I pull my scarf up over my head and ascend the cold, marble stairs in my stocking feet, my eyes wide and a few unsuppressed butterflies still fluttering in my stomach. I enter an immense room, and raise my lowered eyes from the interwoven patterns of royal blue and gold that stretch out down the center of the hall before me, to the white-washed walls and ceilings above. This is not the gilded crown molding, detailed frescoes, the elaborate art and iconoclastic symbols of the countless cathedrals and churches through which I have walked over the last month. Its simplicity is beautiful and effective.
My eyes are immediately drawn to the altar rising up before me, covered in a white cloth and placed in front of a colorful stained glass window, softly filtering light upon that which these people find most sacred: the Guru. These holy scriptures of the Sikhs are watched over by an old man, who dutifully waves a white, feathery duster across them from time to time. This is to keep the air clean about these pages that they esteem and attend to as they did to kings of old. Reaching the base of the altar, I respectfully bend over to touch the ground, not sure enough of myself within this culture to kneel and touch my forehead to the floor, as I have just observed Sikh worshippers before me do. I rise again and silently make my way sideways to sit upon the white sheet on the women’s side of the room, careful all the while not to turn my back on the Guru; a dire offense.
At last I sit cross-legged and let out a deep, relieved breath. Why was I so nervous? This is no big deal. As my eyes rove around the room, I observe the Sikhs in various stages of worship and meditation. Some walk to the front of the altar, bow their heads to the floor, they circle around to the back of the altar and repeat. One woman goes on to kneel in front of each window where in a different reading of the scriptures is taking place in each. She is showing respect to each one. I watch in fascinated curiosity as a man holding a toddler walks up the aisle with his wife. Upon reaching the front, the child is placed on the ground, to which he immediately touches his forehead. I doubt he can talk, and yet his religion is already an integral part of his way of life. All the while the semi-melodic rhythm of a woman’s voice reading the Guru echoes through my ears. A word, a beat never seems to be missed or uttered out of place. Beautiful flower arrangements are on either side of the gold donation bins.
Time to leave. I stand and respectfully walk out the back where a woman sitting on the floor places into my hands a greasy, mushy lump of a butter, flour, sugar and water mixture from the large basin in front of her. It tastes sweet, and I appreciate the symbolism of this gesture.
I proceed to another room where all are invited and welcome to a free, traditional meal of lentils, goulash, flat bread, and rice pudding. I love it! It is different, and new, and exciting. These people are so kind; their silence speaks volumes as you can sense their humility and understanding.
The small Hindu temple has a slightly different feel. Sitting in observance, I notice the colorful, glittering statues across the front and down one side of the room. These people’s beliefs differ drastically from monotheistic Sikhism, as I clearly see by the iconoclastic displays of their various divinities all with unique expressions, some with multiple arms. Peacock feathers adorn the gold coverings above the statues and altars at the room’s front. I watch as some of the worshippers bring forward bags of groceries to set before some of the statues; apples, milk, bananas, nuts. The atmosphere feels slightly less didactic, even quintessential. As I stand to leave, I first make my way over to the front corner of the room, where a man sitting in a chair pours a dab of holy water into my outstretched, cupped palm, and then hands me a banana from the basket of fruit at his side. I thank him and leave, struck by how giving these people are.
The larger Hindu temple is, as expected, very similar to the temple I just came from, only on a larger scale. The décor of the room, however, is even more extravagant, topped off with cords of bright, flashing lights strung about the magnificent display at the front. Elaborate architecture surrounds me on the doors, ceiling, molding. A few people present small bouquets of fresh flowers before the statues. One man sitting in meditation stares fixedly ahead, muttering a prayer and holding a string of beads and a small woven bag. As I sit, I look at the floor and realize it is not covered by a large white sheet as in the other temples. The colors featured in these Hindu temples seem to be red and gold. I wonder what they represent in this religion? An older couple back slowly out of the room as they leave, never turning their backs on the displays before them. Some go up to pray in front of each actor in turn. A bell is hanging from the ceiling near the front; some ring it as they pass, and I silently ponder why.
My eyes are immediately drawn to the altar rising up before me, covered in a white cloth and placed in front of a colorful stained glass window, softly filtering light upon that which these people find most sacred: the Guru. These holy scriptures of the Sikhs are watched over by an old man, who dutifully waves a white, feathery duster across them from time to time. This is to keep the air clean about these pages that they esteem and attend to as they did to kings of old. Reaching the base of the altar, I respectfully bend over to touch the ground, not sure enough of myself within this culture to kneel and touch my forehead to the floor, as I have just observed Sikh worshippers before me do. I rise again and silently make my way sideways to sit upon the white sheet on the women’s side of the room, careful all the while not to turn my back on the Guru; a dire offense.
At last I sit cross-legged and let out a deep, relieved breath. Why was I so nervous? This is no big deal. As my eyes rove around the room, I observe the Sikhs in various stages of worship and meditation. Some walk to the front of the altar, bow their heads to the floor, they circle around to the back of the altar and repeat. One woman goes on to kneel in front of each window where in a different reading of the scriptures is taking place in each. She is showing respect to each one. I watch in fascinated curiosity as a man holding a toddler walks up the aisle with his wife. Upon reaching the front, the child is placed on the ground, to which he immediately touches his forehead. I doubt he can talk, and yet his religion is already an integral part of his way of life. All the while the semi-melodic rhythm of a woman’s voice reading the Guru echoes through my ears. A word, a beat never seems to be missed or uttered out of place. Beautiful flower arrangements are on either side of the gold donation bins.
Time to leave. I stand and respectfully walk out the back where a woman sitting on the floor places into my hands a greasy, mushy lump of a butter, flour, sugar and water mixture from the large basin in front of her. It tastes sweet, and I appreciate the symbolism of this gesture.
I proceed to another room where all are invited and welcome to a free, traditional meal of lentils, goulash, flat bread, and rice pudding. I love it! It is different, and new, and exciting. These people are so kind; their silence speaks volumes as you can sense their humility and understanding.
The small Hindu temple has a slightly different feel. Sitting in observance, I notice the colorful, glittering statues across the front and down one side of the room. These people’s beliefs differ drastically from monotheistic Sikhism, as I clearly see by the iconoclastic displays of their various divinities all with unique expressions, some with multiple arms. Peacock feathers adorn the gold coverings above the statues and altars at the room’s front. I watch as some of the worshippers bring forward bags of groceries to set before some of the statues; apples, milk, bananas, nuts. The atmosphere feels slightly less didactic, even quintessential. As I stand to leave, I first make my way over to the front corner of the room, where a man sitting in a chair pours a dab of holy water into my outstretched, cupped palm, and then hands me a banana from the basket of fruit at his side. I thank him and leave, struck by how giving these people are.The larger Hindu temple is, as expected, very similar to the temple I just came from, only on a larger scale. The décor of the room, however, is even more extravagant, topped off with cords of bright, flashing lights strung about the magnificent display at the front. Elaborate architecture surrounds me on the doors, ceiling, molding. A few people present small bouquets of fresh flowers before the statues. One man sitting in meditation stares fixedly ahead, muttering a prayer and holding a string of beads and a small woven bag. As I sit, I look at the floor and realize it is not covered by a large white sheet as in the other temples. The colors featured in these Hindu temples seem to be red and gold. I wonder what they represent in this religion? An older couple back slowly out of the room as they leave, never turning their backs on the displays before them. Some go up to pray in front of each actor in turn. A bell is hanging from the ceiling near the front; some ring it as they pass, and I silently ponder why.
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