SWARN

Today I talked to Swarn.

It is already the end of the afternoon but the temperature seems as high as at midday. I'm strolling around Los Feliz with a friend. On north Vermont Ave, we pass by an immaculate white temple. It is a square building with onion shaped cupolas. We can't figure out what kind of temple it is, so we decide to get closer. 

At the entrance door, a skinny Indian man is sitting on a metal chair. He tells us this is a Sikh temple. "From the Sikh religion," he says. He agrees to let us in and comes with us to a locker room. There is a high shelf with tiny compartments in it. "You leave your shoes here," says Swarn. "And you put this on your head," he adds. He points at a big basket full of yellow, orange and royal blue headscarves. Then, Swarn shows the piece of fabric tied on his own head to make sure that we understand what he just said. Swarn doesn't seem to have an age: his eyes are lively but some of his teeth are missing. He has been living in the U.S. for thirty years, and has worked at the temple for only four months. Before that, he was working at a motel. When his boss stopped paying him, he had to leave. He says it was tough for a while. He lost his apartment and couldn't find another one without a job. So he came to the temple. Now his job is to take care of the building. He also have a place to sleep, on the second floor. Every morning he opens the temple at 8am and closes at 9 in the evening.

My friend and I walk through the hall and enter an empty silent room. The floor is covered with  rugs. In the center, there is a large square that looks like an altar full of holy objects. Behind it on the wall, a wide picture of the Golden Temple of Amritsar, in the North of India. This place is the spiritual center of the Sikh religion. I remember spending one night there when I was backpacking through India a few years ago. Everyone was welcome to take a shower and sleep for free in the temple compound. The generosity of this community has stayed with me until that day.
 

We stop at the altar and look around. Two bearded men wearing turbans, and sitting in the far end of the room, are watching us. We greet them in silence and sit down. The men start to play music and sing. It is a simple and beautiful music. Then, Swarn puts a napkin in my hand. "Both hands," he says. So I take the napkin in both of my hands. He puts two large spoons of a brownish thick mixture on it. It is sweet and greasy. My friend and I look at each other, intimidated by the setting, the music, and Swarn's kindness. "Come on Sunday, at 9am. There's two hundred, three hundred people here. Black, White, everyone comes." We ask Swarn what is that food. "Flour, sugar, and butter. Special butter," he says. "It's the message from God."

A man wearing a large orange turban enters the room. He bows, throws a bundle of dollars on the altar, walks around it, salutes the priests and exits. Another man approaches the altar, bows with his hands on his forehead, moves them to his heart, and finally kneels down on the floor. He remains with this head on the floor for a while. We decide to get out of the temple, so I can take a picture of Swarn. But when we get there, the sun is disappearing behind the roofs. I decide to come back the following day.

 

The next day, nothing has changed. Swarn is sitting at the same spot at the entrance of the temple. The priests, Ajit Singh and Sohan Singh, are standing outside with him. They recognize me right away. One of them goes inside and brings back a warm cup of Indian Chai. The flavor of the spices and sweet milk is delicious. Swarn poses seriously even though he looks intimidated by the priests' presence. Then, when it is time for the picture, the priests strike a solemn pose, raise their heads, looking in the far distance. They become monumental figures of authority. I trigger my camera.