The Golden Temple and the Ninja Turtles

Im sorry I took so long to update. I have a lot to tell but it get difficult to me to attempt to do the emotions and experiences Ive had on this trip justice by writing them in words. Ive done my best of a rough rough draft and I hope its possible to appreciate to a tenth of a degree the intensity of my encounters. Much love!

Excerpt from my Travel Journal: December 15 2006- January 4 2007-01-05

Punjab is a state in the northwest of India. It is largely population by Sikhs and has its own language- Punjabi. The food is very good and most of what we think of Indian food in America is actually Punjabi food. Most of the state is covered by wheat fields as it supplies the nation with a large portion of its grains. In the north of the state is its largest city, Amritsar, home to the large Sikh Golden Temple.

And so it was here that Hala and I arrived after an 8 hour train ride from Delhi beginning in the early afternoon. Just a short rickshaw ride from the train station, we reached the golden temple around 10 pm. Covering our heads, we stepped through the outer gates of the complex and immediately met two young Sikh men. The one we talked to most was named Satnam, and we found out that they were pilgrims here, coming from the Uttar Pradesh city of Kanpur. After establishing that they were only interested in being friendly, we opened up and they offered to show us the procedure of entering the complex.

We removed and checked our shoes, washed our hands and faces with water, walked along the marble path and through a shallow trough to wash our feet. As we entered the main complex we were completely unprepared for the site in front of us. Having seen pictures of the temple, I thought it was a small gold box of a building sitting on a riverbank surrounded by the urban sprawl of Amritsar. However, before us was a golden splendor shining brilliantly against the black night sky in the lights shone on it. The water I had seen in the pictures was a large pool that surrounds the temple. A bridge at water level is the only access to this, the holiest of Sikh shrines, and an entire marble complex encases the spectacular setup, complete with kitchen, dining hall (meals are free), dorms, offices, and a clock tower.

Although it was late when we arrived, we sat on the edge of the giant pool and chatted with Satnam and his friend. He works in sales for pharmaceuticals and wants to move to America. His English needs work, but we told him to apply for jobs in America because he could use his Hindi to sell to the large number of Indian doctors. He taught me to say “Hello” in Punjabi: “Sath Sri Akal.”

After our chat we decided to eat, and headed for a late dinner in the dining hall. Here we sat on the floor in long rows after being handed a plate, bowl and spoon as we entered. Men came along with buckets of dhal, baskets of chapati, and watering cans of water and refilled our plates until we were full. The only difficulty for me was sustaining my cross-legged position long enough for me to finish me meal. Although I have now had lots of practice, my long inflexible legs still cannot hold this pose for long.

When we finished eating, we took another walk around the square surrounding the pool and temple. The ornately detailed decorations on the gilded building shone like the sun. It was a beacon of peace in the middle of the hectic Indian city.

Feeling tired, Satnam led us to his dorm where we found dozens of Indian pilgrims sleeping on the floor. Men, women, children, and entire families, young and old, laid out in a large room with sheets covering them and also acting as their only padding from the hard tile floor. So we joined in, after getting a locker and Satnam moving people over for us.

Every morning at 4 am there is an opening ceremony where the hold boo that is housed in the complex is carried, with a lot of late night fanfare, across the bridge and into the temple. It was for this that we awoke early the next morning. Staggering like zombies out of the dorm, covering our heads, checking our shoes, washing our hands, faces and feet, we found ourselves among the hundreds of other early risers eager to witness the ceremony.

After the book passed us, hordes of pilgrims crowded the temple bridge in an Indian-style line to enter the temple. We joined in. We pushed and shoved and eventually some order was restored as we neared the temple. We were shepherded around to one side and in a door, where we saw video cameras broadcasting the images of the three men who sat reading/ singing passages from the enormous book. Funny enough, one man wore sun glasses. I assume this was to shield his eyes from the harsh lights oppressing his vision of the scriptures. After less than a minute inside the temple we were hurried out and I joined in the pilgrims who washed their hands and faces in the hold water of the pool. Then we walked back across the bridge, as we took the marble floor, a man handing out what I found out was holy treats plopped a mound of mush resembling shredded wheat into my curiously outstretched hand. It turns out the flavor of this supposed treat is an acquired taste that Hala and I had yet to develop, and the rest of an hour or so with Satnam was involved with trying to choke down the mush, pass it off to each other or Satnam, or throw it away sacrilegiously in one of the rare garbage cans.

This chance was finally afforded to us when at some signal, all the pilgrims faced the temple and began chanting, bowing, prostrating and praying. This site was overwhelming. The tranquility of the prayers of so many pilgrims so early in the morning in such a peaceful, gorgeous setting was perfect and I felt I had reached the climax of my Golden Temple experience. Of course again I was wrong about this.

