Getting Out There

I sit to peal peas with the women. Mountains of pale green, unpeeled peas sit waiting for a volunteer to begin shedding their skin. I glance around and feel quite drab in my woollen hoodie, white scarf covering my curls, the ladies in my wake are a cosmic kaleidoscope of colour, babbling with chatter I don’t understand. I see no one else dons white and wonder if I am wearing something inappropriate. Men with trim, walrus like moustaches, heads crowned by florescent turbans, skin and finely slice onions. One man, with a face as lined and scarred as his tree trunk chopping board, teaches a young boy how to crush garlic. We are a group of strangers collectively preparing food for over 40,000 people – we are at the Golden Temple in Amritsar.
I arrived four hours earlier knowing very little. The soothing call of the Sikh harmonium led me away from the heaving, filthy streets. My shoes were left at the entrance, my feet washed of their impurities, the meditative mantra percussive to my footsteps. As I entered the Langar the tranquillity was shattered by metal plates being scraped, thrown and caught by a troop of men so choreographed they were worthy of a spot at the Edinburgh fringe. I watched their faces and wondered why they were happy whilst conducting the monotonous, ear polluting task. Rows of dish washers, elbow deep in soap, scrubbed and stacked. Moppers relentlessly washed the floors trodden upon by thousands of bare soles. I didn't register the plate, bowl and spoon passed into my hands by a beaming boy no older than ten. In awe followed the people. I followed my grumbling stomach.
I found a spot amidst thousands – Hindus, Sikhs, Christians. Men, women, children. Fat people, thin people, rich, poor, posh people. I sat crossed legged on a thin, room long mat and held out my plate. A simple, spicy dahl, a roti and sweet rice served from giant, metal buckets – the servers arms near ripped from their sockets – made my first Amritsar meal. A family of four faced me, the two young girls double into shyness when I smiled, a couple of British Indians, in bright pink and blue polo shirts, talked about the football, a man so ancient he might break any second signalled for another roti. As I observed the bustling hall I realised knowing little is ok. The soar in my heart as I ate was all the explanation needed. The human race eating together - serving one another – no exceptions - no money needed.
As I leave, full and free, I sit to peel peas with the women.