An Open Letter To My Himalayan Princess

My heart swelled beyond its borders the moment I met you, tucked into the side booth at the tiny Tibetan restaurant upon the Himalayan mountainside. Your skin was the slightest touch of cream, as if the Sun had gently brushed its lips across you at birth. The light bounced off your hair like the rays of the moon illumining the night sky. Your eyes, which timidly rose to meet mine, brought me unresisting to the altar of your beauty.

You left, bumping into my chair as you did so. We muttered, embarrassed, as you raised my sweater to me and gazed full into my face.

Oh, that the entirety of my being could be compressed into that glorious hopeful moment! That I could stand in awe before your silent smile! That the nearness of your presence could remain my utmost blessing!

And then you were gone. After a moment of indecision, I ran after you. But some cruel and insolent spirit, deciding to meddle with childish intent in the great affairs of love, kept you from me

My beauty, my grace, how can I forgive myself for ever letting you leave me? The majestic mountains of the Himalayas no longer hold any power over my eyes, which spend their moments in vain search of another glimpse of your beauty. Other have their breath removed by the altitude, but with each breath of mine, I sigh my longing for you into the sky. I cannot stand still; my heart is restless. I cannot find peace; my soul is on fire.

By not finding you, I betrayed my destiny, for our love was written in the stars. Until the day we meet again, I strive to be worthy of your affection. A mere mortal, I am undeserving to stand before your exquisite beauty. Surely patience is the only virtue which affords me any relief from my spiritual torment.

Oh, my breath, my soul! I pray that you should think of me with fondness. Take care, for you hold my heart within you.

With hope and tenderness,

James Tager

Life’s A Party, Crash It

It’s difficult to adequately convey what has happened to us within the last couple of days.

Monday was Gurupurab, the anniversary of Guru Nanak’s birthday. On this Sikh holiday, Elliot and I embarked on a journey that has trumped anything else thus far. We began by eating dinner at the local canal with several young Sikhs, where we discussed everything from tradition, to American/Indian differences, to Punjabi agriculture, to how to correctly eat butter chicken (tip: naan is not merely bread; it is a scooping device).

We then drove around the outskirts of Ludhiana, marveling at the houses that were lit up in a style reminiscent of American Christmas. The only difference was, Americans use Christmas lights. Every light in Ludhiana was made my hand-lit oil lamps. Small lamps also floated down the river; prayer offerings from local Hindus on the occasion of the full moon. We finally ended up outside a large wedding hall.

This is where the story gets interesting.

We stepped carefully around the hall for a bit, being careful not to interfere in the festivities. After all, Elliot and I were dressed in t-shirts; I was wearing shorts. And we would never be mistaken for wedding guests, for the obvious reasons. We stood by awkwardly until the bridegroom’s procession showed up, the bridegroom himself riding a white mare. At this point, our friend Manbhir gave us a crafty look, one that spelled trouble with a capitol ‘T’. And, with Punjabi resolve, he walked towards this procession.

The next part was hard to follow, as we don’t speak Punjabi. Manbhir started speaking with a man at the front of the procession. Several other wedding guests came over, and several stared pointedly at us. We realized that Manbhir was asking if we could join the wedding procession. An older man pointed to us incredulously, then waved us over. We timidly headed towards the procession, at which point the man grabbed us both firmly by the wrist and, with drunken fervor, steered us to the head of the wedding procession.

This man turned out to be the uncle of the bridegroom, and we quickly found ourselves conspicuously and prominently featured in the wedding festivities. Wedding photographers took pictures of us as we danced an amateur bhangra. The bridegroom himself thanked us for coming to his wedding. The bridegroom’s uncle, who had become our personal advocate, introduced us to members of the family. Hundreds of people we didn’t know were staring at us as we stood in the middle of a large dance circle, jubilantly celebrating during the ceremonial entrance of the bridegroom.

Elliot completely gave himself over to the spirit of the event. I was having the time of my life as well, but I had slight reservations. In Punjabi society, Sikhs are both legally allowed and religiously mandated to carry small daggers. This meant that, at any given moment, we were surrounded by several armed men. I assumed that, at some point, another member of the family would cry ‘foul’. If that happened, they would never find our bodies. This concern was reinforced when our friend Mahesh approached us during the dance. “If you get into any trouble,” he whispered, “run for the car. I’m running the engine.”

