The Amritsar visit coincided with American Thanksgiving; a holiday I adore. How can Thanksgiving be beat? It's a holiday based on history, family, and eating a meal so fantastic you look forward to it all year long which doesn't really hold a candle to many others. While this Indian trip certainly was once in a lifetime, I still felt a little pang of regret when that Thursday rolled around, without a morsel of stuffing or pie to be found. It was, however, a serendipitous twist of events that I still had my hands in flour, bent over the stove, and dripping with soapy water on that Thursday despite the fact I was on the other side of the globe.
Each day, the Golden Temple hosts hundreds of volunteers, all of which help to run the 24/7 kitchen that will give a hot meal and place to sleep for the thousands and thousands of people on a daily basis. Taking in this whole production was mesmorizing; people from all walks of life sat clutching a steaming silver bowl of chai in echoing rooms upon thin rugs which ran the length of the floor. Upstairs, families sat and talked as they ate dal, curries, and naan on spaces equally simple, but just as large. Rows of brightly dyed fabrics and bobbing turbans created splashing sea of color in the cement structure as bare feet stepped on floured floors where the naan was being made. From the windows below, you can see the mats and blankets of people who are curled up in the outer rims of the temple's courtyard, still sleeping in the morning sun.
The upstairs room slowly emptied after a time, only to be filled up again with hungry people and volunteers doling out dishes onto silver trays. I was profoundly touched at the thankfulness, humility, and gratitude I witnessed while in Amritsar. It wasn't communicated by words I could understand (my Hindi and Punjabi skill are nonexistent) but was so clearly demonstrated through actions that language became arbitrary. The entire experience was beautiful in every sense of the word. Sunlight flitted through the upper room, basking a small group of naan making volunteers in a warm glow that was hazy from the flour and the curling steam. Six or so women chatted idly as they rolled out smooth balls of dough into rounds of dough, later to be placed, flipped, and flipped again on the steaming hot plate behind them.
The day's only criticism was that it was the wrong day to wear black pants, but was easily overlooked. I sat down on a low stool, crossed my bare feet in the powdery flour and rolled out round after round of dough. After a few dozen tries, I think I got the technique down, though I certainly wasn't as practiced as the women beside me. Next, immensely huge cauldrons of curried needed to be stirred as I watched a man pour out chai in 5 gallon tin cans as spiced steam made its spiraled escape out open windows. My flour dusted arms got soaked in soapy water as metal trays, bowls and spoons were tossed in troughs to be washed, then dried. It was a day in the kitchen; one that I don't think I'll get again.
While I spent the morning and afternoon in the kitchen and filled with gratitude, the evening was a different matter. If you get the chance to see the Wagah Border ceremony, go. It's got an electric charge that rivals any sporting event I've attended, and the scent of popcorn is an oddly humorous contrast to the stern guides and the tight security. Be sure to join the flash dance party before the ceremony, and feel extremely patriotic for a country you've only been in for less than a week.
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