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Geetu's mother comes from Amritsar in Punjab, and she offered to take us up there on a tour. Amritsar is a small quiet town famous for being home of the Golden temple: the holiest shrine of the Sikh religion. It is about 500km NW of Delhi, but despite being further North it was much warmer. Our visit of the sites of Amritsar was very efficient, since Narayan's Mammi (i.e.: his maternal aunt by marriage) knows the sites so well. We started by paying our respects at the Durgiana Temple, for good auspices.
Next we headed to Jallianwala Bagh, a site that commemorates the massacre of 379 Indians by the British in 1919. A crowd of 20,000 was peacefully demonstrating their opposition to the Rowlatt Act which gave British authorities the right to imprison without trial any Indian suspected of sedition. General Dyer ordered the demonstrators to disperse, despite the fact that Jallianwala Bagh is surrounded by houses and his soldiers blocked the only exit available to them. When they didn't, he ordered his soldiers to fire into the crowd, killing 379 people and wounding close 1500. This event was put in perspective by the fact that Narayan's Mami's grandfather was present on the day of the massacre and luckily escaped unharmed. The Jallianwala Bagh massacre became one of the landmark events in India's struggle for independence.
Our next stop, ironically enough, was the Wagah-Attari checkpoint on the Indo-Pakistani border. Everyday there is a ceremony in full military garb as the border is closed and the flags are lowered. These open displays of nationalistic fervor are particularly displeasing to me in general, and this one was no exception. But the context was interesting as this happened to be the first day of the visit of Indian prime minister Atal Bihari Vajpayee to Pakistan in an effort to re-start the peace process between the two nations. Since partition in 1947, the two nations have been at odds on many issues, particularly the control of the Indian state of Kashmir which has a Muslim majority. On this background of peace negotiations, it is interesting to see each side trying to outdo the other in the microcosm of the Wagah-Attari checkpoint. The crowds were warmed up and manipulated by a few people and led into screaming patriotic slogans directed at the other side. Quite pathetic if you ask me. As the crowds reached a climax of excitement, the soldiers moved to lower the flags in their energetic, but ridiculous, foot stomping march; making sure that at no time their own flag is lower than that of the other side. Narayan was not quite as cynical as me: I guess I have no taste for military ceremony.
Much more rewarding was our visit to the Golden Temple. A small temple in the middle of large pool of sacred water and surrounded by several other religious buildings. The crowd trying to get into the shrine is huge, yet the place breathes serenity and calmness. A very strange feeling. The lighting of the ensemble at night was a bit casino-esque to my taste, especially the blinking garlands. But as always in India, I was surprised at how tolerant people are. As Narayan and I climbed to the top of the temple, I peered into a small open room used for prayer. One cleric was chanting verses from the Guru Granth Sahib, the Sikh holy-book, and several others were praying or meditating. As I made a sign to withdraw, in respect for the ongoing prayer, one of the men in the room invited us in. The genuineness of the gesture struck me: neither Muslims or Christians are open-minded or even tolerant towards outsiders.
In a country as populated as India, what is the mainstream? Is there such a thing? In the three weeks I have been in India I have been in contact with the following religions: Hinduism, Buddhism, Islam, Christianism, Jainism, Baha'is, Zoroastrians and Sikhs. Who is to say who is right or wrong? I guess that this is part of the reason for the tolerance. Part of it has to be rooted in Hinduism which permeates a lot of the ways of India. Another facet of the Indian spirituality comes from the sur-population: its very hard to find enough space to be alone in a quiet environment. So people turn inward to find peace.
As we left the Golden Temple we headed for family house of Geetu's mother. Its a large house built around a courtyard where 4 families live together, three generations sharing the space in harmony. The family immigrated from Lahore (now in Pakistan) at the time of partition. They were very welcoming, and offered us wonderful food that matched in both quantity and quality what we get in Delhi.
Chandigarh is a new town, designed in the early 50's by French architect Le Corbusier. The urban plan, however advanced it might have seemed in the 50's is quite simple to describe: a grid (not aligned to compass directions), with a round-about at each intersection. I am not entirely convinced of the genius behind the plan, but regardless Chandigarh is a very nice town. Its cleaner, quieter and the driving is less creative than in many other Indian cities. In Chandigarh we stayed with Parkash Bhambhani's family, Geetu's uncle and a brother of the house in Amritsar. He is a successful business man in India and he recruited a Tandoor chef for the dinner we were to have in his house. It was a memorable experience, the Tandoor fish in particular was to die for. And I almost did... from overeating.
The following morning, still stuffed from the delicacies of the previous evening we headed out for Timber Trail, not a trail as such but a telecabin that goes up the hills of Himachal Pradesh. These are the foothills of the Himalayas, a gentle first contact with the mighty range. The views over the rice terraces and the city of Chandigarh in the distance were very impressive. On the way back, we stopped in the Moghul-era Pinjore gardens for a stroll amongst the flowers and trees.
The last stop in Chandigarh was the fabulous rock garden: a garden built from left over materials used for the construction of the town. Pieces of broken toilets and faucets seemed to be particularly plentiful. The place was amazing: an maze of contorted pathways through surrealistic landscapes guarded by gentle armies of toilet people. Organic architecture at its best, very reminiscent of Le Palais Idéal du facteur Cheval in Hauterives, France.
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