Fortunately, the only person giving us dirty looks was the bridegroom’s aunt, who clearly disapproved of her husband’s drunken behavior. Otherwise, we were a hit. Danish postulated that we were a blessing to the wedding; other celebrations may feature dancing groups and entertainers, but this wedding had its own goras!

After the dance, a famous Punjabi photographer invited me to join him in a Potiala peg. I agreed, not knowing that a Patiala peg is an Indian term for an 90 mm shot of alcohol (an American shot is around 30 mm). Meanwhile, Elliot again enjoyed his super-gora status, taking pictures with (literally) the entire wedding band. It was soon after this that our friends asked to “talk to us for a quick moment”. Dodging crowds of gawking servers and wedding well-wishers (having received the blessing of the bridegroom’s family, we were now VIPs), we reached the car and made our escape.

Since it was the Guru’s birthday, our fun did not stop there. We spent the rest of the night firing off fireworks from the roof of our building. Our own ‘crackers’ joined the other displays going on across the town, and we helped Ludhiana celebrate in style.

Gushing with exuberance, we thanked our friend Manbhir for getting us into the wedding display. He responded with humility and restraint: “You should wash my feet and drink the water.”

At around 1:30 we went to our respective beds and fell, or rather plummeted, to sleep. At dawn, we woke up and headed to the Himalayas.

But that’s another story.

Teyaar-Bar-Teyaar

This blog post finds us in perhaps the wildest state in India: Punjab.

I fully expected us to end up in the Punjab, for the simple reason that our friend Danish is Punjabi. In Delhi, we would eat our food surrounded by young turbaned Sikhs, friends of Danish’s, who would try to explain to us how Punjabi food is completely different. We would walk past gurudwhalas (Sikh temples), where Punjabi warriors carrying swords and spears would file by in procession, dressed in both the saffron colors (which denote peace) or royal blue (which denotes war). Here in the Punjab, we have learned the phrase “Teyaar-Bar-Teyaar”, which describes the Sikh warrior’s constant state of preparedness for battle.

Punjabis can best be described as the Texans of India. They think India is great, but their Punjabi pride is the defining aspect of their identity. As our friend Manbhir tried to explain, “you cannot describe it; you can only experience it. If you’re lucky enough to be born Punjabi.”

Yesterday we had the incredible privilege of visiting Amritsar, the holiest site in all of Sikhdom (Danish’s father described it as a Sikh Jerusalem). There, we saw the Golden Temple which houses the Guru
Granth Sahib, the holy book of the Sikh religion. It is the most magnificent single book I have ever seen, and by far the largest.

We partook in all the wonders of the Golden Temple; we washed our hands and feet in the holy waters that are meant to heal the sick. We ate at the Communal Kitchen where all eat the same meal together, representative of Sikh’s egalitarian philosophy and humankind’s inherent unity. We bought (and are currently wearing) kadda, the Sikh bracelets which symbolize being ‘handcuffed to G-d’, as our friend Mahesh put it.

Afterwards, we visited the site of the Jallianwalla Bagh massacre. In 1919, British soldiers opened fire on a crowd of unarmed Sikhs, killing over a thousand protesters. The soldiers stopped firing only when they ran out of bullets. The resulting anger and shock fueled the burgeoning India independence movement.

In the Punjab, Elliot’s celebrity status has become more pronounced. People continue to point at him and shout “Gora!”. Others have asked to have their pictures taken with him. I receive less attention; our Punjabi friends believe that this is because I can pass for Indian, or at least half-Indian. Those of you who know my idiosyncracies will not be surprised that I took this as an undeserved compliment. However, I suspect that Elliot’s appeal comes from the fact that he is a super-gora, with his red hair and pale complexion. Beside him, I’m just some white kid.

We have seen several other goras in the Punjab, but the feeling of comradery I expected to appear between us strangers in a strange land has not  occurred. I suspect that it is because so many people come here for such different regions. We have seen many goras that, Danish explained, are here to take the shortcut to enlightenment: that is to say, Indian holy places coupled with mind-altering substances. Others have taken different paths; we passed several gora Sikhs, dressed all in white. I would have loved to sit down with them and listen to why they made such a radical life decision, to give themselves so fully to a religion that certainly had little to do with their original spiritual background. But the atmosphere of the Golden Temple, I felt, discouraged such intrusion into others’ private contemplation.

More posts are forthcoming regarding the generous Tiwana family. On the 4^th, we will be in Bombay. Until then,

Jo bole so nihal!

Sat Sri Akal!

-James and Elliot