Jammu 1982

In 1982 I was living in Patiala with my father in the Punjabi University campus. He was the head of the Political Science department there. At one time his counterparts in Jammu University wanted to associate with him for something. Whatever it was, it resulted in a couple of junkets for my kid brother and I to Jammu.

On the first one, we took a bus to Jammu, it was a long six hour nerve racking ride. By the time we disembarked in Jammu it was dark. We took an auto to the University and checked into the guest house. All we wanted to do then was to be shown where the beds were and crash out. It was January and very cold.

In the morning I stepped out onto the little balcony attached to our room. It did not have a very good view, but it was nice to sit in the sun and sip some tea. After a while I went for a long walk to take a look at the city. The University had just shifted its campus to a new spot, so it had the look of a work-in-progress with the gardens and paths still under construction.

I walked out of the campus, went up the road until I reached the main road, and walked over the Tawi bridge. The level of the river was very low, non-existent one might say. The river bed was dry and filled with pebbles. A thin stream ran through the middle of the river bed, the only sign of the mighty Tawi.

At the end of the bridge I was rewarded by the sight of a magazine and newspaper vendor. I hopped over and bought a couple of newspapers and magazines. I walked on a bit and as it is in small towns, found myself covering almost all of the main part of the town in one walk. Oh I love such places!

It was extremely scenic with beautiful hills dotting the landscape. It was a town quite like the city I was to live in later, Chandigarh. Just as Chandigarh sits pretty on the foothills of the Shivaliks, Jammu sits prettily in the foothills of Pir Panjal. But that is where the similarity ends. Chandigarh is a modern, planned city, and Jammu is an ancient town.

Jammu is dotted all over with temples big and small. This, and the fact that is the gateway to one of the major shrines of India, Vaishno Devi, provides a lot of tourist footfalls to the place. However, apart from the plethora of temples, Jammu is a quaint little town, with suburbs with names like Talab Tillo, Nardani, Trikuta Nagar.

The city itself is a place one feels nice hanging about in. My first sojourn to Jammu was in the cold weather. But we returned a few months later, when it was warmer. This time a friend of mine had also come along. We went to every temple we could spot, and Jammu is dotted with temples. We went to Raghunath temple that is in the middle of the city.

It was a lovely temple dedicated to several deities. We had to walk through a typical small town market to reach it. There were grocery shops where the shopkeeper sits at the entrance of his shop. The buyers hover near the entrance and ask for things they want. There is no walking inside and looking at things on your own. Believe me, you save a lot of money this way, because you are not tempted to pick up things you don't want.

Then there were the Novelty stores that are another feature of small towns. Cosmetics, artificial jewelery, perfumes, bags and wallets, bangles, ribbons are lined in attractive mirror backed glass cases. Such shops always remind me of Prakash Novelty Store in Jamnagar whose owner was a handsome young man with dimples. He looked faintly like Joy Mukherjee. My friends and I could like him, but not love him because he was a lowly shopkeeper and we were educated princesses.

In those days mini buses were the preferred mode of transport, it seemed to us. These half-buses were often filled to capacity, though not packed as closely as the mini buses of Delhi tended to be. My friend and I took rides on these buses just for the fun of it. I liked the sound of the name Talab Tillo, and we went there just to see what it looked like. It was a typical suburb full of houses. We hung around for bit and returned back to our comfort zone, the Tawi bridge.

My friend was a devout sort and it was her wish to go to Mata Vaishno Devi. We asked around and tried to get help in getting there. It was the time of Navratri where the rush for Devi Darshan is at its peak. Every one we talked to advised us against going there. This was much before the temple and its approach was renovated by Jagmohan, later to be the Governor of J&K, and the locals were very apprehensive about letting two young girls and little boy loose on their own during peak time on a rough road to the shrine.

I remember going down to the Tawi river, a thin stream, and stepping carefully among large stones to get there. It did not occur to us to go to Bagh-e-Bahu a beautiful garden a little way off. We were content to see the beautiful lights of the garden from a distance.

