AN EVENING OF GOLD
About the time when many obscure fishing-folk in the British Isles
were reaping rich harvest from Spanish galleons dismantled by storm
and tempest, and the chief literary glory of England was paying
scores at the Mermaid Tavern for men whose humour his genius turned
to undying springs as it splashed on him from their cups, a woman in
India who carried her husband in a basket, he being maimed and
without hands or feet, placed him within the shadow of a tree while
she sought alms from a neighbouring village. Now the man was no
sluggard and had his eyes about him, and a lame crow, by reason of
his own calamity, drew his attention. He watched the bird fly to an
adjacent pool of water. To his amazement the crow no sooner dipped
its legs than they became cured, so that it could walk, and its
plumage turned at the same time to a milky whiteness. Rolling out of
his basket the poor cripple himself reached the pool, and on his
wife's return showed her a restored and perfect husband, with normal
extremities, sitting upon the basket. At first it is said the {217}
woman declined to believe his identity, but Mr Buta Singh, the
Amritsar bookseller, who tells the story in his _History of the
Golden Temple_, asserts that "she was subsequently satisfied when the
Guru attested the power of the Amrit" (which is the water of
immortality).
I think there were possibilities of pathetic developments, and that
although the addition of one hand or foot at a time might have been
tolerable, it would have been altogether too much for any wife, while
she had turned her back for the morning's shopping, to find the
helpless subject of her chanty able to walk over her, and her
domination destroyed for ever. Be that as it may the story serves
for the origin of the sacred tank of Amritsar and its far-famed
Golden Temple. The Guru digging upon the site of the miracle is said
to have come deep in the delved earth upon a mysterious chamber,
housing an old ascetic seated in devotional posture, with grey hair
grown long. There are still older legends of the holiness of the
spot, for it is told that Buddha, passing through the country,
stopped in the jungle by this same pool of water and said--"This spot
is best for the Bhikshus to obtain salvation and far superior in that
respect to other places in the East, but it must have time for its
celebrity."
And when the time came the temple arose and all Amritsar. The great
shrine itself stands {218} in the middle of a large square tank, and
its precincts include the whole of the wide pavements that surround
the water. On these pavements one must go barefoot or wearing velvet
footgear, supplied at a small boothlike office at the entrance to the
square enclosure. This is attached to a police station, which boasts
a speciality in the way of Indian clubs. A row of these, gigantic in
size and of considerable weight, stands outside the door, and a
Punjabi is ready (for a consideration) to display his splendid
muscles like the "strong man" generally to be seen along the quays of
Paris near the Institut de France.
A marble causeway bridges the water to the Hari Mandar (God's
Temple), starting from a large gateway on the margin of the tank. By
the side of this, when I first saw it, a Hindoo was sticking wet
rose-leaves and marigold petals on to a wall-painting of a four-armed
and four-headed Brahma. Entering the gateway I passed through two
doors plated outside with silver and within inlaid with ivory upon
the polished wood. A man stood at this portal holding a long heavy
silver wand and looking, but for his turban, rather like a verger in
some English cathedral. Many people were walking to and fro upon the
causeway, but I pushed ahead to the open doors of the temple where
the Granth Sahib, the sacred book of the Sikhs, lies covered with a
cloth of gold and canary-coloured silk, {219} under a great
violet-lined canopy, from the centre of which hangs a golden tassel.
Immediately behind the Granth sat a high priest taking his four-hour
turn of duty. A large bundle of peacock feathers lay to hand for
dusting; but pigeons, catholic as to the place of their droppings,
flew constantly in and out.
"And this is the watch given by Lord Curzon," said a self-appointed
guide in my ear, pointing to a large clock set incongruously in the
gilded copper wall over one of the four doorways.
A white drugget, held down by carved marble corner-weights, was
spread over the centre of the marble pavement. On this, in front of
the Granth Sahib, were three silver vessels for offerings of money,
and about them lay a heap of loose cowries and pice, while some of
the rosy-eyed pigeons pecked away at rice which had been scattered
over the drugget. On making offering to the temple one is presented
with a sugar cup--a half sphere of coarse white crystal sugar (the
size of half an orange), of which I do not know the significance.
Men called "Marrasis" on one side were playing stringed instruments
and singing words of the Granth.
Up to a height of about six feet the walls were of white marble lined
with black, and at the corners inlaid with mother-of-pearl and
cornelians; there was a little flower pattern, but above this height
the whole interior with its {220} gallery was gilded, and the gold
surface intricately patterned over in red and blue.
Outside, across the long causeway with its marble balustrade and rows
of lamps, the entrance gate faces an open stone-flagged square
surrounded by buildings, the chief of which is the gilt-domed Akal
Bunga where, I was informed, "Sikhs are made." This institution is
partly subsidized by Government and partly depends for income upon
the offerings made by those who come to be initiated. It is a kind
of house of investiture and ordination, and contains various historic
treasures--"irons" of old time including weapons which belonged to
some of the Gurus. Every orthodox Sikh must wear five things, and
these are--first, the Kunga, a comb of wood or ivory; second, the
Kara, a circlet of iron; third, the Kash or loincloth; fourthly, Kesh
(pronounced Kaish) which means long hair, and lastly, a Kard or
knife, a miniature specimen of which was given to me when I was
garlanded in the Akal Bunga.