After getting back to sleep for a few hours we awoke and said goodbye to Satnam’s friend who was leaving now to see a sick relative in another city. Satnam convinced us to have breakfast with him and we walked outside the temple to find some food. When he asked us what we wanted to eat, we said we didn’t care, that Indian food, an omelet, whatever would be good. Hearing this, Satnam went on a mission for omelets for us, asking shopkeepers and small restaurant workers where we could get omelets. Finally he found a place and we sat down. We asked him if he liked omelets and he just shrugged that he didn’t mind them. He was just trying to make his new friends happy.

Later that morning we said goodbye to Satnam and thanked him for his kindness and friendship. We had decided that today we would go to the border of Pakistan in order to see the ceremony at the closing of the border, having felt our Golden Temple Experience wouldn’t get any better. We took our first cycle rickshaw every and hopped on a bus out to the border, arriving a couple hours before its closure.

Our stop was the last, and at the second to last stop all but six people got off the bus. Moving to the back to join us for the last few minutes of the bus ride were four young Indian men. They sat near us and asked us the usual questions, but didn’t speak any English. Busting out my tiny knowledge of Hindi, I attempted to understand and answer their queries, until we stopped. As we exited the bus, we saw that we were out in the middle of nowhere, the border was not closed yet (meaning we couldn’t cross the gate to go to the location of the ceremony between the border checkpoints) and there were only a few carts selling food and two or three small restaurants in line before the border. We sat at a table outside one of these and the four boys joined us.

One of the young men was much larger than the others. Although their heights varied, none were scrawny like many Indians. The large oen had a very strong jaw, a large square nose but soft and gentle eyes. He was probably at least six feet tall and his broad shoulders and his height set him apart from most of his countrymen. We found out later that he boxes- no surprise there. This man wore a pair of sky blue pants, and this became his identifying feature until later.

Next to him sat the shortest of the four, standing below my shoulder. A moustache covered his upper lip which was often curved upward in a goofy smile. While he seemed to be the playful one, he was still much thicker than most men in India.

The third man had large, caring eyes set in his tall, rectangular head. He carried a bag with him, as did Blue Pants, and he was very quiet and presumably the most shy of the foursome.

The last man was the most unique. A full, short beard covered the lower half of his face, and short wavy black hair covered his head. Between, his smile was warm and very wise for his young age. His eyes were dark and thoughtful so you were never sure how deep his thoughts were, although he looked as if he were always pondering the complexities of the universe. Reading his eyes was made even harder given the fact that he almost always wore rectangular tinted glasses.

But what set him apart more than his appearance was his behavior and attitude. Always seeming content , it was like he always knew what would happen next and fully expected our meeting. He was the wild card of the group. The outcast. The leader of the rebellion. He was Che. But more than that, he had an intellectual side. He was clever, caring and philosophical. He was Lennon. Until the foursome was later renamed, this renegade of a sage was identified by the name Che-Lennon.

The bearded enigma took out a pack of cigarettes, removed one for himself and slid the rest across the table to me. In response to this, I dug into my pocket, and presented the table with a small bundle of Indian beedies- a very cheap and typically Indian cigarette different from others. The men erupted in approval as is usual when I am seen smoking a beedie because of its specificity to India, and four new friendships were forged.

After chai, we removed ourselves to an open area across the street and chatted with the foursome, and other newcomers in our tiny amount of overlapping language. We shared photos from our cameras and their phones, joked and laughed at the expense of other westerners until it was time to cross the border and make our way to the giant bandstands where we would watch the ceremony.

Che-Lennon and I walked the entire way, an entire 15 minutes or so, hand in hand or embracing shoulder to shoulder in a manner very typical of close male friends in India.

Our friends immediately began to look out for us, attempting to find room to sit among the other thousands of mostly Indian tourists who had come to witness the free show.

The ceremony began with first border officials and then volunteers from the crowd running down the long road towards the closed gate at the Pakistani border holding and waving a giant flag of India. Each newcomer was awarded a rousing applause as he began his energetic taunt to the Pakistani crowd- which was less than 20 people, terribly lopsided compared to the thousands packing the Indian side.

A man on a microphone began chanting with the riled up crowd. He would yell “Hindusthan” (land of Hindus- one name of India) to which the immense crowd would respond some other three syllable phrase. This repeated many times at once, and would endure at different times over the next hour until the end. Even though I wasn’t sure what I was saying, I attempted to show my support and love of the giant country by mimicking the chants exploding from the bleachers.

