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Visions (In).Finite

The Amar Chitra Katha comics are unmatched for their altogether superb rendition of India’s history, mythology and folklore. Their wealth of stories holds much in store for all manner of topics under the sun. As we resume our musings on infinity, it is to this treasured collection that we return, for one more tale of the emperor Akbar and his minister Birbal.

The Sycophant’s Praise

One fine day, a wandering minstrel, hard of circumstances, came calling to Akbar’s court, requesting to sing for the emperor. Permission granted, the bard was soon in his element, entertaining all present with his paeans of fulsome praise for the emperor, extolling him at one point as even greater than God. Ridiculous as it was, the melodious flattery certainly succeeded in buttering up the emperor, who presently dismissed the sycophant with a generous reward for his efforts.

Having sent the man away, Akbar noticed that the sharp witted Birbal, always known to call a spade a spade, had remained silent throughout the performance, not raising as much as an eyebrow at the overly exaggerated praise. On the contrary, Birbal had even nodded mildly at the ridiculous line of the emperor being greater than God! ‘Tell me how in God’s world can that be true’, Akbar now prodded his minister.

The best of emperors can be whimsical, and however high they may hold you in regard, Birbal knew he was only one mistake away from being expelled from court or worse, if he so much as made a single careless slip of the tongue. But Birbal was also a master of thinking on his feet, and sure enough, had a quite precocious answer up his sleeve.

With the look of a teacher indulging his favorite pupil, the witty minister told Akbar that the sycophant was indeed correct in one specific, if rather narrow way. If Akbar wished to banish a man from his kingdom, all he had to do was to issue a royal decree to deport the man for good. But if the Lord of the whole wide Universe wanted to do the same thing, where was it that He could banish anyone to?

Akbar was both impressed and grateful for how tactfully Birbal had opened his eyes, delivering a nuanced lesson in humility, but with no humiliation whatsoever. With this clever response, Birbal had also juxtaposed physical and metaphysical infinities quite artfully, blending them into the same conversation. But this little story can also reveal a lot more to us about finitude and infinity.

Glimpses from Finite

In the nineteenth century novel, Sartor Resartus, Scottish philosopher Thomas Carlyle speculates on our perception of the universe.

‘We sit as in a boundless Phantasmagoria and Dream-grotto; boundless, for the faintest star, the remotest century, lies not even nearer the verge thereof; sounds and many-colored visions flit around our sense; but Him the Unslumbering, whose work both Dream and Dreamer are, we see not; except in rare half-waking moments, suspect not…’

The vastness of infinity can overwhelm the human mind, so much so that we are all pretty sure there’s nobody who has actually ‘seen’ infinity. Hold that thought for a moment though, convincing as it may be. It turns out that anytime we see a physical object (or envision something in the mind’s eye, like the extent of Akbar’s kingdom) we see it as outlined by its boundaries. No form can be seen without cognizing its boundary, and thereby its background context. That background, which is the space surrounding the object, is by its very nature limitless, even while it may include other encompassing objects or boundaries.

Such would be the case for example with concentric circles, where the space beyond the outermost circle is boundless. The background, which we cannot help seeing whenever we apprehend a particular form, is essentially unbounded, and infinite. We might not notice or pay attention to it, but it is always there.

Even in our finite vision, infinity thus turns out not to be some inaccessible and fanciful abstraction, but sitting right under our noses, so to speak. The background of space is not so much hard to see, as it is impossible to avoid. While our finite vision cannot survey all of it in one glance, one is still always catching a glimpse of infinity.

This reasoning can apply not just to ‘substantial’ objects, but also to something as insubstantial as a rainbow, whose boundaries are most easily seen as merging into the endless expanse of the sky.

You can also apply it to intangible things like emotions. Consider an outburst anger or an upsurge of joy. When we are aware of these, we are ‘seeing’ them spring up, out of the blue as it were, from the skylike backdrop of awareness. We might also notice they have a temporal beginning and end, set against the infinite expanse of time.

With a little leap of thought, such reasoning can extend to theology. The question of boundaries here might be framed as ‘where do I end, and where does God begin’.

With regard to metaphysical boundaries, we are really talking of spheres of influence. As human beings, the outer personality of our physical form is enfolded by layers of our subtle bodies and mind, to constitute our personal aura. For most people, the human aura extends for a few feet beyond the physical body. In the case of evolved beings though, their auras can be seen by clairvoyants as extending out for miles in the shape of a radiant sphere, charged with the power to influence others with healing and blessings.

Similar is the case we find in astrology, where the auras of the planetary angels extend and overlap as spheres which intersect, and to some extent interpenetrate each other, bringing varying kinds of energetic influences over time to chart human destiny.  Ruling above all of this is the Aura Supreme, of the Lord of the Universe, the akhanda mandala or unbroken sphere, penetrated by none, but penetrating All…the benevolent sphere of universal love which influences all others, but is influenced by none. This is the sphere of metaphysical infinity, the sphere from which no one can be banished ever.

Perhaps Ramakrishna, that much loved spiritual genius of Bengal, said it best to the skeptical young Narendranath Dutta who went on to become the world famous Swami Vivekananda. To Naren’s insistent question of if he had seen God, Ramakrishna responded with a dazzling conviction ‘Yes, I see Him, only a little more clearly than I see you!’ The boundaries that Ramakrishna’s vision transcended, of course, extended far beyond Vivekananda’s physical form. It was a timeless Presence that Ramakrishna saw naturally emmbodied in the young man, who was hugely taken with the saint’s startling reply.

Inter Being

Even if we ignored the background, we cannot miss the object itself. The great Vietnamese Zen master Thich Nhat Hahn reveals with astonishing clarity how just contemplating the finite can reveal the universal, in as much as a single sheet of paper.

‘If you are a poet, you will see clearly that there is a cloud floating in this sheet of paper; Without a cloud, there will be no rain; without rain, trees cannot grow, and without trees, we cannot make paper. If we look even more deeply, we can see the sunshine, the logger who cut the tree, the wheat that became his bread, and the logger’s father and mother. Without all of these things, this sheet of paper cannot exist. In fact, we cannot point to one thing that is not here – time, space, the earth, the rain, the minerals in the soil, the sunshine, the cloud, the river, the heat, the mind. Everything co-exists with this sheet of paper. So we can say that the cloud and the paper ‘inter-are’. We cannot just be by ourselves alone; we have to inter-be with every other thing.‘

/Thich Nhat Hahn, ‘The Heart of the Prajnaparamita Sutra‘

Whether we look at an object, or whether we look at its background, we are thereby always glimpsing the infinite. This inter-being that Thich Nhat Hahn talks of is vast and cosmic in its scope, extending all the way up to the Unbroken Spere of the akhanda mandala. It is perhaps what Blake alludes to, when he penned those lovely lines…

To see a World in a Grain of Sand
And a Heaven in a Wild Flower 
Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand 
And Eternity in an hour

Measure(less) Mind

Mind is wont to measure and size up everything. Children obsess about their heights, adults about their weights and girths, including if the zero of the weighing scale has been fairly calibrated. Today’s trending measures include BMI, cholesterol, and the number of steps as reported by Fitbit or a less fancy pedometer. We also have measures, albeit subjective, for beauty and proportion, homely vs comely, and in short, for all things (and creatures) great and small.

But if there is one thing the mind cannot get the measure of, it is of itself, it’s own extent, and we cannot even be sure if there is a limit to it.

At the back of all preoccupation with the limited is the fascination for the limitless, which in psychological terms is the yearning for some sort of unrestricted freedom. Nobody has ever seen infinity, but every one of us had the taste of being bound and restricted, and therefore by reflex, the yearning for something free and unbound. We have also the sense that this yearning would not be there unless it was in some manner capable of being fulfilled, though we may not know exactly how. Mind suspects intuitively that the infinite is concealed by the finite, the extraordinary lurks under the veil of the ordinary, and the limitless is shrouded by the limited.

