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N O V E M B E R  1 9 9 9

Travel India's Grand Trunk Road

On the subcontinent's most historic highway a traveler experiences squalor and splendor alike

by Jeffrey Tayler

(The online version of this article appears in two parts. Click here to go to part two.)

Photograph by Jeffrey Tayler
  Nine hundred pounds of gold leaf are
  reflected in the waters of the
  Golden Temple

ACROSS the emerald pool fell a shimmering image of lotus-shaped cupolas and copper-gilt walls. Dhoti-clad men lowered themselves on chains into the water to perform ablutions; women in saris murmured prayers in Punjabi. Such a domain of peace and piety -- the Golden Temple, the sanctum sanctorum of Sikhism -- had been impossible to imagine while navigating the clamorous lanes of Amritsar outside. The temple was orderly, efficient, with gurus on duty in shrines around its sides, and with Sikh bookstores and a museum of Sikh history at its entrance. Sikh guards, dressed in robes of alabaster white and turbans of royal blue, patrolled the chalk-soft marble walkways with spears, enforcing a discipline and solemnity foreign to places of worship elsewhere in India.

India has manifold communities, and the Sikhs are among the most prosperous, hardworking, and insular of them. But it was not specifically an interest in Sikhs that drew me to Amritsar during the recent hot season (lasting roughly from April to July), before the monsoon. Rather, my motive for coming was to travel the road across northern India that begins in the Sikh state, the Punjab. The road had captured my imagination years ago, when I read Rudyard Kipling's Kim. At the beginning of the century Kipling called it "a wonderful spectacle.... without crowding.... green-arched, shade-flecked ... a river of life ... the backbone of all Hind." But India's National Highway No. 1, alias the Grand Trunk Road, or simply the GT, presented me with a less than grand first impression when I saw it on my way to the temple. Careering down the GT's sun-warped macadam were legions of trucks and rattling buses manned by drivers whose respect for the sanctity of life and limb put me in mind of the marauding barbarians of subcontinental yore. Mud-splattered buffalo jostled their way among swerving auto-rickshaws. Brahmin cows ambled down the middle of the road, pondering their world as they chewed cud and disrupted traffic. Its dangers aside, the GT remains, as Kipling wrote, "the road of Hindustan" along which "all India spread out to left and right." What's more, it runs through many of India's most historic places, including Delhi, Agra, and Varanasi, the holiest city of Hinduism, and ends just beyond Calcutta, the capital of the British Raj.

Discuss this article in Post & Riposte.

More travel writing in The Atlantic Monthly and Atlantic Unbound.

From the archives:

"Poor but Prosperous," by Akash Kapur (September, 1998)
Development and quality of life can't always be measured purely in economic terms. The Indian state of Kerala is a case in point.

"India's Bandit Queen," by Mary Anne Weaver (November, 1996)
A saga of revenge -- and the making of a legend of "the real India."

"Holy War Against India," by Conor Cruise O'Brien (August, 1988)
In India, the teachings of a militant guru are used to justify the atrocities committed by Sikh terrorists in their campaign to dismember the nation and establish "Khalistan."

From Atlantic Unbound:

Flashback: "Indian Passages" (July, 1997)
A hundred and forty years of Atlantic articles about India reveal as much about the world's evolving view of India as they do about India itself.

Atlantic Abroad: "Opium in the Naga Hills," by Rahul Goswami (September, 1998)
"For Indian officialdom, a border exists. For the Konyak Nagas, there is none. It is merely an inconvenient line drawn by a British cartographer."

Atlantic Abroad: "The Bulls of Goa," by Rahul Goswami (June 16, 1999)
"There are fighting bulls in Goa, a small state on the west coast of India."

Atlantic Abroad: "Onion Logic," by Akash Kapur (March 31, 1999)
"Not long ago I found myself engaged in a feud with a restaurant manager in Kuilapalayam, a village in the south of India."

Atlantic Abroad: "The Tiger Queen," by Akash Kapur (September, 1998)
"The maharaja was always surrounded by tigers -- domesticated ones that ate out of his hands."

Atlantic Abroad: "The Courts of Pondicherry," by Akash Kapur (February 4, 1998)
"For reasons unfathomable even to me, I've entered a state tennis tournament in Pondicherry, a former French colony on the South Indian coast."

Atlantic Abroad: "Sikkim and Ye Shall Find," by Akash Kapur (November 26, 1997)
"Everywhere during our travels in Sikkim -- a sliver of a Himalayan state tucked just below the Sino-Indian border and made part of the Indian Republic only in 1975 -- we saw reminders of the fact that we were traveling through disputed border territory."

Related links:

Punjab Online
"A forum for all types of people worldwide to discuss important issues, share information, and learn more about the culture of Punjab."

"A global Sikh gathering place," offering news, cultural information, discussion groups, and more.

Geography has destined the GT to play a role in the history of India in every age. Since the Aryan invasion of the subcontinent, 3,500 years ago, the natural route that starts at the Khyber Pass and sweeps east, between the Himalayas and the Thar Desert onto the Gangetic plain, has served as a corridor for the movement of travelers, goods, armies, and ideas. Hinduism, Jainism, Sikhism, and Buddhism all developed in its environs, and Muslim proselytizers traveled it on their missions. Since Partition, in 1947, Pakistan has controlled the 300-mile segment between Peshawar and Lahore, but the other 1,250 miles of the GT still link six Indian states. It is the lifeline of northern India.

