Striking gold

Having left Delhi in low spirits I arrived in Amritsar full of hope and cheerful again after my experience with Businessman on the train. I had high hopes for the city. How could I not, with its place as Sikhism's holiest site?

When I arrived the station was as noisy, smelly and chaotic as the one I'd left in Delhi. This didn't matter - all Indian stations are like this. All human life passes through. I saw families of three generations travelling together; groups of children off to school; farmers with sacks of dried chillies, spilling from splits in the stitching; and chai-wallahs hawking their hot sweet tea with hoarse cries of 'Garam chai, garam chai' - 'hot tea, hot tea'. Thin-as-wire porters carried enormous packages on their heads with nothing more than a wad of cloth for protection.

All their noise and baggage and mess is dragged through the station. Bags clout you from all sides with no apology from their owners, and queuing is an alien concept. He who has the sharpest elbows and loudest voice is served first.

My hotel was a tempting oasis of cool and calm, but an excitement in the air drew me outside and towards the Golden Temple. After removing my shoes, covering my head and bathing my feet, I entered the main gateway. The sight I saw gave me a feeling that is hard to describe, except with the prosaic term 'goosebumps'. Straight ahead of me in a serene, square pool of water stood the most beautiful building I have ever seen. Its shining golden walls and domes were covered in intricate floral designs and it glowed like fire in the late afternoon light. The white marble floors and colonnades that surrounded it were as clean and pure as snow. But what made it so beautiful was not just the setting but the people who filled it. Everywhere around the Pool of Nectar, Sikhs of all ages bent to touch the sacred floor with their forehead or stood in silent prayer, hands pressed together before them. Some men stripped to their shorts and bathed in the holy waters. Over it all, the sound of a priest inside the temple singing the holy prayers, accompanied by musicians, echoed all round the complex.

The sense of holiness and respectful devotion was totally moving and a lump came to my throat. As I sat on the steps leading to the pool, a young father came past, holding his tiny newborn baby - only a few weeks old. First he put the baby down gently on the floor and touched his own forehead to the cool white stone, before picking up his child again and touching his tiny forehead to the stone too. His gesture was so tender, loving and reverential for both his baby and the holy place that tears came to my eyes.

Crying behind my sunglasses, I watched the faithful perform their devotions. Indians are noisy people and, although there was a constant murmur of chatter, as they prayed each one was possessed by, not just silence, but a stillness that was remarkable.

Many had bought the little triangular headscarves on sale outside the temple to cover their heads. These are of the most intense saffron colour I have ever seen. As people moved, the scarves glowed like so many orange flames.

I stayed there for hours watching, immersed. Men, women and children of all ages were there. Groups of lads in their teens and twenties un-selfconsciously knelt and prayed or bathed in the pool, while elegant men with long flowing beards in majestic turbans of all colours quietly sang along to the holy chants, with no hint of embarrassment. Each was in their own little world of devotion, yet all were united in their faith.