Infinite Vision

The finite can catch a glimpse of the infinite, but what would it be to gaze at infinity directly, without the intervening presence or support of the finite? This is the subjective experience of pure infinity, pristine and unconditioned, one beyond the reach of any mental gymnastics. This is the gazing into Absolute, all of it at once. As the Zen saying goes, it is ‘to swallow the Pacific Ocean in a single gulp’. How can a finite mind manage it? The approach has to be one  not of brute force, but strategy. This is the approach of subtle mirroring.

Perhaps gazing deep into the sky of outer space, with not even the stars to intervene, might bring us close to this experience. The mind, after all, is well known to take on the contours of the objects it is focused on.

Now just like if you kept travelling East you might at some point find yourself in the West, if you kept gazing into boundless space, your attention might at some point be thrown back into itself, doing an about turn as it were to go deep within. Gazing into all-encompassing outer space, the mind’s inner spaciousness then comes to the fore. A gap opens up into the mind’s inner sky, the window of Zen’s ‘satori’, bridging outer expanse of space with inner expanse of mind into the Celestial Everywhere.

In like manner, if one looked into the present moment deeply enough, mind’s sense of present time can open up into the Timeless Now, in whose archives everything even of the future happened long ago, so that this Moment is forever new.

Diving deep, beyond reach of words and thought, mind ultimately merges in the liberating expanse of its very own nature, of unconditioned awareness. In such awareness might be revealed how all the outer infinities, of our endless inter-being, of infinite space, of eternal time, and the all-encompassing love of the Unbroken Sphere, are but reflections of mind-nature, that of pristine freedom.

Such is the state of samadhi, the unbounded infinity of the wise. Shankara, most celebrated of India’s mystics, describes it eloquently. ‘Thou from whom all words recoil’.

While from his vantage point of the Dream-grotto, Thomas Carlyle echoes a similar understanding…

‘Think well, thou too wilt find that Space is but a mode of our human Sense, so likewise Time; We are – we know not what; Light-sparkles floating in the aether of Deity!’

The Deity of the Celestial Everywhere and Timeless Now.

Looking From Infinity

Glorious as infinte vision might be, what then is the value of the finite?

Just like with a shift of perception, we saw that the finite cannot avoid the infinite, could the flipside be true, that from the infinite eye, it would be impossible to avoid the finite?

From the North Pole, all directions point South. Wherefore from infinity, we might ask. How would the finite appear to the vision and gaze of the infinite?

The answer, truly speaking, can only be found in a consciousness that has tasted of satori or samadhi at least once. But that does not stop us from some creative speculation.

The vision of the finite that we may be privileged to see, from the wakefulness of infinite vision, may not necessarily be one of physical boundaries, but one of boundaries of consciousness.

The finite may appear as finite, but not necessarily in set and rigid contours as before. The boundaries may be like that of the spectrum of the colors of light, with each microtone of color merging seamlessly into the next micro-wavelength of radiation.

So it might be with levels of consciousness, from crystals and minerals, to plants and animals, human beings and stars, all the way to the brilliance of divine consciousness. All in all, the world of finitude appears much like a dreamlike vision, a smorgasbord of colors of every possible hue in consciousness. Speculations on the identity of the dreamer, if there is indeed one, or if dream and dreamer are one, and so on, are a wholly different philosophical cup of tea. All we know for sure is those who have chanced upon such a vision never stop speaking of its endless beauty.

From finite gazing (if unknowingly) into infinite, to infinity’s immaculate gazing at itself, and then back to looking ‘out of infinity’ in fresh colors, we have mirrored the path of the wise, who straddle finite and infinite, the dance of Relative and the play of Absolute Reality, with consummate ease.

These are the seers of Truth, the Rishis of every land and epoch. It is said of these noble ones, that immersed in the thrall of the Absolute, their all-pervading compassion never loses touch with the Relative. And immersed in the dance of the Relative, their all-pervading wisdom never loses sight of the Absolute. Theirs is the infinite kingdom.

So what of infinity as it relates to our own roamings, in the pursuits and concerns of life? There is this sense we’ve all had, at some point or other, that life is a journey, be that journey a wandering or a homecoming. The ideas of roaming, space and direction can be viewed from the perspective of metaphysics, but can also be complemented by some interesting insights from the world of arithmetic and geometry.

Our next blog post will embark on these journeys (in)finite.

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Musings (In).Finite

Infinity is that strangest of things, in as much as it can be called a ‘thing’. It conjures up images of an expanse without limits, be it of vast landscapes, boundless oceans or limitless skies.  The borderless expanse of infinity is also a field of fertile imagination, one which reveals surprising twists and paradoxes that can entertain as much as they confound.

The idea of infinity has inspired many works of art and genius. One of the most innovative of enterprises of our times, Apple, has for its worldwide headquarters the very interesting address of ‘1, Infinity Loop’. Recently, infinity bubbled up in popular discourse courtesy the movie, ‘The Man Who Knew Infinity’. The movie portrays the life of Srinivasa Ramanujan, the divinely inspired Indian mathematician whose work of a century ago continues to create goosebumps for the most seasoned mathematicians of today.  

We have of course several flavors of infinity, drawing people of every ilk to come explore its territory. There’s the physical infinity of space, the temporal infinity of time, the mathematical infinity of numbers and sets, and the cosmic infinity of metaphysics. Scientists and artists, mathematicians and mystics alike have all been drawn to infinity’s domain in the most creative ways.

Pitching tent at base camp with their experiences and theories of the finite world, they have mounted inspired attempts up the slopes of infinity, a mountain whose peak has remained forever shrouded from view. The climb is daunting, but even the smallest of footholds gained reveals vistas of uncommon beauty, even as however far up one manages to go, the summit remains as elusive as ever. Which is as it should be, for infinity would not be what it is if there was even faint chance we could gain measure of it with our conventional ways.

Tricks In Finite

In daily life, the notion of infinity is often associated with anything that is outsized large, and therefore not amenable to easy comprehension. Clever folks can use ‘enormous’ or ‘infinitely big’ to gain a lot of accommodation. Large numbers can be intriguingly elastic, as seen in the following tale.

It is one of many tales of the Mughal emperor Akbar and his wise minister Birbal, illustrated in that hallowed collection of India’s comic book treasures, the legendary Amar Chitra Katha. The story illustrates some of the flexibility and fun afforded even by everyday large numbers, not to speak of infinity, the big daddy of them all.

The Crows of Agra

Birbal was far and away the cleverest and most astute minister in Akbar’s Mughal court in the capital city of Agra. It made him the emperor’s counsellor of first and last resort, and thus not surprisingly, the object of grinding envy and jealousy of several other courtiers. One could empathize with them, for the emperor had this most frustrating and consistent habit of ignoring their (usually unsolicited) advice in favor of Birbal’s. The courtiers could do little but try to reason out with the emperor, and when that fell on deaf ears, they took to complaining and spreading all sorts of rumors and calumny.

The whining of the courtiers grew into a persistent and loud chorus like a bunch of raucous crows with each passing day. The emperor humored them for a while, till one fine day he decided it was getting out of hand, and decided to show them their place once and for all. After the morning session of court, Akbar called the disgruntled courtiers to join him for a post-lunch stroll in the palace gardens, upon which they were told they would soon be joined by Birbal, and would all be given the same question to answer. The coterie of whiners were allowed the advantage of collectively working on the problem, while Birbal would have to figure it out alone.

Soon enough, Birbal was summoned to join their august company, and upon his arriving, the emperor looked up into the Agra skies to announce the question. The problem was to come up with the exact count of crows in the city of Agra. They had five minutes in all to figure this out, with the warning that random or incorrect answers would invoke harsh consequences.

The bumbling courtiers were flummoxed at this impossible and quite ridiculous test. Five minutes ticked by, while they gazed vacant and clueless into space as if beseeching heavenly assistance. Nothing of that sort transpired, and the emperor gave them first go at their (non)answer, which was a collective shaking of downturned heads at being teased and made fools of.

