Langar at Sis Ganj- An Observation

‘Vaheguru Vaheguru Vaheguru’ and a pair of hands stretched for a piece of bread. Those wrinkled hands have the skin sunken under the hollow between the bones and the nerves protrude through the skin just enough to show that the man is famished. Then if you move to see his face, his gleaming eyes would tell you that it must have been a while since his last meal. The seva goes on mechanically, plate after plate, a serving spoon pours down some daal, another one khichdi, yet another sabji. Then somebody comes chanting ‘rotivahegururotivahegururotivahguru’, and some hands welcome it, some join together in gratitude, and some cross each other and separate indicating the roti is not needed. The buckets come and the buckets go, they hang above in the air and are never put down. The heads don’t allow the helpers to make any contact between the serving spoon and the plates; they say it would make the whole bucket of sabji ‘jhoota’. A man stands along the entrance to the langar, he’s a chemist. He comes here every day. He is enjoying his service and guides the younger helpers, at times he sends them to rejuvenate themselves with the sherbat. There is a long queue to the sherbat, the last part of the whole meal, a man hands over a glass and people exit. It tastes like lemonade and yet it is different.

A little boy sits with his father, he takes a piece of bread and puts in his mouth, takes another bite, and again a third one while still chewing on the first, his mouth swells like a balloon. Some children are guided by their parents on what to take and what not. They speak for their children. There are continuous rounds of the langar. After finishing meal, nobody is allowed to stay there, if the majority has finished eating, the others are asked to rush up as another queue of people waits outside the door. A man takes out polythene quickly and asks for some sabji, then wraps it up and it disappears somewhere. The heads come and tell the helpers to pour only little, and just one serving, but some people ask for more. Some haven’t had enough food, and some are full with little. For some the food is a present from God and they have it with a certain religiosity.

In the kitchen, men and women work together. One is allowed to enter the kitchen only after washing hands. A large, rectangular piece of marble lies on the floor and some women sit around it. The surface of the marble is covered with flour. Some plates lie there, on it lays the freshly rolled out dough. A woman sitting on the edge kneads out the dough; another one makes small balls out of the dough. There are several others who roll out the balls into a circle. Several clicks and flashes capture the whole process. The young tourists are all white women led by an Indian guide, they stand smiling at each other. Some of the enthusiastic ones sit down and test their skills. It is definitely their first time with the rotis. Some try and try to make a perfect circle but then they are called out by the guide before getting it right. A senior woman is rolling out rotis for some Major someone and she does not allow her rotis to be mixed with the others.

Further back in the kitchen lies a big tawa, a woman sits at the end of it and puts the rotis down on the tawa for a little heat, then a man with a big black weapon turns the sides of the rotis, he is a man of large built and hangs a kirpan around his waist. Another man takes the lightly heated roti and places it on fire till it swells up. An old man with a big basket places the baked rotis into it. There are huge utensils in the kitchen on which several men are engaged, some are preparing the daal and some sabji and so on. The clock ticks 12.30pm and the gates to the langar open to a horde of people.