Humour by Rehana Munir: City of plenty

When road-tripping to Amritsar, follow the twin guides of food and faith. When was the last time you visited this city?

I suffer from a bittersweet travel affliction: wherever I go, I hear a well-modulated commentary in the voice of TV’s favourite traveller, the late Anthony Bourdain. This is what I heard as I stepped out of an e-rickshaw driven by one Happy Singh on a summer’s morning in Amritsar: A pre-dawn anticipation hangs over the gentrified pathway that leads to the Golden Temple, the revered focal point of the historic city where butter goes to feel good about itself.

Butter chicken in Ludhiana

Whenever a conversation about travel pops up in our Insta-propelled world, anything less than space travel, or at least an Antarctic expedition, is seen as slacking off. Naturally, visiting Amritsar is not a dream I’d often shared with the intrepid mountaineers, deep-sea divers and tireless novelty-seekers in my circle. This summer, as Covid restrictions finally loosened, my long-harboured plans finally firmed up. I found myself on a road trip from Delhi to Amritsar through the fabled Grand Trunk Road, with three drivers arguing over shared control of the wheel as I enjoyed complete control over the car stereo. Talk about a good deal.

Several Daler Mehndi classics later we hit Ludhiana, where the temptation of butter chicken lured us off the highway and into the city. Just the colour of the dish was enough to dazzle my Mumbai-trained senses. None of that bright or deep orange—the two shades typical of the Bambaiyya version. Mustard yellow with chicken of a succulence worthy of a Sahir Ludhianvi lyric. Not long after, as the car vroomed to the tune of Udta Punjab, we were stopped by a cop for speeding—a transgression we talked our way out of citing the purpose of the journey: a visit to Harmandir Sahib, or the Golden Temple.

A pre-Partition past

An atheist feels like an impostor in a holy setting. I made it worse for myself by trying to avoid stepping into a shallow pool of water before entering the hallowed premises. A couple of Nihang Sikhs—they of the blue attire, prominent swords and commanding personalities—manning the entrance made sure I complied, but they mercifully did it with a laugh. As the temple achieved its sunlit brilliance by degrees, we got into the snaking queue for darshan of the Guru Granth Sahib. Sonorous chants of the slogan ‘Sat Sri Akaal’ occasionally rang out, and I was overcome by the comforting feeling of community that is withheld from those who ceaselessly question from the sidelines. Moments later, my companions and I left the endless queue, scuttling sideways like guilty crabs, drowning our collective failure in a divine bowl of kada prasad.

I was uninterested in the two other compelling Amritsar sights—Jallianwala Bagh and the Wagah Border. The first, from all sane accounts, has been “redeveloped” to resemble a falooda. The second involves a kind of pomp and pageantry that I find dispiriting. Instead, we weaved in and out of ancient bylanes, looking for the ancestral home of one of my three companions. There it stood, a wrinkled sentinel from our pre-Partition past, its red-bricks and coloured glass telling a hundred-year-old story.

Under the peepal tree

I can’t invoke the spirit of Bourdain without offering it its culinary due. It was my first visit, and I was more than happy to do the well-trod food tour. Fried fish at the buzzing Makhan restaurant; greasy vegetarian delights from paalak paneer to baigan bharta at the century-old Kesar da Dhaba; buttery lassi at Ahuja Milk Centre; dreamy kulfi with rabdi at A-One Kulfa; and glorious aam papad at Lubhaya Ram, an establishment that earned its legendary status operating from under a peepal tree next to the Girls’ College.

All of these enticements should’ve been enough to placate the insatiable gourmand in me. But no. I had to try the butter chicken burger at a highway McDonald’s on the drive back. Whatever you do in Punjab, do not, I repeat, do not repeat my mistake. Unless you’re a masochist with a special weakness for antibiotics. Apart from a stomach bug, I left the city with a bright phulkari dupatta, patterned palazzo pants and a newfound interest in Diljit Dosanjh, whose smile illuminated a thousand city billboards. Now I need to plan another trip just to do justice to the chhole kulche.

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From HT Brunch, April 16, 2022

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