Akbar then turned to Birbal, who smiling at his rivals, astounded everybody, including the emperor himself, with a supremely confident answer. Pulling a number out of thin air, Birbal’s answer for the number of crows in Agra was the very large, yet very precise count of 116, 523!

The jealous courtiers were even more flabbergasted now. Surely Birbal had not set upon counting the crows to arrive at the number. The emperor, equally taken in by Birbal’s brazen confidence, decided in the interests of transparency and fairness to challenge Birbal to prove himself.

What if, Akbar demanded, the number of crows turned out to be greater than Birbal’s figure? Pat came Birbal’s clever reply, those would be relatives of Agra’s crows from elsewhere in the country come to visit their brethren. And what if the correct count of crows was lower. For which Birbal’s response was it would be on account of some of Agra’s crows having gone out of town visiting their relatives in the countryside!

This elasticity in the unknown number of crows provided the perfect cover for Birbal, whose brilliant mind knew that with any large and unverifiable number, there was always this clever margin for deliberate confusion and error. Adding or subtracting a few hundred, or even thousands of crows would matter for nothing, since there was no way for anybody to trap and count all the crows, of which there were clearly a humongous number to buffer for any and all eventualities. Birbal had beaten the whining coterie fair and square, and the emperor, naturally, was beaming and grinning.

If this feat be true of a hundred thousand, imagine the play with infinitely large numbers. Infinity can be infinitely accomodating, and fun to boot.

All Numbers Great and Small

The mind’s innate tendency and activity is to measure and grapple with everything, and if possible, all of them at once. Cognitive specialists however say we are rather severely limited in this regard. We cannot hold more than a few distinct objects in focus at once. Some say that magic number is 7, which is for most people more than they can handle, however good they are with multi-tasking or multi-focusing. Good luck then with an infinite number of objects!

C. Northcote Parkinson, the grand doyen of British management humor, illustrates this even better in his satirical portrayal of how budget discussions happen in corporate boardrooms. When an important sounding resolution with an atrocious price tag of a million or more pounds is debated, few of the board members dare to raise objections. For by doing so, the suited and booted worthies of the board, none of whom have mentally had occasion to handle anything more than a few thousand pounds in daily life, run the unpalatable risk of sounding stupid and incoherent. We thus have the frequent (and comical, if not for the monies involved) spectacle of million-dollar proposals passed for approval in the blink of an eye, considerations of genuineness or worthiness being given the hindmost.

On the flip end of the budgetary spectrum, similar is the case for proposals of value hundred pounds or less, such figures being beneath the dignity of the eminent members of the board to waste their valuable time and attention on. Nobody wants to be stuck with either the weight of a million pounds, or the nuisance of worthless pennies.

It is the mid-tier proposals of a few thousand pounds that excite the most fervent imagination, provoking all manner of passionate discussion and furious arguments and rebuttals in the boardroom. Every person on the board feels like they have bounden duty to make prevail their senile counsel as regards such sums of money. Each of them has known and can relate to what handling a few thousand pounds feels like on their annual bonus, and the prospects of retail therapy that it can afford for domestic happiness. Pound wise, mega pound foolish, it would seem, is the mantra at work.

Yet, the subjective experience of the same finite number can differ amongst people, and also in different contexts for the same person. A 100 is a big number/quantity to a child just beginning to learn counting, and a 108 can spark several connotations, including religious ones.

For most people, there is no tangible difference between 783 million vs. 784 million, whereas the difference of 1 million between these numbers in and as of itself is something enormous. For most people, the difference between 783 and 784 million is no different from between 783 and 784. All such humongous numbers are equally remote to the mind’s comprehension.

Transcending the Finite

Getting to ‘truly big’ numbers, we enter the domain of mathematical infinity. Things can get a little subjective here. We are bound to straddle into philosophy, for at some point, mathematics inevitably lends itself to philosophy.

If you have a fancy for large numbers, you’ve probably heard of the ‘googol’, which is 1 followed by a hundred 0’s. You then have the Googolplex, which is 1 followed by a googol zeroes.

The Googolplex is a staggeringly huge number. It is however staggeringly small when you consider Graham’s number, or similar such numbers that are defined on the basis of exponential powers. Things get better (as in bigger) if we take Googleplex raised to its own power, and exponentially bigger if we repeat the exercise recursively.

With such mental gymnastics, where does it leave us vis-à-vis infinity? All of this expert maneuvering with mega numbers, and it turns out we are still as distant from infinity as the simplest and most natural of all numbers, the one (and only) 1. Indeed, standing on the shores of infinity, 1 and Googleplex are like next door neighbors.

Thereby arises this beautiful implication to the Sanskrit word ‘Ananta’, meaning ‘that which has no end’, as an attribute of the divine. In the face of the unfathomable vastness of the divine, we might all be immeasurably closer than we think.

At the speed of thought, the numerical chasm between 1 and Googleplex is traversed in the blink of an eye. In thought-free awareness, which sees all of the infinite expanse of number at once, there is no distance to speak of anymore.

Like so, the angels are said to traverse the enormous distances between worlds at light speed, in the blink of an eye. At God speed, all worlds merge in omnipresence.

Invoking the Infinite

The name ‘Ananta’ is the second of three invocations in the daily Vedic ritual of ‘aachamanam’, which involves the sipping of water while reciting each of these invocations to the divine.

‘Venerations to Achyuta’

‘Venerations to Ananta’

‘Venerations to Govinda’

Achyuta, the first of the invoked names, connotes ‘unchangeable’, an appellation that holds most naturally for infinity. For it remains undiminished, whether out of the ocean of infinity you took just a sip, or as the Zen saying goes, drank the Pacific ocean in a single gulp. Sip and gulp both are of equally blissful completeness.

With the third name, one of the meanings of ‘Govinda’ is He who gives pleasure to the senses, the kind of happiness that is inexhaustible, that can only spring from the infinite.

We thus find the notions of infinity mirrored as much in spirituality as in math and science. This is no coincidence, for the worlds of mathematical infinity and Reality both overlap in beautiful no-mind.

The world of infinity has of course plenty more to offer. We’ll explore some of those insights in a sequel blog.

Till then, happy meanderings in whichever bubble of mind you find yourself in. To all bubbles, infinity sends immeasurably fond regards.

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Glimpses of Bali

Gaze merging into this vast expanse

Of sea and surf, sun and sky

Who art Thou that gazes

From all embracing, immaculate purity.

Who hides there in that Heart essence,

Secret strummer of my heart strings

Is it me inside You

Or You inside me.

Will sea and sky last forever

Or will You last forever,

In this dance of boundless forms

All achingly sweet

And ultimately heartbreaking,

Providing forever fleeting glimpses

Of Timeless Being.

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Tales of a Tiffin

Ask anybody with even a smattering of familiarity with India, and the name IIT is likely to evoke positive recall. The Indian Institutes of Technology have indeed carved a glorious niche for themselves in the annals of higher engineering education. In this modern world of all pervasive technology, the IITs are a matter of pride for India, with many of their alumni counting among the who’s who of business, industry and academia worldwide, adding to India’s growing soft power and prestige in the global arena.

The topic though is a different IIT, granting for some poetic license with the acronym. This is not the venerable institution, but it might well be one, in a manner of speaking, for it enjoys a similar eminent status in discerning international circles. This other IIT has also risen to prominence with India’s growing soft power. In so doing, it has made waves for India in the world of global cuisine. This is India’s International Tiffin. The Dosa.

The Dosa needs no introduction really. Its reputation precedes it, and naturally so. Sure, there are several other Indian snack foods, like the chaat dishes and the mithais, all deservedly popular. Amongst them all though, the unobtrusive dosa is arguably numero uno. It’s international stature only continues to swell with every passing day.