Extremely beautiful was the constant procession along the causeway of
the temple votaries in bright dresses, and the dazzling brilliance of
the golden building itself reflected in the surface of the water, one
moment as still as a mirror and the next all quivering in a thousand
ripples.
I walked round the border of the tank past various other "Bungas,"
built by princes and {221} rajahs for their use when visiting
Amritsar, till I reached the side farthest from the causeway; here,
entering a garden, I passed an enclosed well and came to the tall
tower called Baba Attal and climbed its seven storeys.
When I had reached Amritsar the evening before the whole place was
under a pall. Dense clouds of white dust, choking and almost
intolerable, swept along on the wings of a strong wind, hiding the
side of the road like a thick fog and even driving along the
passage-ways and corridors of the hotel and entering at every door
and window; so it was with anxiety that I looked out next morning and
with much relief beheld bright sunshine through a clearer air.
Though, however, the wind-storm had abated, as I stood on the top of
the tower, a pall of dust still hung over the city spoiling what
should have been a wide and distant view.
The tower was built to commemorate a son of the sixth Guru who
recalled to life a playmate who had died. The Guru is said to have
been very wroth with his son for this act, whereupon Baba Attal lay
down and died saying he gave his own life to his friend. The inside
walls of several of the storeys are covered with painted frescoes,
and on one floor true fresco painting upon wet plaster was actually
going on. Small boys were grinding the colours, and an artist of
skill and invention was covering the surface {222} with scenes of
crowded life illustrating sacred stories. His naïveté made me think
a little of Benozzo Gozzoli, especially in his frescoes at San
Gimignano, but this work was on a very much smaller scale and, for an
Oriental artist, strangely lacking in design.
I returned late in the afternoon to the flagged square facing the
entrance gate through which the marble causeway leads across the
water. I said the pavement was stone--it is all of marble. About it
sat many flower-sellers, men in white, red and black robes with
baskets heaped with orange-coloured marigolds, blue cornflowers, pink
roses and scarlet poppies. The silver doors stand open, and through
the white marble gateway a constant stream of people come and go
along the causeway with its rows of golden lamps on short marble
standards leading to the Golden Shrine itself in the middle of the
water.
Close by, from octagonal marble bases rise two tall masts of gold, at
least sixty feet high and ending in spear-heads; a yellow flag hangs
from each, one pale canary colour and one dark like the marigold
flowers. Ropes keep these masts firm, ropes with grand curves that
sweep from the iron collars, necking the masts high up, to iron rings
fixed in the surrounding buildings.
Under a little shrine in the wall sits a blind {223} man. The water
of the sacred tank may bring him inner vision, but to-day has no such
virtue as to cure aggravated cataract. A stranger stops a moment at
the shrine, and when he is gone the blind man rises and gropes with
his hands to feel if any pice had been put down on the small marble
ledge that projects before the painting of a Guru.
The sun has now just set and a light that seems to cast no shadows
spreads and grows, suffusing all the scene in soft effulgence. Most
of the women are dressed in long trousers, close fitting from the
ankles to the knees and then bagging out loosely. They all have long
veils which they wear like a hood; some are white but others scarlet,
crimson, or orange, and some of green silk tissue strewn with silver
stars and bordered with a ribbon of bright gold. It is the hour when
even humble clothes take on luxurious tints, and richer stuffs show
all their utmost beauty in enhanced perfection. One passes near
wearing trousers of pale blue with silver pattern, a silk coat of
deep rose-pink, and over all a veil of pale canary-coloured tissue
painted with roses and bordered deeply with gold. I thought "Was
Solomon in all his glory..." but just then some children playing with
a ball butted against me in sudden collision, and at the same time I
encountered a Sikh gentleman who claimed direct descent from the
second Guru, {224} spoke English softly, and in leisured talk
deplored to me the vanity of women.
In front of the building called the Akal Bunga, which faces the
entrance to the causeway, a great drugget stretched from the upper
branches of a tree heavy with leafage to staples set in the wall.
The leaves shook and the drugget swayed a little. Old priests with
long white beards sat at large window openings chanting--thousands of
windows were in sight, but never one pane of glass though sometimes
wooden doors or gaily-painted shutters. A woman passed arrayed like
some princess of mediæval France, wearing a golden head-dress shaped
like a sugarloaf and tapering slenderly to a point whence yards of
pale blue tissue floated in the air behind her. In the same clear
air a child's kite high above caught glints of light. Oh! golden,
golden hour, how often on a wistful thread my thought like that
child's kite will float away, borne by easy airs of memory, into that
distant scene and dream it all again!
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