Religious animosity along the Grand Trunk Road has caused much bloodshed, and nowhere more than in the Punjab. In 1984 Sikh separatists seized the Golden Temple, and the Indian government, in Operation Blue Star, blasted them out, killing more than 2,000 people. A few months later Prime Minister Indira Gandhi, who had ordered the assault, was assassinated in revenge by her Sikh bodyguards. The temple has since been repaired, and the Punjab is now at peace. But when I walked into the Akal Takht, the second most sacred shrine on the grounds of the Golden Temple, I found a guru ritualistically brandishing swords, sabers, and daggers, and explaining to the assembled company the bloody history of each weapon. A middle-aged Sikh introduced himself as Jatinder and said to me in hushed, stern tones, "Look at these weapons. We do not advocate war. But when you are attacked, you must fight, and fight like a lion. Hand to hand." Sikhs, he said, had cultivated a certain militancy out of necessity, having been much persecuted over the centuries by their neighbors. Hence the discipline, the patrolling guards, the temple's rare emphasis on order.

A FEW days later, on the ashen lot of Amritsar's Roadway Station, I boarded a serviceable gray bus marked STATE TRANSPORT for my first trip on the Grand Trunk Road. A succession of chanting coconut vendors, importunate nut peddlers, and itinerant cucumber salesmen, their skinned oblong wares dispensed with pinches of salt from grimy fingers, meandered up and down the aisle. A man displayed a selection of plastic fans, and I bought one. The heat was terrific, well over 112 , and the humidity debilitating; I yearned to get moving. It looked as though we would be going nowhere soon, however -- there was no driver about. I stepped off the bus to stretch my legs.

I should not have underestimated the Sikh penchant for discipline. At the exact departure time a turbaned Sikh, seemingly in one motion, flung open the driver's door and hurled himself into his seat, started the engine, blasted his horn, and hit the accelerator. As I leaped aboard, vendors jumped out. I stumbled to my seat, my hair sprinkled with nuts. Ahead of us carts scattered and merchants darted for their lives. Minutes later we sped onto the eucalyptus-lined tarmac, forcing our way between lazy bullock carts and wobbling bicycles, overloaded auto-rickshaws and imperious cows. Passenger cars the driver simply drove off the road with a flourish of his horn and a shake of his fist.

Despite the pace, I enjoyed the breeze flowing in through my window. Flat and fertile Punjabi farms, dotted with oxen straining ahead of wooden ploughs, slipped by between the tree trunks. I dozed off, but found my sleep peopled by fiendish turban-topped drivers who laughed as they barreled their trucks toward us head-on in harrowing games of chicken. I started awake -- to find turbaned Sikh drivers laughing as they barreled their trucks toward us head-on in harrowing games of chicken. On the Grand Trunk Road every bus, truck, and jalopy must pass the vehicle ahead, and chicken is the sport of choice.

Photograph by Jeffrey Tayler
  A poster for Delhi's Charity
  Birds Hospital

VULTURES swirled in the steely noon sky above the towers and bastions of Delhi's massive Red Fort, a grand sandstone structure that saw most of its treasures and furnishings plundered by the Persians in 1739 and during the Raj. Across from it stands an ocherous Jain temple, on the grounds of which is the Charity Birds Hospital. The Jain sect of Hinduism holds that all life is sacred. Though this is not a particularly original religious precept, the fact that the Jains have built an animal sanctuary and hired doctors to heal injured birds, rabbits, and squirrels is impressive. I wanted to see this place.

I deposited my shoes and leather belt at the temple gate (no items made from animal products are allowed inside) and mounted the stairs to the hospital. A girl ran past me in tears, carrying a partridge in cupped hands. Upstairs a young Hindu veterinarian (the only Jain involved is the manager) carefully pinched the bird's beak and administered medicine with a dropper.

I wandered through the intensive-care ward, a narrow tiled room with shoebox-sized birdcages on one side and walk-in cages on the other. Melancholy parrots pecked at mangos; mange-ridden rabbits ran up to the cage mesh to sniffle at me as I passed. Most distressing, pigeons stood with their heads drooping on necks as flaccid as rubber bands, blinking helplessly, looking at me with their eyes upside down. The vet came up and introduced himself as Dr. Vijay. "They are suffering from encephalomalacia, a common problem among pigeons," he said.

An aquiline shriek resounded from the end of the ward. In a walk-in cage a tawny eagle, huge and powerfully built, was trying and failing to flap a cast-bound wing. My eyes scanned the wall above him and fell upon murals showing ceiling fans slicing up hapless swallows, peacocks pruning their tails, hawks tearing into squirming sparrows. The eagle was a flesh-eater, and the mural above him, with its depiction of one of his carnivorous fellows, seemed to consign him to the category of an ornithological Genghis Khan. I asked Dr. Vijay how he felt about this patient.

"Well, in truth we cannot permit him to stay long, because of his lifestyle."

"What do you feed him?"


"You feed eagles bread? Do they eat it?"

"They prefer other things, but we cannot allow them to pursue their way of life here. It is against our philosophy."

The eagle shrieked again, extending his yard-long healthy wing and lurching about. A slab of chapati lay untouched in the corner of his cage.


The online version of this article appears in two parts. Click here to go to part two.

Jeffrey Tayler lives in Moscow. His first book, Siberian Dawn, was published last year.

Copyright © 1999 by The Atlantic Monthly Company. All rights reserved.
The Atlantic Monthly; November 1999; India's Grand Trunk Road - 99.11; Volume 284, No. 5; page 42-48.