The dosa has certainly come a long way from its humble origins in the kitchens and tiffin houses of South India. It is the Indian analog of the Western crepe. The batter by default is usually made of fermented rice flour and black gram. You also have the rava dosa, made from semolina batter, and healthier alternatives with other grains, like millet or amaranth dosas. The dosa can be made crisp or soft, plain or with a variety of fillings (masala). It is usually served with piping hot sambar, a thick tangy stew flavored with vegetables, and one or more chutneys, fresh grated coconut chutney being the most popular.

Growing up in Tamil Nadu, there was no dearth of this most delightful of foods. You could have dosas for both breakfast and the evening tiffin, and even for lunch or dinner come to think of it. Eateries in the remotest towns and villages would serve the most magnificent dosas. In fact, the popularity of a restaurant had frequently to do with the quality of its dosa, and the dosa’s cousin, the idli. Several South Indian restaurant franchises, like the Udupi chain, would pride themselves on their dosas, which you could expect to be of consistently high standard. The quality depends on the batter of course, but the chef makes the final difference, for the dosa, ultimately, is a thing of delicacy. While a good dosa can be replicated with the right batter by a reasonably competent cook, the truly excellent dosa needs the kai pakkuvam, that spontaneous touch of hand innate to all chefs of fine standing.

Not too long ago in India, good dosas were generally to be had only south of the Vindhyas. North Indian eateries would almost always have a harder time serving up the same quality, and even if they managed to get the dosa right, the sambar or the chutney presented formidable challenges. Outside of major metros, dosas could generally be found in small town North India only if the place had a cosmopolitan population, like the steel city of Jamshedpur. But starting with the mid-eighties, and continuing into the 1990’s, the dosa’s fortunes began to climb. As more Indians began to travel and explore more of India, the dosa acquired the status of national tiffin.

Even remote hamlets could now serve up a dosa surprise, and among these, several were at travel hubs, like the canteens at stations on the Indian railway network. I recall distinctly the masala dosa at Rangiya, a sleepy town in faraway Assam. The dosa served in that lovely little rail cafe, after a journey of 60 hours from Bombay en route to Guwahati, was simply fabulous. Equally vivid are my memories of a small restaurant in the temple hamlet of Gaurikund, in the midst of a pilgrimage trek high up in the Himalayas. Lower down the hills, Mussorie and Rishikesh have been good dosa destinations for a while. But tasting the superb dosa in Gaurikund was a welcome change from the ubiquitous local breakfast staple, the aloo paratha. It lifted my travel weary spirits like magic.

Prime Minister Rajiv Gandhi certainly helped boost the dish’s popularity by mandating soft dosa and chutney on the in-flight menu for every one of his numerous foreign junkets. And then one fine morning I read in the newspaper that masala dosas were a big draw at the National Stadium in Karachi, venue of an ongoing test match between arch cricketing rivals India and Pakistan. The struggling Indian team may have found the Pakistani spectators partisan, but the crowd certainly showed no such prejudice against this appetizing snack of South Indian origins, which for many of them was a first. Merit, inevitably, is always applauded! Whoever was the smart entrepreneur at Karachi had certainly broken fresh ground for the dosa.

In the spring of 2001, I journeyed through Nepal and Tibet, in the course of my first ever visit to sacred Mt. Kailash. At that time, Kathmandu’s Thamel district featured delicious dosas, courtesy a restaurant run by a most lovely Sikh gentleman. Upon entering Tibet next, we were surprised by a delectable dosa breakfast in the hill town of Zhangmu. The dosa had clearly conquered the subcontinent.

Beyond India, Singapore, with its long-standing populace of Tamil origins, and innumerable Indian restaurants, has always been a dosa happy hunting ground. You could also find dosas in the UK, with perhaps links dating to pre-independence days. But the surge in the dosa’s global popularity in recent times, especially in North America, might well be attributed to the growth of India’s IT services sector. A good bit of the software boom was fueled by South Indians, who in the course of their increasing travels within and beyond India, brought with them both their fondness and their insatiable demand for the dosa.

Today, you can find a dozen dosa outlets in places as far apart as Dallas and Seattle, Atlanta and Toronto. Chains like Anjappar’s and Saravana Bhavan, of course, can be found serving dosas in New Jersey and San Jose. Purists might well frown, but the American penchant for innovation has led to fun new adaptations like the chocolate dosa, the corn dosa and the spinach and cheese dosa. Much like Pizza Hut, there’s the Dosa Hut chain, with one of its outlets right next door to the venerable Ganesha temple in Queens, New York. The temple canteen itself is justly famous for its outstanding dosa delights, and home quality food in general. And not surprisingly, in the San Francisco Bay Area, we have a restaurant chain named for the dish itself, the Dosa, with locations in Fillmore, Valencia and Oakland. Beyond the scores of South Indian restaurants in Silicon Valley, there are Dosaterias now at Whole Foods Market, and then there’s also Vik’s market in Berkeley, a rare North Indian jewel whose dosa treats can give most South Indian dosa houses a run for their money.

Back in my college days at IIT Bombay, the affable Prof Chandrasekhar, Dean of Student Affairs, was fondly referred to as the Dosa, not merely by us students, but I suspect, by his own colleagues as well. It only served to reinforce for us the excellence of IIT, both of the institution and the tiffin. No IIT alumnus will grudge the dosa this sharing of appellations!

I sometimes wonder if we could have a sequel to the likes of A. L. Basham’s extraordinary tome of the 1950’s, ‘The Wonder That Was India’.  If Basham had to extend his time horizons to cover modern India, there are several things he would find worthy to write about. For sure, both types of IIT will feature prominently, the institution and the dosa. Both are stellar global ambassadors of today’s Wonder That Is India.

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Birthdays Unlimited

Birthdays were pretty tame affairs in the conservative milieu of India we grew up in. My mom, unfailingly, would indulge us with our favorite payasam, when any of our family birthdays came around. Till I was ten years or so, there were also new birthday dresses, and a bunch of candies to share with friends.

As for the adults in the family though, it was primarily a payasam treat and not much else. Except when an elder in the family crossed sixty years, or eighty and odd years (the shatabhiskekam,  marking the blessing of having seen  a thousand full moons). At these times, the extended family would gather for special religious ceremonies and celebration.

Things have changed dramatically. Nowadays, birthdays for kids, and even adults, are high-voltage events, with clowns, cakes, balloons and themed parties providing amusement and entertainment in ample measure. The simplicity of earlier times is gone. But there’s more to this than meets the eye. The complex culture that India is, even the simplicity of old was not without its merry share of confusion.

What we commonly refer to as the birthday is actually called the ‘English’ birthday. This is (ostensibly) the actual date of birth, and serves to mark records for the outer world of school and work. Straightforward? Not quite. Aside from English birthdays, there is also the star or ‘nakshatra’ birthday, corresponding to the asterism of the heavens one was born under in the year of birth. This star birthday holds significance from an astrological perspective. It has only a slim chance of coinciding with the English one in any given year. When it came around, mom would take us to the nearby temple, to make prayers and offerings on our behalf. The English birthday was for fun and cake with friends. The star birthday, in contrast, was quasi-religious and more of a personal affair. As a kid, I can recall the payasam treat on both birthdays.

For a long while, I thought this dual nuance was all there was to it for birthdays. And then, in my junior year of college, my horizons broadened in the most interesting manner.

In the summer of 1989,  a bunch of my classmates interned along with me at the stately Bharat Petroleum Corporation (BPCL) in Mumbai. The gigantic refinery was our first practical exposure to big industry, and as with most college summer internships, we made sure it was a time of nonstop fun. The BPCL internship was much sought after, both for its generous stipend, and for the sumptuous corporate lunch we could eat daily in the management cafeteria, for the ridiculous sum of 50 paise! Our days began at 5:30 am, when we would begin our two-hour commute from our college dorms. Switching bus, train and car, we would make our way through the early morning crush of suburban Mumbai, to reach the sprawling factory premises by 7:30 am.