The rest of the excitement involved the Indian and Pakistani border guards performing an impressively macho choreography of supremely fast marching toward and away from the border gate, complete with an even more impressive array of high kicking stomps. The entire event juxtaposed with a brilliant sunset over Pakistan was very fun and entertaining and worth the trip.

After the flags were removed by simultaneous heaving bending of the flagpoles marking the adjacent nations at the gate, the ceremony was over. We took pictures with our friends and walked back to the bus area where we were dropped off in the quickly darkening dusk.

At this point two of the previously mentioned newcomers joined us four in search of a bus back to Amritsar. Again our four friends made sure we were on a bus heading to our destination and that Hala had a spot to sit. Although a man offered his seat to me, presumably because both I am a foreigner and because my height makes it difficult to stand in the buses designed for an average height inches below my head, I refused, opting to stick it out in the entanglement of limbs and bodies that encompasses any ride of public transportation in India. The respect for this, along with the experience of living like a local makes any short term discomfort entirely worth it.

On the bus I began speaking in Hindi and English to the ticket collector. He was a very nice man and used to be a teacher. Seeming to warm to me when I told him in Hindi that I teach English in Uttaranchal, he quizzed my limited Hindi skills, taught me more, and joked with me. After repeated inquiries into my comfort level on the bus- I probably looked if I were bent in half- I told him truthfully that I’d ridden much longer on buses much shorter. Then to add emphasis, I practically yelled to the man only a few twisted bodies away that I thought, “This is a big bus!”

This stirred a roar of excitement and laughter among the crammed bodies as everyone on board strained their heads to look at the tall white guy having a good ol’ time and yelling in the back.

When we reached Amritsar, the eight of us, Hala and I, our four friends, and the two newcomers, descended and began the long walk to the city center. Along the way the foursome asked us where we were staying and after we told them they began leading us towards the temple. It was also at this time that the lanky, long-haired newcomer attempted-in very broken English- to convince Hala and I to come to this house in a city outside Amritsar for the night.

Although we politely refused saying our bags were back at the temple- which was true- he persisted and even tried having his friend explain to us over the phone. We pretended not to understand even though we felt bad for refusing his hospitality, but we wanted to stay at the temple again. Eventually he gave up and he and his short, scrawny friend said goodbye to us and turned down another road, presumably to catch a bus home.

Upon our arrival at the Golden Temple, the floor deliberated a short time and decided to stay here for the night. Although they were not Sikh, they came prepared with bandandas to cover their heads. Acting now as the guides, Hala and I escorted our friends into the complex and through the rituals taught to us by Satnam.

For a long time, we walked around the pond taking pictures. There was some communication across the groups, but mostly we conversed with the others who shared our languages, and just enjoyed the company of the others. While we waited for Hala to return from the bathroom, I asked if the men were married. Only Che-Lennon was. Blue Pants told me in Hindi that Che-Lennon has four children, one dead and three alive. This was a very personal thing, and I felt awful that I lacked the means to communicate my sympathies so I just muttered my condolences in English and fell silent until Hala’s return.

We sat near the bridge out to the temple, beneath the clock tower, and took more pictures, the goofy one sprawling out onto his side, elbow on the ground, cradling his head in his hand in a supermodel pose. At this time another young man our age came to us and began speaking English. He was studying English specifically and wanted to practice. An interesting young man, he was Sikh but didn’t believe in all the traditions. He didn’t grow his hair out or hide it under a turban as is customary and after the hold book was ceremoniously carted by on a fancy chariot during the closing of the temple around 10 o’clock, he mentioned his distaste for this hypocrisy.

Sikhs differ from Hindus in many ways, but one important way, as I understand it, is their denouncement of idolatry which plays an important role in Hinduism. Something that I had noticed the previous early morning, the hold book seems to be idolized in a very similar way to Hindu statues of gods and goddesses. Despite the boy’s difference from orthodox Sikhism, he comes to the temple often, although he lives in another city, and has friends who work there.

After another dinner in the dining hall and some chai served in small dishes, we brought the boys back to the dorm. Again it was very late and the room was silent but from the sounds of dozens of sleeping bodies. The English student had his own room- perks of having friends there- but Che-Lennon couldn’t get the man at the desk to allow him and his friends to stay with us because there wasn’t enough room. We found our at this time that there were dorms specifically for foreigners and this room was only for Indians. But because we had stayed the night before we were allowed to sleep here again and given two sheets.

The four men weren’t too easily persuaded to leave us alone however. Although we assured them we were okay, they kept trying to get us to book a separate room and weren’t convinced sleeping on the floor was comfortable for us. After a seemingly lengthy conversation using English student as a translator, we were finally able to satisfy Blue Pants and Che-Lennon that we had no problem here if the had no problem finding a room, and we agreed to meet early the next morning.

