Amritsar

As the van pulled out of the Amritsar train station to take us to my grandfather's village, an unease quickly started growing from within. What would we say to relatives we had not seen in over 10 years? More importantly, did we really want to have our every movement controlled by their overzealous hospitality?

the Golden Temple at night

A quick check with my mum revealed similar sentiments, and I scrambled to the driver to have him take us back to the city. He was far from amused of course, since we had agreed to pay him a decent sum, but dropped us off at the hotel where I had originally made a booking. It was not anything fancy, but its biggest draw was that it was situated, quite literally, just around the corner from the Harmandir Sahib, or Golden Temple, the holiest shrine for Sikhs. It was originally built in 1574 and rebuilt in the 1760s following an attack by the Afghans. The temple has four entrances, symbolising the openness of Sikhs towards all people and religions. It is undeniably the biggest attraction for visitors to the city. I would suggest visiting it twice, sometime in the day and after dark when the temple is bathed in light.

the entrance to Jalianwala Bagh

Close by is Jalianwala Bagh, a public park where in April 1919 a massacre had taken place. What started out as a peaceful demonstration was seen to be an act of defiance against a ban on all public meetings. Those gathered in the park (some estimates say up to 20,000) were shot at on the orders of British Brigadier-General Reginald E H Dyer. Official sources said 379 people were killed. Other figures run up to at least a thousand. Historians consider the episode as a decisive step towards the end of British rule in India. The park now commemorates those who died in the massacre. Personally though, I didn't quite like what I saw of this historical site (even if the intentions were noble) because it looks too made-up. Some of the surrounding buildings still bear bullet holes from the incident. A well into which people jumped in an attempt to save their lives is also standing; it is a protected monument and mostly meshed up.

the crowd during the border-closing
ceremony

The other must-have experience while you're in Amritsar is to make your way to Attari-Wagah for the border closing ceremony which takes place every day. The atmosphere is nothing short of carnivalesque, what with the loud music and stalls selling snacks, flags and other trinkets for a fifteen minute display of jingoism on both sides of the border (although I did notice that the Pakistani side was a lot more subdued). When the show ends though, you're likely to see people rush to the gates to meet friends or relatives stuck on the other side.

Of course, what's a visit to Amritsar without good Punjabi food! I found out about Bhrawan da Dhaba (right) from a friend's sister, who recommended it and spoke of (among other things) rotis dipped in generous amounts of ghee. She wasn't far from the truth, but I'm happy to report that my heart stood strong as the butter slid menacingly into my body. My mum and I had two rotis each and a bowl of daal makhni between us, much to the surprise of the guy serving our table. The other patrons were constantly calling him and his colleagues over for more bread, more this or that. My mum and I, on the other hand, sat in our quiet corner struggling with one bowl of daal. When we finally called the guy over, it was only for the bill. Where are these guys from, he must have wondered.
Anyway, the story goes that the brothers who set up Bhrawan da Dhaba had a falling out and one of them broke away and opened another restaurant right next door. I did not go to the other one, so if you do, let me know which is better (if at all). Another well-known restaurant worth checking out is Crystal on Cooper Road. Here you'll find both vegetarian and non-vegatarian options. I personally loved the tandoori fish.

Recommended duration of stay
2 days, 1 night. Enter in the afternoon and leave the next afternoon. This would be most suitable if you're coming from and returning to Delhi.

Getting in and away
Trains for Amritsar Junction leave from New Delhi Railway Station and take about 6-7 hours on the Shatabdi Express.
Flights are mostly to Delhi, though Jet Airways flies to London, Air India to Toronto and Qatar Airways to Doha. There are connections to Central Asia as well.
Buses run from Amritsar to several Punjabi cities, as well as Delhi.

Read!
The Butcher of Amritsar: General Reginald Dyer by Nigel Collett
Amritsar: Mrs Gandhi's Last Battle by Mark Tully
A History of the Sikhs by Khushwant Singh

Pop Patriotism

This article was first written on the 28th of October 2008


The car ride to the Wagah border was symptomatic of several South Asian, and in fact most developing, countries. We were on a narrow two lane road where might is right. Our driver, however, was on a mission to prove that he had what it takes to show the huge TATA lorries who’s boss.

In the backseat, Sanyam’s mother was not too amused. ‘Bhaiyya, we’re not in that much of a hurry,’ she said as she leaned forward. He did not care to respond although I noticed an imperceptible acknowledgement on his part. I turned back to give her an assuring smile: I, the visitor to this chaotic country, the one more accustomed to orderly driving. My eyes were largely unperturbed by the horns whistling past us and the risk of smashing into oncoming traffic. My gaze was fixed on the fields on both sides of the road. On the left, the sun was suspended well above the trees and fields of sugarcane and the like. I was a tad nervous, but overwhelmingly excited: this was the closest I was going to get to Pakistan. 

 I got out of the car and looked around. There were fields stretching beyond the limits of my sight. In the direction of the setting sun, I saw fences and barbed wires separated by a few metres of earth – no man’s land. We walked away from the parking area on to the main road. Most of it was occupied by colourful goods trucks waiting to cross the border. I was told dried fruits and other eatables change hands in these parts. Not too far away from the parking lot was an area that served as a dhaba, a roadside eatery. There were also stalls selling items with the Indian flag emblazoned on them – pins, caps, etc. Others were crowded with candy floss, drinks, and samosas. At some point a group of men in saffron robes starting singing to the beat of a dhol as they walked towards the border. They were joined by a small group who sang and danced along. The guide books were not exaggerating when they said there’s a carnival atmosphere here. But this was only scratching the surface.

About a hundred metres ahead we reached the beginnings of the road into Pakistan. On the left were the stands where spectators could sit and watch the border closing ceremony every evening. We found a spot about six rows from the front. Not too bad, I thought to myself. I could see, fairly well, the soldiers standing at attention in front of me, and beyond them the gates that separated the two countries. On this side was a festival in full swing. People were waving flags and clapping and singing along to patriotic songs being blasted from loudspeakers all around us. As if on cue, some of the girls in the first row climbed over to the side of the road and began dancing. The crowd went wild, as did flashing cameras.

‘You don’t seem impressed,’ I said to Sanyam who was hiding behind his shades.

‘It’s pop patriotism. It’ll die out once the evening is over.’
‘You really think so?’
‘Listen to the song selection. Where does Dil Chahta Hai’s Koi Kahe fit into nationalism? It’s only about sounding better and louder than them.’
He had a point. Every now and then afterwards, a voice would boom over the loudspeaker with pro-India chants: Hindustan, Zindabad! Vande Mataram! The crowd naturally responded with gusto.

On the Pakistani side, things were more subdued. I could faintly hear a song being played, but the spectators seemed more solemn. Perhaps one flag was flying over the crowd’s head. They look just like us on this side, I thought to myself.

The speakers on this side blared a song from the 1955 film, Naya Daur. It was about the land of Punjab: it was romanticism of the kind that Yash Chopra later sought to repeat in his films, most recently with the 2004 Veer-Zaara, about a love that transcends the difficult border. It was his attempt at healing wounds that have divided the subcontinent. 

My thoughts drifted to my grandma. She was born in a Punjab that breathed under an undivided India. The country was born again in 1947, but that independence indirectly forced her out of the country. I don’t remember when my throat began feeling lumpy. As the crowd rose to its feet in patriotic fervour, their fists punching the sky, I quickly wiped away the tears that had slid past almost undetected.