Signing in, we would barely have time to catch breakfast, before reporting to the head of the department we were assigned, for the daily 8 am factory-wide bulletin. This session would be held on intercom, in the office of the individual department manager we were rotating through in our internship for that week. The bulletin consisted of unintelligible announcements about production schedules, piping leaks, volume targets and safety measures, and generally bored the pants off us. We would switch off attention for the most part, but towards the end of each morning’s bulletin, the announcer would read out the names of people in the factory who had their birthdays that day. This would usually be a list of under ten people, with the average being six or seven. Huddled around the intercom, the other interns and I would make this a little betting game for every morning. We instituted a grand prize for whoever amongst us would have the best accuracy of predictions for daily birthday counts, over the entire internship period. It was one of several little fun games we made up to keep our long days interesting.

The morning of the 1st of June dawned like any other day, the sky overcast with pre-monsoon clouds as we gazed out of the department head’s room we were gathered in. We each wrote our guesses for the number of birthdays to be announced that day in a common notebook, to be compared at the end of all the birthday announcements. After the drone of production updates and senior executive messages came the birthday list. Our ears now perked up for the all-important count that would decide our betting fortunes. We had our pencils and pens at the ready, to keep individual tally counts in our notepads for cross-validation.

The first few names, up to ten, came through loud and clear. In a few moments though, the count went past 15, then on to 20, then 25. Quizzical looks crossed our faces as we exchanged glances. We were after all, engineers in training, and claimed no pretense to knowledge of the fancy science of probabilities. Intuition told us however that this was already very unusual. As the count touched 30, we were certain this had to be a unique occurrence, an instance of that oft quoted probability term, the long tail event, or statistical outlier.

There was no letup though. Picking up momentum, the names now came in a swell tide. In no time we were up from 30 to 50. Imagine fifty folks with the same birthday! Then 75, and rapidly on to 100! We were wide-eyed in disbelief. A century count of people with the same birthday in the same workplace! Something remarkable had to be going on.

Being in Mumbai, the plant personnel were of mostly Marathi origin, reflecting the predominant lingua franca of the workplace. Shinde and Munde. Bhonsle and Bhongale. The names continued to dance and roll. Dongre and Khopade. My knowledge of Marathi surnames was gaining ground rapidly, enough, I thought, to create a companion volume to Maneka Gandhi’s famous book of names. There was the odd South Indian Rao or Shenoy, and a lone Mishra, but it was primarily a sustained cascade of Marathi names. I could as well have been reading off the telephone directory.

The birthday roll now picked up further momentum, even as the departmental manager began to chuckle at our incredulous expressions. It breached 120, breezing through 130, and soon sailed past 150. The tally marks in our slim notepads now overflowed into multiple pages. Cricketing analogies kicked in. This was the kind of blitzkrieg score many Indian cricket batsmen would have loved to put up against Caribbean pace bowling, in contrast to their usual single digit exploits.

The count continued merrily, barreling past 160 and 175, then entered the 180’s. We were in sight of a double century! Then the last name rolled in, topping the birthday boy count at a magnificent 188. Fittingly, this matched the crowning score of Sunil Gavaskar, the Mumbai cricketing legend, in his swansong innings against the MCC at Lord’s a couple of summers earlier. In our minds, this rare shower of birthdays felt like having just witnessed the usually staid Gavaskar pulling out all the stops for a breathtaking innings.

The bearded department chief, seated across the room from us, was clearly tickled seeing our puzzlement at this enormous birthday coincidence. Allowing no further musing though, he bade us goodbye, and we decamped from his room, wandering into the plant’s long alleyways, searching for explanations.

Our hormonal brains quickly converged on a theory, working backwards nine months from 1st of June, to 1st of September. One of the bright sparks in the group ventured that 1st of September would have been some sort of collective action day, for synchronized festivities under the sheets all those years ago. Perhaps it was a mini (and literal) forerunner to the Summer of Love. It might have been a novel form of mass protest against a government family planning diktat or some such stupid socialist scheme of those days. Or perhaps, to take thumping advantage of new baby subsidies which may have been abruptly announced as being withdrawn after 1st June of the next year! Whatever the trigger, we were pretty sure it had to have been one long and sultry September night of flat out ardor and love making.

The question however remained as to why all the resulting babies would then come to converge on Bharat Petroleum as their workplace. That was still a big puzzle. Our 1st of September lovefest theory, colorful in its beginnings,  only flattered to deceive.

During our leisurely corporate lunchbreak, we then came upon the most obvious hypothesis, which while not as fancy in imagination, certainly appealed to our college mindset of tinkering with the system for everything. The cut-off date for school admissions all those years ago would have been 1st of June. Harried parents who were keen to get little brats off to school (and off their backs), would have, in keeping with the typical Indian enthusiasm for early schooling, brought forward several July, possibly even a few August and later birthdays to 1st of June. That would have given the kids a strategic head start to schooling, having several of them begin a year ahead of normal. These official records, tinkered as they were at the very beginning, would have persisted all the way through into later life.

The staff canteen in the plant had a birthday treat item on its menu. One way to verify this new hypothesis was to find out if there was a spike in the number of people ordering birthday treat items that day. And sure enough, when we checked in the afternoon, it was only the normal count, no different from any other day. Our second theory stood handsomely vindicated!

In India, therefore, especially for those born around different academic year cutoffs, birthdays can be a triply nuanced phenomenon. You have not just the English birthday and the star birthday, but quite likely a separate official birthday as well. You might also find the official birthday to be the same for a large number of folks in your workplace, a mass (and essentially fake) phenomenon! Call it madness, or practical ingenuity, we sure can confuse the heck out of the rest of the world, even with something as basic as birthdays. Even for the old guard who might prefer to avoid big bashes, one can make up by celebrating this big day  with triple fervor every year!

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Tomato Kumbh Mela

Tomatoes are a perennial favorite, especially in summer time, and there are of course several delicious ways to savor their bountiful goodness. For long, all I thought possible with tomatoes were grills and sautés, stews and soups, purees and ketchups. Till one fine day in Spain, when an encounter with tomatoes turned out, to put it mildly, beyond culinary.

Several summers ago, a group of us friends caught the European travel bug. Spain and Portugal, by popular consensus, was where we would peregrinate. Itinerary planning was given over to our ever-resourceful Hari Sathianathan, who set about poring over the maps to chart the course for our trip. Our jaunt was to last just over a week.

A quick glance at the itinerary revealed the names of several familiar places. Next to Valencia in Spain, though, was earmarked a day’s outing to Buñol. The next time I met Hari I probed him on what the side-excursion to Buñol was all about. His response was a mischievous smile, and then to evade the question, by deftly changing topic. I let it go, thinking best not to prod further, for it might just be that some places are best encountered sans any preamble and expectations.

Shortly after, our trip got under way, crisscrossing the Spanish countryside, touching Madrid, Seville, and beautiful Lisbon in Portugal. My Spanish vocabulary stayed confined to two magic words, ‘aqua caliante’, to help with my daily herbal tea regimen. After several such days of hot herbal tea, and evenings of fruit sangria, our road journeys brought us to Valencia, home of famed Valencia oranges. The next day was to be our outing to Buñol, and in the evening group briefing I finally heard the program. It was Tomatina, Buñol’s famous annual tomato festival. We were told the plentiful summer tomato harvest would bring thick crowds to indulge in a mass tomato throwing spree, and therefore to dress for any and all eventualities.

Early the next morning we took a cab to Buñol, reaching there in under an hour. It was just dawn, and we could already see swarms of people buzzing about the visitor drop off terminal. The streets wore a carnival look.  To weather a tomato deluge, I wore a bright cherry red T-Shirt and a flimsy pair of red shorts, sans underwear.  Best, I thought cleverly, to save my dwindling trip stock of all white underwear for after the festival. In retrospect, it proved to be a rather brave, though prudent decision.

