Columnists

A Cup of Tea

by NEHA SINGH GOHIL

On a rainy March morning in Amritsar, I made my way into Harmandar Sahib.

For the first time, I watched a group of people go through a familiar morning routine  -  the pre-dawn inaugural recitation of Guru Granth Sahib, and the singing of Asa di Vaar ("The Psalm of Hope").

Surrounded by lights twinkling on the water, I stood to one side, closed my eyes, folded my hands, and silently repeated "Waheguru, Waheguru" until I heard the clarion call of "Bole So Nihaal ..."

Lost in my thoughts, I nearly forgot that I hadn't come alone. While I was immersed in the sheer joy of being at our "holiest of holies", fifteen of my classmates from Columbia's School of Journalism stood by, silently bearing witness to the goings-on.

A group of them wove through the throng of believers surrounding the Guru Granth Sahib, their cameras clicking. As we made our way into the inner sanctum, I sat down while they marveled at the intricate artwork on the walls and the crowded balconies.

When it was all over, we walked outside in our bare feet, cold and wet. Some of the students walked off to find their shoes. But Karla, a slim girl with papery-white skin, spotted someone holding a cup of tea. Shivering, she grabbed a few rupees from her bag and set off to buy some for herself. She wasn't prepared, though, to have it handed to her for free, along with a seemingly bottomless bowl of pilaf rice.

Though I'd explained the concept of parshad to them in preparation for our trip to Amritsar, none of my classmates, it seemed, really believed it. That we could eat entire meals for free, and that they would be handed to us with so much genuine love and devotion, was a completely foreign concept to these students of religion.

A few days later, debriefing the class on our trip, our professor asked which faith we would convert to, if we felt compelled to change from our own. With the exception of two students, the entire class raised their hands when he said "Sikhism".

I sat there, stunned. Having grown up in Sikhi, I had always taken it for granted. I hadn't realized the broad appeal of my own religion.

At the group's final dinner in India, we were asked about our most memorable moments during the whirlwind four-city tour of the country. At least half of the class mentioned experiences in Harmandar Sahib. Karla remembered the parshad, and that she had offered to pay for the tea that morning, but the money had been turned down. "That's what religion is all about", she said, impressed by the sense of community and sharing in the faith.

Nowadays, when I visit gurdwaras back here in the U.S., I have a newfound feeling of amazement, both at how this sense of community endures, and how it is regularly ignored. Hundreds of Sikhs travel hours to reach their nearest gurdwaras, to cook for their communities, to be part of a sangat. Countless others work tirelessly to serve the public wherever they live  -  whether through government jobs or various forms of community service.

Still, rivalries within or between gurdwaras, the divisions of gurdwaras by caste, and the often-ugly world of gurdwara politics, mar the concepts of community and sharing that are such an intrinsic and widely-admired aspect of our faith.

Weeks after our class returned to the U.S., a few days before graduation, we had a final bash, where that cup of tea in Amritsar came up once again.

"It was the best tea I've ever had", said Tina Shah.

I tell you, the product of the collective effort, and a real belief in the Guru's values, made that tea back in the precincts of the Durbar Sahib, sweeter than any cup of gourmet coffee here in New York City!

[Photos by Tania Haas]

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