Amritsar For Amateurs

My back hurt as I tossed from side to side on the scruffy red carpet. I couldn’t feel my toes because of the cold. All around me I could hear ripping snores. Sleep was impossible. Beside me, my friend, Zameer (Henceforth Zam. Yes, Because it is easier to type) had managed to somehow drift off. We were paying 600 bucks for a hotel room only to spend our nights uncomfortably, outdoors and on the floor. But it was not just any floor. We were lain out in a spacious open hall at the Golden Temple, in Amritsar, many many miles from home, seeking experience, adventure and who knows what else. Lying there, shaking and shivering like a mound of jelly, I couldn’t help but think that there was some poetry to this event.

The first thing you notice about Amritsar is its age. It’s like the city is stuck in a time capsule; old buildings in a perpetual state of crumbling, line the narrow streets that seep through the city and overheard you see the black wisps of ugly cable lines. In fact it looks so stuck in time that you might actually be forgiven for thinking Dev Anand was alive and still the biggest star in India (OK, is it still too early for that joke?) In many ways, it still remains that stereotypical small Indian town that we hold in our collective consciousness. The other things you will notice immediately are the cycle rickshaws.

I observed two things about cycle rickshaws which puzzle me deeply. One, they all seemed to be pedalled by old men. Cycle rickshaws being rather exacting on the body, I was expecting younger men to be plying them but it was the older and more sickly who seemed to be the ones in the business. Maybe it had something to do with tradition where the idea of pulling along a pair of fat women on a cycle appealed only to men born pre-independence. The second thing about cycle rickshaws is that they are ridiculously cheap. And by cheap I mean it was far too less money for the mammoth effort it takes to drive a cycle rickshaw. Try taking a ride on one though. Nothing makes you feel more like a cruel, heartless aristocrat who makes people slave for pittance, than a short ride on a cycle rickshaw. 

On our second day, we went to Wagha Border. It was a rickety two hour rickshaw ride with our driver, Rakeshji (pronounced Rakechji) going on insufferably about the digestive systems of his two cows back home, Mungo and Sukho. PRO TIP: Farm animals are always a great conversation starter in Punjab. Wagha Border was one heck of an experience. To me it felt like Supermarket Patriotism. Want to feel Indian? Never had violent feelings towards your sub-continent neighbours? Want to feel huge swathes of attachment and furious love toward the motherland by getting into a shouting match with people across the border? Come to Wagha! In 15 minutes of therapeutic sloganeering, patriotic song playing and a kooky ceremony involving cartoonish marching, you will guaranteed feel 90% more Indian. The real fun part was the contrast between the two countries. The Indian side of the border was full; so packed that people were literally falling out of the arena. On the other hand, the Pakistani side had 4 people and a goat. It was really one-sided, they didn’t even put up a fight.

 It was very surreal when we slept at the Golden Temple. One of the most beautiful and mystical places I have ever been to. With its majestic turrets rising above the city, you can see its grandeur long before you set foot in it. Inside, white marble flooring borders a tranquil man-made lake, in the centre of which sits the temple, in all its golden luminosity. When you sit meditatively looking at the temple, you realise the things that you really need, for example I was thinking of an extra shawl. We also had Langar; the community food that is provided 24 x 7 and free of cost. It’s the kind of system that makes big, capitalist conglomerates like McDonalds wet their pants.

Punjab knows how to cook. The amount of food Zam and I ate, savoured, wolfed, dispatched and devoured could well have solved the food woes of half the world. The well marinated chicken Tandoori at Bubby Chicken House; the naans, kulcha’s and fresh-from-the-cow paneer at Pehlwan Da Dabha; the lassi at Ahuja Lassi Centre (not for nothing is their tagline, “East or west, Ahuja is the best), were all mind-blowingly good. PRO TIP: the real good restaurants are the ones that have names that sound like a gym, and whose hygienic standards look questionable at best. Also, make sure to keep your finicky, “Go easy on the butter” requests aside when you go to Punjab. This place takes no prisoners in the butter and other fatty products department. To give you an idea of the inch-increasing powers of Punjabi cuisine let me tell you that I didn’t have to wear a belt after our second day in Amritsar.

Overall Amritsar is an overpowering, all-encompassing experience, complete with culture and cuisine. It takes you a little a while to get used to suddenly seeing so many bobbing colourful turbans and the polite to a fault nature of the people. It’s not something two mumbaikars like us were used to. The words, “Paji, Sastriakaal” are the Punjabi equivalent of, “Open Sesame”; utter them and at once people will open up to you.  The roads were another thing that we took some getting used to. There is no system of traffic in Amritsar. There are just roads and things on roads. Everyone only moves ahead and the constant honking makes for a strange road-side disco beat.

Amritsar with all its crazy contradictions, its grandeur and grittiness has managed to etch itself in our minds. It’s a place that has much to give and more to hide. In some ways it reminds me of Sunny Deol: tough, loud yet simple. On that note, excuse me while I join a gym and find a way to get my clothes to fit me again!