We sauntered down a long downhill stretch of road, at the end of which there was a roundabout from where you could turn in to the center of town, with its narrower streets. As we came to the roundabout, we were witness, much to our amusement, to some spankingly good morning entertainment. Strutting about were two burly bare-bodied blokes, in pointed headgear, tight briefs and spiked boots, their outfits a bright tomato red. Their skimpy costume looked part Roman soldier, part Phantom. One of them read out orders from a scroll, while the other milled about submissively, tidying up odds and ends.

All of a sudden, perhaps to reassert authority, the scroll reader cracked his little whip for a tight slap to his companion’s not insubstantial bottom. The latter yelped in feigned surprise, proceeding to give his wide derriere a manly recovery rub. His booty cheeks blushed crimson, matching the solar orb just risen on the horizon. The scene was so extraordinarily comic we could not help but burst out in guffaws. Ignoring our irreverent bunch, the brawny duo went back to their show of order barking and subservience. Our excitement at the naughty spectacle of an enormous pink bum slapped red was utterly beyond limit.

The crowds gradually grew thicker as we made our way towards the center of town. As we crossed over a small bridge, somebody called out saying no T-Shirts allowed for men. I paid no heed, but as soon as we came to the next street intersection, there was a line of young men tasked with enforcing the rule. Even as I tried to duck and dodge, two of them came up, one from each side, to rip my T-Shirt off in a flash. In less than milliseconds, my bright red T-Shirt was history. As much as I mulled over the loss of it, the dexterity of the act left me hugely impressed. A feat such as this would have taken hours of practice to be able to execute so flawlessly. I was now bare-chested and free to celebrate. We were soon amidst a crushing crowd, very close to the center of town. The heat was turning up, and at one point we almost had the beginnings of a mini-stampede, but thankfully everyone stayed put without triggering further panic.

On both sides of the streets were apartments packed with tourists awaiting the beginning of the fest. Elegantly dressed ladies, perhaps on a package tour, peered curiously from the safety of the balconies, as the throngs from below exhorted them to come down and join the fun. There was even a Bollywood film crew, camera all set up and ready to capture live action. Soon enough, the first truck piled high with tomatoes rolled in slowly through the center of town, its helpers tossing tomatoes generously into all sections of the waiting crowd. Like thick pellets of rain before a summer shower, the first tomatoes whizzed about in the air and burst on us with a pronounced pop. Their speed through the air was surprisingly fast, enough to sting, leaving you little time or space to duck. Before long, the truck came down the street past us, and we were bombarded by a hail of tomatoes.

A second truck came, and then a procession of trucks unleashing a continuous barrage of the red missiles, with people trying futilely to fend off the zippy projectiles before they landed. It was soon a complete free for all as everybody turned to pelting squishy red blobs and peels at each other, while effectively scrubbing chests and arms and legs with lycopene, the healthful ingredient released from all that tomato pulp in the heat. The streets were soon flowing streams of tomato mash, as scantily clad hordes of men and women made sure there was not a patch of skin on anybody that wasn’t tingling red. Excitement touched peak. Everyone was going to smell of tomatoes for at least a day or two.

About an hour and more of the tomato volleys later, the last truck made its way down the streets, and the sun smiled bright from blue skies on the red bodied mass of frenzy below. Ingenious humans had managed to put tons of tomatoes to massively cosmetic purpose in a riotous street celebration. If this had been in India, you might have been excused for thinking it was a religious fair or mela, where everyone had been showered with vermillion dust from above.

India is indeed known for its grand Kumbh Mela festivals, where millions dip in the confluence of sacred rivers like the Ganges to cleanse themselves spiritually. As much as it is a cleansing time, it is also a time for celebration, attracting devout throngs, curiosity trippers and every kind of tourist in-between. Buñol’s annual Tomatina with its packed streets is verily a kumbh mela as well, except that the communal scrubbing that ensues is not so much of souls as of bodies. The crowds are however no less enthusiastic, with a frenzy of fervor to match and exceed. Not all of them may be up for a sobering dip in the holy waters of the Ganges. They certainly know however, how to revel in this unique tomato kumbh mela, with immersion in a Ganges of lycopene.

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A Bastion for Tradition

Think of Chennai, and several word and image associations can spring to mind. City of Temples. Carnatic music. Bharatanatyam. The Marina. Culture. Idli, Vada and Pongal. All of this, and some more, can be encapsulated in a single word, Mylapore. All of 8 square kilometers, this oldest of Chennai’s neighborhoods is surely the cultural and intellectual hub of the city.

Mylapore owes its name to the peacocks (Mayil, in Tamil) that once roamed the area freely. Historical references go back to at least the 7th Century AD, the time when the famous Kapaleeshwarar temple was built here by the reigning Pallava kings of the area. The towering temple to Shiva and its sacred tank (Mylapore Tank), with the famed mada veedhis (streets) and busy shops surrounding it, is the center of Mylapore’s many attractions. Inside are the shrines of the Divine Mother Karpagambal, and Shiva as Kapaleeshwarar. Traditional belief has it that whoever visits Karpagambal would never have to go hungry. The temple celebrates its famous nine day Panguni (Spring) Festival in March/April every year, when the streets stay jam-packed for days on end. Present day Mylapore is a bustling residential neighborhood where much of this old-world charm and religious fervor remain preciously intact.

Speaking of temples, in a lighter vein, it is said that you only have to trip and fall on a Mylapore street, and get up to find yourself at the doors of a temple. You may not have to walk more than a few minutes on most streets here before you can find a shrine to your favorite god or goddess.

One way of getting to know Mylapore, and a delicious one, is a food walk, which can tantalize with a fascinating range of assorted vegetarian treats. Several of Mylapore’s famous eateries (messes) roll out patently traditional items, like the kozhukattais, beloved treat of Lord Ganesha, made as rice dumplings with a sweet (coconut and jaggery) or savory filling. The seventy year old Rayar’s Café on Arundale Street is a must stop as well. This hole in the wall is famous for its idlis, vadas and Mysore bondas, not to mention the coconut chutney. I remember eating here with my dad one summer afternoon as a boy of five, maybe less, where I couldn’t decide which was hotter, the dosa or the weather!

Then there’s the Jannal Kadai (the Window Shop), right next to Kapaleeshwarar temple, where food is served out through a window. After morning devotions around the temple during the sacred Tamil month of Margazhi (December/January), it makes superb sense to fight the morning chill with Jannal Kadai’s  delicious breakfast menu of bajjis, pongal and dosa. Not far from here is the Kalathi Stall, famed for its rose milk.  And of course, one can always find plenty of places for a cup of traditional filter coffee, served in tiny steel tumblers and davaras, to heighten the experience.

Should you go overboard with all the food, a visit to Dabba Chetty Kadai is in order. This 100-year-old shop on Kutchery Road is your ready resort for all kinds of native herbal and country medicine, stacked in neat tin containers (or dabbas). Old timers in Mylapore can swear to its efficacy in combating all common ailments, and thanks to its formulations, report never having had to take to Western medicine. The dabbas may not be labelled, but the shop staff know how to reach out blindfolded for the exact medicine you need. Their Diwali leghyam, a concoction to correct the imbalances from festive eating around Diwali time, is sold only for a couple of weeks around the festival, but is arguably their hottest selling item of the year.

The December music festival is another of Mylapore’s (and Chennai’s) landmark events. The venerable Music Academy hosts some of the top artistes of the Carnatic music pantheon, but is by no means the only venue in town. In the vicinity of Mylapore are perhaps a dozen or so music sabhas (clubs) to cater to Chennai’s famed musical cognoscenti at this time of year. Much of the music is devotional, and it is a known fact that crime rates dip to near zero at this time of year. It’s perhaps got to do with the many gods and goddesses who descend upon the city to hear all of the divine music!

