Lisa's Really Long Post About Her Sick Day In Amritsar

Just when I was feeling pretty smug about my adjustment to the food and allowing myself to think about venturing on to street food, I came down with a pretty bad case of traveler’s tummy. David was feeling pretty punk too but he managed to make a full day of it with the kids. I spent the day in fetal position with nothing but occasional cold sweats and mad dashes to the bathroom to break up the monotony.

Well, not quite. Our perfectly serviceable hotel faced the main road leading to the Golden Temple, the holiest shrine of the Sikh religion. Throughout the weekend, the street below was filled with throngs of pilgrims going to and fro on the left side of the street and cars, trucks, rickshaws and motorbikes racing down the right side. Motor vehicles in India tend to have some variation on the words, “Please Honk” painted on the back, a request filled with great alacrity by Indian drivers. Pressing the gas? Press the horn! Hitting your breaks? Hit the horn! The need for this is obvious. With so many cars, people, stray dogs and cows jostling for space in the road, drivers need to alert others to their position frequently. Still, they seem to go at it with an obscene gusto.

The noise coming from the street for the entire 48 hours of the weekend was an unrelenting cacophony of dogs, chants, horse hooves, horns, bicycle bells, drums and firecrackers. Sounds horrible, doesn’t it? At first, I thought I would go mad, but spending 24 hours trapped in my room in a semi-conscious state changed my point of view. It turns out there is an infinite variety of horn sounds and tempos, and yet, this being India, by virtue of sheer numbers, there is repetition. My favorite horn plays what sounds like a few bars of a Punjab folk song. Then there are the buzzer-like horns of the motorbikes, the sharp, staccato of the taxi horns, and the klaxon, bone-rattling bus horns. In the early morning, there’s a dogfight with some poor cur yelping piteously while another dog persists in a snarling, rough barking attack. The scrape of metal on pavement, as the garbage collector scoops up refuse with a pan and dumps it into the back of the horse drawn carriage. Soon the pilgrims start up the road; some are beating drums, some are crowded on flat bed trucks pulled by a red Marinda tractor, many are walking barefoot (bless them). Vendors open the metal gates on their stores; call to one another across the street; hawk their wares to passersby. As I fall in and out of sleep, the street below becomes a part of my dream world. I dream about my friends Maxine, Vinnie and Fernanda making an unreal dance to this music. It’s a ruthless, unruly symphony, pulsating through every corner of my room and my consciousness.

At 4pm, I hear firecrackers and intense drumming. This sounds worth getting out of bed for. Down in the street, a crowd of young Sikhs dressed in white with bright orange turbans and sashes are standing in a circle around two men who are executing a frightful and graceful dance with foils set to the ceremonial drum that another man plays. They leap at each other, clashing swords, until one gets tapped out by a man clenching a knife between his teeth who takes up the battle dance, whirling and kicking and never dropping the knife. Along comes an older man with a spear who wears a long, blue, flared coat and a red turban. He dismisses the young fighters and the group marches on. They are followed by a tractor, decorated with flowers and tinsel, that is blaring loud music and pulling a covered wagon in which sits someone very important. I regret that I couldn’t see him.

Upon their founding, Sikhs were persecuted mightily and persistently. They decided that Sikh men should be warriors, and that they should look intimidating. This is why, traditionally, they don’t cut their beards or their hair and they are always armed with a ceremonial dagger. Anyone who has seen a crowd of Sikh men in full dress cannot deny that they do look fearsome. At the temple the day before, I wondered why Sikh men were so much taller than their fellow countrymen. They aren’t necessarily, but the turban draws the eyes up and makes them look taller. Add to that the long, fitted coat, the full beard and moustache, ceremonial sashes and not-so-ceremonial weaponry and they become the epitome of fierce.

The noise continues on through the night with very little abating. At 4am we hear firecrackers, intense drumming and loud music. This sounds worth getting out of bed for. And, there, down on the street is another version of the previous afternoon’s parade. About a hundred people, including a flatbed truck full of women and young children, are joyously en route to the temple. Our unseen important man is at the head of the parade in his covered wagon. I marvel at the sheer dedication I am witnessing, at the perpetual cycle of human endeavor, at the relentless pursuit of commerce, at the longing for communion with divinity, and I know this noise is just never going to end and that I don’t want it to.

And then it does.

On Monday, this street is positively sleepy. The party has moved elsewhere. I pack us up and close the door on the now quiet room.