By Ameerah (from Australia)
Waiting in queue to the Harmandir Sahib, before the slightest hint of luminescence in the sky, each one of us was in search. It was evident in the hymns of a foreign tongue resounding within the courtyard, in the transcription of prayers showcased overhead on tablets, in the shuffle of bodies as dawn surpassed night. For those whose faith aligned with the Sanctorium, they devoutly sought sanctification in the worship of their scripture, the final and eternal Guru Granth Sahib. I sought only to curiously absorb pilgrimage outside the bounds of Masjid al-Haram, a tentative guest in the courtyard of another’s God.
Given that the majority of converts to Sikhism were Hindus, the ancient cultural tradition of yatra infused the significance of pilgrimage in Sikhism. In the sacred Hindu language Sanskrit, tirtha yatra is the journey undertaken to a place of pilgrimage. Tirtha refers to a region, shallow river, or stream that can be crossed: a passage undertaken with the intent of making contact with the Divine. In the crossing of sacred water to reach the Harmandir Sahib, internal tirtha is symbolised by immersion in Gurbani, the verses of the Guru Granth Sahib that are recited and sung, to make contact with the Timeless. The indecipherable melody of the teachings resounded as I waded through the narrow space afforded to me throughout the overflowing causeway. Where the gurbani imbued no tangible impression upon me for my complete lack of aptitude for the scripture’s language, the English teachings displayed overhead posed insight into the nature of seeking guidance: ‘This is the prayer of Your slave: please enlighten my heart’.
As time spun minutes into hours, I was being ushered through the grandiose arching entrance of the Golden Temple instead of merely a few steps forth, the inertia of waiting abruptly truncated. A woman fell into prostration at the threshold, and for a moment I was caught off guard by the parallelism of her prayer to the Islamic sujud. Her forehead and nose were placed upon the ground, where Muslims would proclaim subhana rabbiyal a’la, ‘Glory be to my Lord, the Most High’, her uttered praises or murmured pleas onto the marble floor of the Golden Temple were unbeknownst to all but her, and the promised architect of her existence. In search for a light that endures while even the sun will not; for an answer eclipsed by our fleeting existence.
Beside her, I stepped past the threshold unceremoniously, permeated by a conviction that only humans manage to attain amongst themselves: surety that the faith I am imbued with is the triumphant contender, amidst innumerable followers at the site of pilgrimage of a disparate theology, who have deduced the same notion about their own beliefs.
Within the Harmandir Sahib, I serenaded through the halls as a ghost would during a ball. While others rejoiced in their worship, I trailed the invitees of the shrine. Arches and patterns etched in gold and inscriptions carved overhead and chandeliers outlined with a thousand crystalline droplets adorned the passage of the upward staircase and corridor, leading to the archway of the chamber which harboured the outstretching Guru Granth Sahib raised upon its takht, its pages outspread and grandiose in expanse, detailed with ample coiling script, encircled by the prostration and prayer of pilgrims. The procession unceasing, the wave of worshippers beckoned onward; unwilling to wait for the curiosity of an unbeliever to be satiated by the sacrosanct scene. Just as fleetingly as I was granted admission I found myself in the departure of the Golden Temple.
I saw the sacrality better in the light. Worshippers, accompanied by observers, accompanied by an expanse of blossoming sky. The sun, freighted by the passage of time, drowsily illuminated the heavens and gilded the lake, coaxing the water into masquerading as the oozing syrup of ripened, tropical fruits; bearing the denomination of Amritsar, ‘pool of nectar’ lucidly. The gold leaf that bountifully glazed every crevice of the gurduārā dulled beside the pool of purification, that had transfused into a rendition of the sky in the wake of morning; ceaselessly coruscating as if the unperceived stars aloft could be glimpsed in the holy water.
After nomadically roaming the encircling walkway, I sat with my legs crossed as mandated, facing the pool of nectar. During this brief respite two women approached me, a layer of warm tan foundation coating the features of the first, her dark brown Indian eyes emphasised by the coating of mascara, her lips lined with a warm pink tone. Her traditional dress was emerald in colour, as was the scarf lined with gold lace arranged over her hair. Trailing behind her was a woman with less adornment, silky locks flowing from beneath her shawl as she stood slightly aside.
“Hello, how are you?” the woman veiled in green dynamically asks, with the telltale diction of an American accent.
“Hello, I’m good, thank you, and you?” I responded, smiling.
“I’m fine,” She gestures around her. “Have you visited inside the Golden Temple? How are you finding it?”
“I have, it’s beautiful,” I state earnestly.
She nods approvingly. “So, what brings you here?”
“Oh, I wanted to… explore. A new culture.” I elected to say, leaving we only have so much time to sightsee, to pore over what makes us who we are, after all amongst the words unsaid.
She tilted her head.“Where are you from? You look like Muslim… you are Arabic?”
I beam, not minding the beguilement of time. “Yes, where are you from?”
She lingers to tell me of her studies in the States, of her son around my age, and of how she is always drawn back to the Golden Temple when she returns to visit her parents in Punjab. After some time, she distinguished the discourse and we bid each other goodbye, her reserved friend offering a small smile in farewell.
I wade from the locale, noticing a small, unclad boy in a turban struggle as his father lowered him into the sacred water as I passed. I wondered what it was that they sought. Did they aspire for the boy to be blessed, or did they yearn for him to be cured?
After retiring from the Golden Temple and collecting and donning my footwear, I wandered through the lively, traffic-ridden streets of Amritsar. I took the aimless course of a foreigner enraptured by the mundane, with no need to have money on me since the hostel I had resided in was within walking distance. This is a decision I came to regret, faced with the whimsy of cold, creamy kulfi in the sweltering heat.
My remorse rose when a little boy with coloured pens outstretched in his hands peered up at me with pleading eyes, and I could only turn my bag, empty but for water, inside out in response. Still, he looked from me to his bare feet and back up at me, tilting his head to the side. It was in meeting the sapped brown eyes of the boy that verses of the Quran permeated my mind: ‘so do not oppress the orphan, nor repulse the beggar.’ A paltry charity, I placed a hand on his shoulder and I smiled sincerely at him before progressing.
I encountered him a second time as I navigated the streets. Saliently, divinity is sought by plunging in the pool of nectar in a gurduārā, in the holy water smeared across one’s forehead in a church, in the cupped smoke whirled over sealed eyes and lips in a mandir. Facilely, unduly, bordering the ‘House of God’ in the rowdy streets of Amritsar, it was the clamminess of the little boy’s outstretched hand in my own that bestowed the sublime sentiment of an answered prayer.