The next day we awoke, washed up, said goodbye to the English student and met the boys for breakfast. While we were eating I noticed one was missing, only to find the quiet one sitting cross-legged on the marble floor outside the dining hall in a small circle of volunteers, peeling shallots for others to slice for later use in the constant effort to feed thousands of pilgrims and visitors. Inspired to help, Hala, Blue Pants, goofy one, and I sat and began peeling tiny cloves of garlic used in the kitchen. We didn’t get to help long, even though the stinging eyes didn’t bother me much. We were encouraged to leave by Blue Pants and Che-Lennon after twenty minutes or so.

Collecting our shoes, we went for a stroll into town. Blue Pants helpfully assisted Hala in buying bananas from a vendor for a fair price, and we were led to a large park- which we had visited the day before with Satnam- named Jallianwala Bagh.

The park is a memorial for about 2000 Indians who were massacred here in 1919 during a peaceful demonstration. Bullet marks give evidence to the tragedy and plaques adorn the entryway which passes a memorial flame for the victims. Interestingly there is also a small Martyr’s Hall with paintings and history of famous Indian martyrs. One, whose image is all over India, including the office of the school were I taught English in Reetha, is most interesting to me.

He is a man who, having witnessed a horrible tragedy- maybe this same massacre- was praised for his bravery and courage for traveling to London, entering the parliament building and shooting dead the man supposedly responsible for the tragedy all the way back in India. This story was written in plain English next to his picture and I had to raise an eyebrow for the classic example of one country’s terrorist is another’s martyr. Just imagine a parallel encounter in Washington D.C…

This contradictory man aside, the park is now a beautiful and peaceful place with lawns, fountains, statues and benches. Sitting down, we were almost immediately surrounded by families curious to who we were. I was happy to impress with my few words of Hindi and I answer the youth’s simple questions in English and posed with them for pictures. During the quarter hour this was happening, the four boys sat quietly aside and we eventually felt bad for excluding them and had had enough of our celebrity.

At some point near now, Hala and I renamed each of our four friends. I’m not sure who first drew parallels between the boys and the deservedly famous Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, but this nomenclature seemed incredibly appropriate. More than once our personal heroes, these young men were different from us but despite our lack of commonalities, they had infinite patience, kindness and companionship to offer.

What’s more their personalities were distinct and fitting. Previously clad in blue- although today he wore pants of a light yellow color, Blue Pants had all the strength and leadership qualities of Leonardo. A goofball at heart, the short one was an extremely adequate Michelangelo. The quiet one was harder to place but his unprompted charitable work at the temple earlier that morning led to his renaming as Donatello.

And then there was of course Che-Lennon. A leader in his own right, but at the same time the enigmatic loner, a fan of TMNT would lay witness that he exuded the complexities of Raphael’s behavior and personality. While within the group Leonardo led Michelangelo and Donatello charismatically, Raphael slightly standoffish chose to lead himself.

Although they had once told us their names, and their TMNT names came late in our short encounter, this nomenclature stuck and is how Hala and I have discussed the foursome since.

Moving across the park to escape the crowd of Indians gathered around us, we took more pictures with each other, joked and communicated more despite our lack of a common language. As the family we had chatted with earlier passed us, Leonardo grabbed the old man. The man sat on the bench next to me and Leonardo came down onto one knee to match our heights. As he knelt, he held the old man’s hand, looked at Hala and I square in the eyes and spoke. The man was happy to translate for us.

“He wants you to know that you are his very special friends. He is very happy for you. You make him very happy and you are very good friends.”

Slightly dumbfounded and needless to say very touched, we told the man to tell Leonardo that we felt the same way, we are best of friends and that we are very happy we met. Our translator obliged, Leonardo’s serious face shone with an enormous smile and he grabbed my hand and squeezed lovingly. This was easily the most special encounter while traveling I’d ever had.

The story continues from here to include when we bought the boys ice cream, when Raphael grabbed my hand and led me to a shop selling Sikh silver bracelets for a present which I wear every day and treasure, and stopping on the way to the bus station for sweets which we hated and I deviously crumbled on the ground in secret so as not to appear rude.

However these details only serve to solidify the point I have already made. What may sound anticlimactic or substantial, our encounter with the Ninja Turtles was incredibly special, I believe for all parties. We met on a bus and shared only words and a few tiny phrases of the same language. Yet when we left on another bus less than 24 hours later, our lives had changed.

It’s difficult to explain how it feels to have shared such intimacy with a total stranger, and doing so with minimal speech. We encountered using a higher form of human communication that transcended language or history. I may know nothing about them, but they are no longer strangers. For now on they will always be more. They are the standard for every future encounter while abroad. They are our friends, and our heroes.