Mylapore wouldn’t be half as interesting though but for its amazing shops and bazaars, teeming with people, where you can find everything under the sun to never have to leave Mylapore your entire life. There’s rows of stalls selling bindis, bangles and other trinkets. Flower sellers and vegetable vendors line the sidewalks. Saree shops famous for their silks, like Rasi’s and Nalli’s, are perennially popular, as are jewelry stores like Nathella’s and Sukra’s. There’s Ambika Appalam for spice powders and papadams, Sri Vidya Manjal Kumkumam store for turmeric and vermillion, Vijaya Stores for school books, and Grand Sweets for snacks and tiffins. The shops at Luz Corner purvey clothes and cosmetics, and gift items and articles of everyday use. Nehru News Mart is a popular newsmagazine store, while Giri Trading is famous for books and religious items, and Sapthaswara Musicals sells traditional musical instruments. All of these, and several more, have carved a permanent niche for Mylapore, drawing locals and tourists alike.

If Chennai exudes a conservative, erudite aura of learning, Mylapore has a large part to do with it. The TamBram community can be found in full fledged flourish here, its storied success owing as much to a natural penchant for academics as an inherited fondness for curd rice. The TamBram heritage places a premium on culture and intellect, aesthetics and brilliance. Every other family can boast of a relative who’s immigrated to the United States or some such cold destination abroad. But these migratory snowbirds are inevitably back for the December holidays, to relive traditional memories and revel in the mild weather.

Mylapore’s ethos might be primarily Hindu, but it is also home to old mosques, as well as Luz Church and the Santhome Basilica, two iconic churches that date back to around half a millennium ago. Furthermore, the splendid new Universal Temple of Sri Ramakrishna, adjacent to the century old Sri Ramakrishna Math, provides a perfect modern day amalgam of spiritual harmony.

In cosmopolitan changing Chennai, Mylapore is a microcosm for all things traditional, continuing to thrive and blossom as fine as ever. Its way of life draws gladly from the tried and tested goodness of the past. The old remains adaptable, but has never really had to make way for the new. Rather, it is inevitably the new, which with time, comes to acknowledge the resilient wisdom of the old.  In this ever ongoing exchange and alchemy of old with new, Mylapore is an abiding home for several excellent traditions from the past. Be it with its temples or festivals, Carnatic music or vegetarian cooking, the environs of Mylapore are always ready to welcome you, ever so gently, to the finer nuances and joys of life.

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The Call of Kali

The last week has been one of reminiscences and nostalgia. I was back in Kolkata, that great throbbing city of feeling and soul, the city of my carefree younger days with its enduring memories. Arriving late in the afternoon, we couldn’t have hoped for a warmer welcome than that which greeted us at the Taj Bengal, the modern landmark of Bengali hospitality in South Kolkata’s plush neighborhood of Alipur. Dinner that evening was a languid and leisurely affair at the Taj’s showpiece restaurant, the Chinoiserie. The delectable spread would have done the veteran chefs of Kolkata’s Chinatown proud.

Culinary pleasures aside, the larger quest of this sojourn in Kolkata lay in the realm of the spiritual. The Divine Feminine, especially in her manifestations as Durga and Kali, is a vital presence here, and in the broader spiritual and cultural life of Bengal. Our plans for the next day were to visit two of the city’s most iconic shrines to the Goddess. First would be the historic temple of Kalighat, from which, as the story goes, the city derives its name. Next would be the nineteenth century temple of Dakshineshwar, intimately associated with the life of Bengal’s greatest sage of the modern era, Sri Ramakrishna.

We were up and ready at dawn the next morning, and were rewarded with an incredibly lovely spectacle of dark green foliage, thick purple clouds, and golden pink sunrays.  Sights such as this might well have inspired the imaginations of a Tagore or a Bankim Chandra Chatterjee. The latter’s Vande Mataram is in part an eloquent tribute to the beautiful monsoon moods of the divine painter.

Our hotel was just a few minutes from Kalighat, and we were thus at the temple even before it was 6 am. This turned out fortuitous, as it was a Tuesday, special to Mother Kali, which also meant heavy throngs of worshippers. Upon reaching the locale, we were met by a helpful priest, Krishnaji, and his couple of attendant priests, who showed our group to his home next door. Here, we assembled offerings for worship, including flowers, coconuts and sweets. Led by Krishnaji, we then set off briskly to the temple, ignoring insistent street hawkers and other local characters who offered various types of support and intervention for our visit to the Goddess. Krishnaji marched us through a set of entrances, and presently we were almost at the doors of the garba griha, also called the Nija Mandir, the inner sanctuary of the Goddess’s own home. The crowd at this point was quite thick, even for this early hour of the morning, and from here on our pace barely inched forward.

Entering in through the doors of the sanctum, we were joined by other lines of people, elbowing and crushing upon us as we squeezed and wound our way down the steps. The expert crowd maneuvering of several priests, including Krishnaji, who were actually smiling and joking through it all, eased the pressure, even as we looked askance at some in the crowd who tried to sneak their way forward. This was a real-time spiritual lesson in keeping your composure and letting go. Soon enough though, we were in front of the great Goddess, whose startlingly alive image was clearly the compelling force at the center of it all.

A tall and articulate priest played head cop, standing directly in front of the deity, orchestrating crowd movement and issuing orders, even as he pressed upon us for contributions to an offering box for charitable initiatives. He bade us touch the image of the Goddess reverently, and prostrate at her feet, allowing us a few precious moments of imbibing Sacred Presence. A powerful maternal energy pervaded the sanctum, revealing Kali as a fierce dynamo of compassion, a perennial catalyst for the ultimate happiness of every struggling being. One needed little convincing that this was indeed how the great Mother of the Universe would manifest authentically, delighting in the surging waves of devotion from sincere hearts.

Persisting in his enjoyable Bengali accent, the priest now raised the pitch of his appeals, that our proximity to the Goddess enjoined us to give generously, and the giving would go to a credible social cause for children. We were aware that outside of this innermost sanctum, there were other lines with more distant and fleeting viewing access. His insistence toned down considerably however, and morphed to appreciation when we complied with a reasonable offering. He now made sure we could edge our way out without too much trouble, which could have otherwise been a real challenge, so fervent was the enthusiasm of the incoming crowd. I felt both relieved and distinctly fortunate.

We made our way out to a hall where we could finish up our puja, with the breaking of coconuts and the anointment of tilak marks on our foreheads. Then, past the ever insistent and annoying line of beggars that tested our resolve for patience once more, we were soon back at Krishnaji’s, stopping to pick up trinkets and memorabilia from the several stalls in the vicinity. We were happy to now offer him and his supporting cast a modest fee for their tremendous help, and were bid a grateful and genuinely warm goodbye. Our early morning darshan at Kalighat, with its accompanying spiritual transactions, was complete.

After a quick breakfast at the hotel, we now made our way northward, opting for a faster highway route on the Howrah side of the Hooghly, or Ganges river. This drive entailed crossing the Ganges and back over the famed bridges of Kolkata, driving through the verdant Bengal countryside rather than the inner traffic of the city, and in less than an hour, we were at Dakshineshwar. This sprawling complex was where the nineteenth century benefactor, Rani Rasmani, erected a beautiful temple to the goddess Kali, in her manifestation as Bhavatarini, the Mother who liberates her devotees from the fetters of worldly existence. The image of Bhavatarini Kali housed here was the great pivot for Sri Ramakrishna’s extraordinary life of spiritual mastery and universal realization.

The arrangements at Dakshineshwar were more orderly, with long lines of people waiting their turn for darshan of the Goddess. The sweet smell of incense wafted through the large courtyard, even as the sun alternated with the clouds to create a play of light and shade. Expectation was writ large on everyone who came in to view the goddess, and then happy smiles and contentment. The dynamic image of Bhavatarini seemed to radiate a blessing of safe passage through this transient world, if only we could bring ourselves to a space of inner trust. A century and a half ago, her intense presence took over the life of Ramakrishna, his consort Sarada Devi, and the illustrious band of close disciples they trained to actualize his teaching, of service to humanity as service to God.

