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| Saturday 6 September, 2008 |
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The Open roots - II
Our first stop was Delhi. I am surprised they have not put up an ‘under construction’ banner that can be seen from the plane while you circle in to land. Delhi – a city caught in the throes of a persistent dust storm thanks to the mass digging of its roads in the wake of the metro and flyover frenzy that promises to deliver a world class capital city. Wish they had a similar program to transform the power punch drunk attitude of its denizens as well.
My visit coincided with my sister’s twenty fifth wedding anniversary. The only thing I dread more than the Delhi weather is a formal social do there. Unlike Mumbai where a social gathering is an opportunity to get together with people you like having around you, in Delhi it comes down to three things – food, food and food.
After participating in discussions pertaining to the menu at least forty times from the moment I landed till the party started, I was completely turned off from the prospect of facing the much vaunted line up on the buffet table. I was designated official photographer for the evening (thanks to my new Nikon SLR). A special room was allotted in the rented bunglow for ‘drinks’, away from the other rooms where the hundred odd guests were supposed to be seated. By about one a.m. after a horde of drunken sardars had wiggled their ample booties to the bhangra mix, I had run through five rolls of film. Exhausted and tired I was standing outside the gate for some quiet and peace when two inebriated guests came tottering out. Before I could get a close look at them one of them pulled out a gun and fired two rounds in the air. For a moment I thought I was in Afghanistan. My nephew who was standing next to me was totally unmoved by this spectacle.
“What was that?” I asked in horror. “Oh, that was Pammi bhaiya showing off as usual.” He replied with absolutely no emotion in his voice.
“I hope those were not live cartridges.” I sounded more hopeful than convinced.
“Of course they were real. His dad is a big shot builder and he presented this gun to him last year. Normally he fires at least 8-10 rounds.” He replied sounding like someone who had been let down.
This was a first for me, leaving me gasping and excited like a college student who had lost his virginity on a prom night, prompting a flurry of SMS’ to my wife and friends in Mumbai informing them of the incident. Now I was totally convinced that I was born into this creed by accident.
The next evening we arrived at Amritsar station where I was half expecting to be confronted by gun totting, sword wielding men on horsebacks. Thankfully we were only accosted by overenthusiastic cycle rickshaw and auto drivers jostling the crowd to get a piece of the tourist action.
A quick shower and a change of clothes later we were ready to venture out. It was close to midnight and the ‘Harminder Sahib’ was only a couple of minutes walk from the hotel we had checked into. My Nikon and I were raring to capture it in all its resplendent glory. I had seen the monument many a times on TV and in pictures and had imagined myself countless times standing at its grand entrance. But nothing had prepared me for the first glimpse of the magnificently lit golden edifice and its shimmering, dancing reflection in the waters of the pond surrounding it.
The silence of the night, the cold marble under our naked feet, the shining full moon with millions of stars in the stillness of the warm summer night accentuated the magnificence of the glowing monument. I knew I was looking at a sight I would never forget for the rest of my life.
After some frenzied clicking from myriad angles, I set the camera down; to see, to stare, to admire with unabashed awe. Standing ankle deep in the pond it was as if I could feel divinity touch me with each ripple that emanated from the temple and terminated at my feet.
It was now past midnight and we were informed that the doors to the shrine would open at three in the morning, time enough for us to catch forty winks and come back.
We promptly overslept and returned at eight only to be confronted by a long winded line of devotees. It was Sankranti, a very auspicious day that witnesses huge turnout from far and wide. But unlike some temples that I have visited elsewhere in the country where you queue up for hours for a fleeting glimpse of the deity lasting a precious few seconds, there was no pushing or jostling nor any overzealous guardian at the gate of the deity rushing you through the darshan, and thankfully no separate lines for ‘special darshan’ for the ‘connected’ devotees. As we made our way, the sweet melody of the ‘gurubani’ flowing from overhead speakers and the whiff of the ‘khada prasad’ enveloped us in its entirety, soothing the soul at the same time heightening our senses, preparing us for the highly anticipated tryst with ‘The One’.
continued...
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