Amritsar Calling: Holy city where happiness index shoots through the roof – The Indian Express

Call us peculiar or idiosyncratic, but we are what we are, and so blooming proud to be so. Down in the dumps or back to the wall, the citizens of this holy city are so downright at ease with themselves. They bounce back, redouble, live in lofty optimism, absolutely bindass, if you allow me to borrow the Mumbaikar terminology. And yet the visitors, including the Bambaiya, the Bengali, the Madrasi et al, marvel at us Ambarsaris.

Agog and wonderstruck they often remark about the laid-back attitude, the no hurry-no worry lifestyle, our oddities, and the happy-go-lucky demeanour. Yet that is so, and we take the observations and some sniggers in our stride without batting an eyelid.

There is an air of celebration, joie de vivre if one may, an exuberance in our social milieu and in our living style which leaves the outsider a bit taken aback. What the heck are they so thrilled about? They wonder. This is what is elucidated in the Geeta Saar, the summary of Bhagavad Gita, the divine vision of Lord Krishna, which establishes that all that has happened, will happen, is happening, is good, and that change is the essence of life. Live with that or crib your hearts out, if you will.

Anand is one of the core beliefs that emanate from the Gurbani too, the spirit of joy in spite of, despite, or because of a life event or situation. The belief that everything comes and goes, even moments of sadness and pleasure, yet what remains is the equilibrium of your connection with the good lord. Anand is thus sung at the end of all life situations, in celebration of a birth, when one marries, or when someone dies.

We close each of these diverse ceremonies with the singing of His name- Naam with joy. So there.

Since life is a celebration, thus our festivities are prolonged affairs, be they weddings or others. The great Indian wedding was perhaps a term that originated from this city. A wedding means not just the band-baaja-barat, but a colossal fest spread usually over a week, if not more. But preceding that are the basics. First, the matrimonial alliance itself, once all the proposals are vetted, rejected, or put in the maybe-bins; the patris and astrological charts are compared to affirm that there shall be no discord and the stars support the alliance; due diligence from both sides with ample assist from relative and community grapevines, and finally the visit to the mandir or the gurdwara. But then this is just the beginning.

What follows is the Rokaa, loosely translated as the full stop. So, no further flirtation or philandering chum, you are spoken for. This is a public event much like we give earnest money for a property deal or sign a memorandum of understanding in corporate terms. This is when the dates begin to be decided and the shopping forays start. Eventually, this buying carnival shall reach a crescendo, much like a band in action going from steady jazz to hard rock. All the heavenly blessings need solicitation, so the havans and the akhand paaths happen, those supplications to the Good Lord, to augur well for the betrothal itself.

My niece is getting married in February next year. Both the families have been scouting for destination venues for the past few months after the Rokaa happened. Trips have already been made to Jaipur, Goa, Mumbai, Delhi, Rishikesh, and more. Talk of Dubai, Abu Dhabi, Hua Hin have also ensued although the cities have been spared a visitfor now. The venue is still undecided and in heart of hearts, I am so wishing that they tire themselves out and narrow in on Amritsar as the destination. That would be simply divine, a winter wedding, in fact anywhere from October to March, when the weather is great and the air so very festive and crisp is the ideal in this holy city. Ah, the food, the festivities, the divine presence of the Gurus darbar, so many places to see, and so much local kitsch to borrow from.

Oh, but first the ring ceremony has to happen, the Shagan, the Mehndi. If you go by the gold standard in tradition, a Jaago ceremony must take place wherein the mami, the maternal aunt, carries the lamp-lit earthenware pot headload through the village, with all the womenfolk dressed in phulkari dupattas singing traditional songs, inviting all and sundry to the wedding. And eventually the marriage itself, close-knit at a destination far away, or with larger hordes back home. Then of course a reception party, perhaps a sundowner, downing many a tippler, and finally the honeymoon. And did I forget the pre-wedding bachelor party and the girls night-out in between? This is dizzy stuff, and we embrace all the local jing-bang and the foreign pomp and show with equal measure and much relish.

Our fairs are also beyond compare. The Vaisakh da mela or the Vallah da mela or the Baba Roda Shah da mela. Just to add that air of familiarity in common parlance they are pronounced with an extended e at the end as if it were a term of endearment. Vasaakhee, Valle, and Rode Shah. Dont ask me why though.

