity that is overwhelming.

The room was cool, thick rendered sandstone walls keeping the heat and noise at bay. I was reluctant to follow my fellow travellers out of the building. I would have preferred to have sat with these kind strangers; sitting cross legged, with my back against the cold wall, scooping hot spicy gravy onto ripped naan bread, smiling politely with my head humbled, listening to the inaudible noisy chatter. 

But instead we walk out into the heat and I think about home; the cool winds, clear blue autumn skies and bursting buds on the fruit trees. Perhaps there is snow on the mountain, people gathered in parks and children observing the curious onlookers.

Further information about the Guru Granth Sahib on the following sites https://www.sikhiwiki.org/index.php/Guru_Granth_Sahib

*https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Guru_Granth_Sahib