The Gurdwara
'American' Part 2: Dad, you can skip this one | Chapter 9
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December 1, 2022, London, UK
Walking down Lower Marsh Market, I find myself settling into a routine. Waterloo is waking up. The vendors are cooking food in tents set on cobblestone. One of them plays Latin music, which is a lively break from the silence of Britain. Children rush to school, and bikes fly past in every direction. The cafe/grocery on the corner is just opening up, and I resist the urge to stop for tea. I am on a mission.
The rush hour crowd on the tube is much like New York, except far less angry and far more clustered. There are only escalators, several stories high, instead of stairs leading underground. I stay on guard as signs alert me that pockets are treated as public property here. The silence remains; no one talks to strangers, so no one will know I’m not one of them. I no longer need to refer to my map. The Tube is beginner’s public transportation.
I transfer at Bond to the District Line and join a far less populated, and far less funded, train on my way to Shepherd’s Bush. There are plenty of seats here, away from the business part of town. In the window of Hatchard’s on Piccadilly my first afternoon here, a book on codes caught my eye. I sit now, frantically solving puzzles, under the approving gaze of an olive-skinned elderly man who sits opposite me.
Exiting the station at Shepherd’s Bush, I’m disoriented at the presence of what might be a highway, dotted by a series of depressing-American-suburbia corporate companies. This does not give me hope for my morning endeavor. I cross several lanes of bus ramps, hop down several stairs, pass through a tunnel, and emerge in a cobblestone court that may as well have been frozen in the era of Vanity Fair. On one side, a sprawling estate - now divided into many residencies - proudly hints that it may have once been the home of some Sir or Duke. On the other side rests a set of quaint townhomes in periwinkle.
At the far end of the cobblestone space, an intersection shows a possible return to the dismal visages of haphazard, 80s infrastructure. But I don’t need to worry about that. My destination is right in front of me, towering above the neighborhood, welcoming everyone in, though I imagine not many accept the invitation.
I approach the open gate, lifting my scarf over my head and tying it at my neck, a la Audrey Hepburn (or a la Yente, from Fiddler on the Roof, as I found out later, in the mirror). It is quiet, and I struggle to open the large doors at the front, nervous of doing anything improperly. Upon entering, there is one man walking a path around the main hall, talking on the phone. Another is ascending the stairs. In a room by the entrance, I leave my shoes in a cupboard and wash my hands in a small sink. Walking towards the Darbar Sahib (sanctuary, as Christians might call it), I see both men are barefooted and return to the shoe room to leave my socks.
I have come here seeking comfort in a strange familiarity. At the front, feet from the Guru Granth Sahib (holy book), I lightly bow my head, careful to consider the respect of my own religion in the dwelling of another. I can bow my head in respect to you for carrying people into goodness and love of the world, but we are acquaintances only.
We come to an understanding, the gurdwara and I. Cross-legged, I sit on the ground to the left. The man who was ascending the stairs as I entered has circled around the holy book, saying prayers in a language that I can identify but not understand. I am self-conscious. Moving into my prayers, my feeling of trespassing is laid to rest. It is no longer my god I pray to, it is our god. The man has settled to the far side, standing, which I didn’t know was an option, and has begun saying his prayers aloud. He sounds as intent, desperate, as I am.
It is quiet enough that I can hear my teardrops falling on my glasses. I begin to sniffle, and so does the standing man, as though we are passing tears between each other, mingling prayers of two languages, made the same in pain. He leaves, and I sit for a few minutes in silence, my own thoughts a dialogue with God.
I could stay much longer. I feel no burden of being an outsider anymore, but I wipe the tears from my face. Standing up, I am careful not to point my feet at the book. I nod and thank the space for having me. Approaching the shoe room, the first man calls from across the entryway, “Excuse me, excuse me.” I look to him, and he asks if I know prasad, which I initially think is a person he suspects of having pointed me here. I say “no,” and remember in time that this is the traditional sweet that welcomes the people to worship here.
He leads me to a vat at the door of the Darbar Sahib and opens it, telling me to hold out both hands. He tells me this is good for the body, good for energy - nourishing. I eat with my right hand, and with gratitude, and tell him to have a good day, though this farewell seems below his capacity for kindness.
Returning to the train, I keep my head covered, not yet ready to be free.