But back to Baba Roda Shah who gave an issueless farmer the blessing of a child after many years of infertility. When the happy father offered a princely sum, he was asked instead to service the devotees with liquor daily till the amount was expended. So began the tradition. Though a major two-day event takes place every March, the lively prasaad is offered daily. The bottles offered by devotees are emptied into plastic buckets and distributed among the pilgrims. All said and done, everyone goes back in a merry state, though some who manage the lions share include tipsy priests and inebriated cops lying about on roadsides.

Another intriguing fest is Kanjakaan, which entails washing the feet of nine girls below the age of puberty, tying red threads (Molis) on their wrists, giving them gifts, and then treating them to a feast. The festival is in celebration of the nine forms of Goddess Durga.

Oh, by the way, we did mention the peculiar feast of luchhi that is on offer only on this day, did we not? That with black gram and suji halwa? The luchhi, a typical delicacy, that is neither the puri nor the bhatura, but one that is thin to the extent of starvation yet lissome as feasible, one that is just dropped into the oil for a few seconds and considered good to eat. It is quite the pop-up bread available only for this day of the year, the pre-puberty fest.

We have a 10-day Langur mela as well, centred around the Bada Hanuman Mandir. While some do it for a token one time, others come from far and near, stay a full 10 days, and dress up their blessing, their son, twice a day as Langurs. Wearing silver and red attire, with silver dunce caps, tails to match, jingling bells around the ankles, a Hanuman mace, the gada in one hand and accompanied by dholis, they arrive dancing up to the temple as thanksgiving for the progeny. The boy child shall each year be dressed as a Langur for the vanar sena of Hanuman. Some poor sods whose parents have let this ceremony slide for many years, wear this fancy dress even after they are grown-up teenagers.

And while the world we know celebrates the Holi festival for a few hours on a particular day, it is no holds barred here. We celebrate Holi and Hollah Mohallah, hold your breath, for an entire week. The walled city, its bazars, mandis and kuchhas close down for seven days of revelry and much grime. We do the colours, even chemical perma dyes (shudder), andaas for the egg chucking, and garbage as well. Its a veritable free for all, so while the kids, and some of those who never grow up, fling the spectrum unabashed, the careful stay at home lest they be stained by the fervour. But lets also mention the mindful few who do the decent marigolds and dry organic powdered colours too.

And for all our fests and celebrations, deeds and misdeeds, passing aways and passing outs, the farewells and welcomes we pitch a tent. In fact, I must share my visit to the top gun homeopath of the city. He is great at his job and perfects the art of roadside dispensing as well. The patients are required to line up on the Grand Trunk Road outside his clinic. A cemented bench and a score of plastic chairs are at hand, and a tamboo (tent) is set up across the side lane for respite from the blistering summer sun. He is assisted by efficient ladies who give out token numbers, and then call them out from the highway one by one. They stand in front of anyone who tries unnumbered ingress in open effrontery almost like bouncers, albeit prettier. For those on repeat medication the assistant hands over little khaki envelopes at the doorstep. Succour by the roadside indeed.

And then if ordained, you enter. A mahogany desk seats two doctors including the boss. The patient sits on a single stool outside of a thick plastic curtain. Any accompanying attendant must stand beside. I felt much favoured as I sat on a distant stool within. The symptoms are called for, a couple of quick questions, an exchange of looks and a word if necessary, and the khaki lifaafa of the sure-to-cure magic potion is ready.

Talking about the tent and four poles, the tamboo, it is pretty much a way of life for us. Someone passed away at home, oh no; someone getting married, oh yes; an outing for the good lord with kirtan and bhajans in celebration or in remorse, yup yup. All you do is dig up the road outside and pitch the tent baby, Gadd deo tamboo. And guess what, when one tries to gain road access driving down and finds that there is no road where it used to be, you just mutter under your breath, reverse, and find another pathway. Its okay. Its either what is it to us huh (sannu kee) or live and let live (jio te jeen deo).

And in all that we do, everything comes through at the last moment. Since you are not expected to be on time, if you do the stupid punctuality thing, you will wonder if you got the dates wrong when you see that the tent-wallas are still pitching tents, the hosts nowhere to be seen, the marigolds still being put up and ladders everywhere. As the easy-going Ambarsari says, Chill and not worry ji, it will happen when it does, and if it does not, then what? (Ho hayegaa, thand rakho. Nahee hoyeyaa? koyee naa, mitti pao.)

And people talk about the Happiness Index elsewhere. Well, little do they know! Meanwhile, life goes on in the city of Amritsar where we are what we are and it is what it is.

(Gunbir Singh is an Amritsar-based environmentalist, philanthropist and author who loves all things Ambarsari)

See the original post:

Amritsar Calling: Holy city where happiness index shoots through the roof - The Indian Express