memories of amritsar, and the golden temple

the rhythm resonates deep to my ribs, the tabla drums and the hot sun burning, our feet cold on the crystal white marble
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we walk into the golden temple, our bare feet passing through the fresh water marble basin, cleansing

the tabla are so beautiful, so beautiful here in my ears and body, they feel like food travelling down my throat and filling into my stomach

as we walk the sound is more intense, more soothing, more massaging

the tabla feel like wind blowing up into my nostrils and my lungs lifting

we walk in silence and watching and breathing.

this india is quiet, this india is sanctuary, this india is clean, this india is caste-defying. this india is sikh. this india is.

we are silenced, peaced. never have i felt as such.

the steady beat, the steady meticulous, perfect hands that are elderly practiced

and all are passing around the water to see the holy book.

the turbans here, the eyes are friendly, the colors a rare perfect vibrance in the light of the white marble. we pass through the hall of martyrs, the blood and torture depicted, and the tabla drums still perfectly pervading through all corners.

the bowls of food for any caste, coming from the perfect window and the sleeping grounds for weary travelers

this tabla here, this sun, this day and my breath i will not lose.