We even spotted Kashmiris there. We had read about fair faced apple cheeked Kashmiris and it was wonderous to look upon them. Their cheeks are red because of the cold weather they live in, but it does look striking. The local shopkeepers, alas, seemed to look upon them as simpletons.

All these years later, I still think of Jammu as a town I could live in, and have always wanted to re-visit. I hope I do get to see it again. Maybe even compare how much it has changed now, after all these years.

The Jamnagar Gurudwara

View Gurudwara in a larger map

This here is the Google map location of the gurdwara in Jamnagar.  My uncle Santokh Singh Suri was one of its founders.  It was aimed at providing a place to pray for the growing Sikh community in Jamnagar.  Santokh Singh Suri was the personal physician of Jam Saheb, whose generosity helped lay the foundation stone of the gurudwara here.

Of course, all this happened before I was born.  Circumstances in my life made my uncle and aunt my guardians, hence my childhood was spent in this amazing little town.  I will be writing about it often, as it has shaped me and my thoughts.  Often, as I sit around doing some work, I am suddenly seized by some memory of a day gone long past, something trivial, like walking down a road or appearing for an exam.  But the memory is so real, I feel like I am re-living that moment.  It is to put these memories down on record that I will be doing a series of sketches like this one.

My uncle and aunt were a devout couple.  All the various gurupurab's (birthdays of the Guru's) were celebrated with gusto.  As were the Shahidi Diwas (martyrdom days).   On these occasions we would donate some mah ki daal (black lentils) for the langer (community lunch).  We would all sit around and clean the mah ki daal scruplously.   Baiji (my Aunt) would wake up at 4 in the morning and go to the Gurudwara to do service. I would throw a tantrum until I was allowed to go along.  In the gurudwara we would help make rotis.  We would sit around a large 4 foot long tava with a roaring fire under it.  Women would crowd around and roll out thick rotis that another lot of women would roast expertly on the hot tava.  Another big bunch of men and women would gather around the kitchen cutting up mounds of cauliflower and peeling and dicing potatoes.  The job of cooking was under the expert hands of a gentleman we knew as our mamaji (maternal uncle).  He was not a relation, but in that sparse close knit Sikh community, everyone was an uncle, it would have been rude to call them our 'acquaintance'.

As the afternoon of Gurupurab rolled around, at the completion of prayers with Ardas, the carpets would be rolled away and thin runner carpets spread out instead to create long aisles.  People would sit on them and be served all the food prepared since early morning on leaf plates.  Boys and young men would walk down the aisles doling out daal, aaloo-gobhi sabzi and 'parshadas' as the roti's prepared in Gurudwara were called.  I can swear I have never ever tasted food so tasty ever in my life.  It was full of the taste of simple living and love that existed between people in those days.

Although the Gurudwara was open for prayers all days, Sundays were special.  Come Sunday, and we were all hustled into the car and driven to the Gurdwara for prayers.  The ceremony probably took 3-4 hours.  We sat on durries on the ground in front of babaji's beed.  The sanctum was appropriately decorated with flowers and colourful silk spreads.  There were sparkly buntings on the ceiling. Sobha Singh's portraits of the Guru's adorned the walls.  Lovely glass chandeliers, a personal gift from the Jam Saheb, hung from the ceiling.  I would often get restive, and sneak out to get a toffee from the shop outside, not that I was hungry or anything, it just was nice to run around with other kids.  Soon, the paath would be over, and it would be time for ardaas.  That was the time we were all required to be in our place.  Head bowed, I repeated 'Sat sri Akal' everytime the granthi said 'Jo Bole So Nihal'.  From the corner of my eye, I could see the assistant granthi making his way to the big paraant of the crowning glory of the day - the Kada Parshad.

My mouth would water in anticipation as, the Ardaas over, we would sit and await our turn to be served the glorious dollop of Parshad.  It was oily sweet and hot.  It was like the perfect end to my visit to the Gurudwara.  I am not particularly religious, but a visit to the gurudwara, always ending with a bit of parshad, makes me feel secure, as if I am back in the arms of my parents.