A visit to Dakshineshwar is not complete without a visit to the Ganges, and after darshan of the Goddess, we made our way to one end of the grounds where a flight of broad steps descended to the river. The flowing waters were pleasantly cool, and even as we dipped ourselves, the overcast sky began a mild drizzle. The scene was ethereal, of a gentle curtain of rain enveloping this holiest of rivers. As we walked back up the steps and exited the vast courtyard, it began to pour with the familiar vigor of the August monsoon. Walking like little kids under this magic cascade of rain, we knew in our hearts this was a blessing from up above. Hardly had we reached our waiting cars though, than the showers abated, while cool raindrops continued to float gently, glistening in the sunshine.

Sri Ramakrishna would maintain that the Divine Mother was both male and female, for the nearer one approached the Divine, the more one would realize He has neither name nor form. Going beyond modern feminism, the wisdom of that transcendent equality has in many ways permeated the cultural mores of Bengal, in both family and social life. Under the ever-watchful gaze of the Goddess, the women of Bengal enjoy a freedom of self-expression and action, at home and in public life, perhaps unmatched by any other region of India. On the streets of Kolkata and the villages of Bengal, they are probably safer at night than women are in many other parts of the world by day. In the daily life of Bengal, Kali’s foremost influence is seen perhaps in this genuinely natural equality.

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Metaphysical Candy Store

The Haight Ashbury district of San Francisco is famous as the birthplace of the counterculture, and the Summer of Love. Here, you can still catch a whiff of the heady air of the sixties. With its eclectic bunch of music stores, clothing boutiques, gift shops and eateries, the place has a quaint and charming character that is easy to like.

On thriving Haight Street is situated the ‘Love of Ganesha’ store, a large gift shop that blends in perfectly with the rest of the street and its curious crowd. This is a different space, bidding you put the harried and hurried world outside on pause. A catchy chant of ‘Jai Ganesha Sri Ganesha’ plays in the background, infusing the air with an auspicious vibe. The staff seem genuinely nice, and there’s refreshing coolers and snacks on a table. Mascots of the beloved elephant headed deity dot the store, announcing Ganesha’s cheery and welcoming presence.

Owner Noot is from Thailand, and Ganesha is after all, the pan-Asian divine mascot of good beginnings. Growing up as I did in India, Ganesha was always an integral part of the environs, an amusing elephant headed deity one prayed to for good luck. Only over the years did I begin to realize that Ganesha, much like the Ramayana, is also one of India’s great cultural exports, perhaps the first Indian icon to enjoy continental popularity across almost all of Asia.

And with part of Asia always having dwelt culturally in California, it is no surprise that Ganesha has found a home in San Francisco’s Haight Street as well. The store itself feels like a slice of Thamel market, Kathmandu blended with Mylapore’s Mada Street in Chennai, transplanted to California. Lest it sound like a purely subcontinental affair, there’s inventory here from around the world, from Brazil to Mexico, Morocco to Madagascar.

The large front section of the store is also its most sought after, stocking a stunning ensemble of crystals and gemstones possibly unmatched by any other retail store in America. On display are crystals of every imaginable variety, gorgeous and resplendent, leaving you with the feeling of having walked into a crystal museum. Of high grade quality, and in sizes ranging from smallest to that of a mini-cave, the crystals transform the space into a healing, calming sanctuary. The spiritual or therapeutic uses for each crystal are labelled helpfully, and there’s certainly a mineral here for everyone.

The walls towards the middle and rear feature a sizeable and excellent collection of tapestries and rugs. There’s a wide selection of clothing, several of them handmade from different countries. Accessories are of abundant variety, including belly dance scarves, Nepali caps and hats, and spring flowers for the hats. There’s dreamcatchers and windchimes, bells and singing bowls, and beautifully ornate tote bags. Statues and figurines, especially of Buddhas, can be found aplenty.

One of the store’s highlights is a delightful little meditation tent in the back corner, inviting you to take a break, relax and meditate. The altar is decorated lovingly with flowers and candles, and totems of several healing and spiritual traditions from around the world. The ambience is truly cozy and embracing.

The malas and beads collection is notable, featuring wooden mala bracelets, seed malas, and malas of semi-precious stones. There’s a fantastic array of smudges and incense, including some of the very finest incense from across the globe, and a nice stock of essential oils. The book chest, while not extensive, contains some great spiritual reads.

The more I explored, the more I had this feeling of having stepped into a most curious candy store for all things metaphysical. Tintin could well stop here for any last-minute shopping before embarking on his adventures in Tibet. A Harry Potter would find the store intriguing, his Hogwarts school a possible customer for its supplies. Coming to think of it, Ganesha, Lord of the elements, is in many ways a Harry Potter of the sacred realms. He would be completely at home in this trove of spiritual wares, for they are the earthly conduits for his benevolent energies.

More than just a delightful store though, the ‘Love of Ganesha’ is also a mini-institution for the community. Proceeds from its business go to support initiatives in several of the communities from where it sources worldwide. For whoever who might visit, the place surely leaves an imprint of art, aesthetics and spirituality. Every good street has a temple, and ‘Love of Ganesha’ is indeed a unique temple for the spirit of Haight Street to live on.

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Delightfully Chilli

The occasion was a friend’s birthday recently. The choice of venue to celebrate was funneled down in favor of Indian, and a little closer, her Punjabi roots. It turned out thus to be an invitation to dine at noted chef Sanjeev Kapoor’s Yellow Chilli in Santa Clara, California. I had only heard about its launch recently, and looked forward to it.

The California Bay Area dining scape has no dearth of mushrooming new Indian eateries, and Yellow Chilli happens to be one of the very latest entrants to the scene, having launched only in March of this year. The restaurant chain has of course made waves already in India, and a few locations around the globe, so one kind of knew this was going to be good. The expectation proved right, and even a couple of notches better.

The interiors were pleasantly inviting, offering a sleek modern ambience. We sat down to appetizers, and both the papad crisps and mint chutney were noticeably superior to what I have encountered in most other Bay Area Indian restaurants, prompting repeated requests from the table for the chutney. We were soon tucking into crisp vegetable skewers, chana jor garam tikki and the harippa paneer tikka. The chana jor tikkis (potato patties) turned out okay but a little bland, and were a tad too fried when they should have been a little spicier. The vegetable spring rolls scored well, crisp and spiced just right, while my friends approved noddingly of the paneer (cottage cheese) cubes with their hint of greens. One felt like having witnessed a sound opening stand in a cricket game, with the promise of more good batting to come.

Our next sampling was of the coconut zaffrani shorba, garnished with flowers of saffron, and this soup certainly had a taste of refinement about it. The main course was a classical vegetarian spread, comprising rajma masala and pindi chholey, the intriguingly titled shaam savera, the subz panchavati, pyaaz mirch roti, naan and two varieties of vegetable pulao. The portions came perfectly sized, with quality to match. Delving into the dishes, the shaam savera made an instant impression, with its paneer stuffed and delectable spinach kofta rounds dipped in a bold and tangy tomato gravy. This was, after all, Sanjeev Kapoor’s signature dish. So did the subz assortment of cauliflowers, green and red peppers, which drew out the flavors of the veggies rather than suppressing them in spice. The onion rotis were fresh and warm.

Surprisingly, two of the classical Punjabi mainstays, the pindi chholey and rajma masala could have delivered more. Their spicing could have been more nuanced, even if not necessarily bolder. On the promise of the earlier dishes, I was expecting a slam dunk of compelling, authentic dhaba quality taste, but the bean dishes preferred to stay in the zone of good rather than great. In cricketing parlance, this was like safe and disciplined batting, keeping the score ticking, but short of finding, or rather creating the gaps that would fetch the boundaries.

The pulao dishes made their mark though, in combination with the rest of the dishes, hitting the perfect spot. They were spiced conservatively rather than bold, much like preserving the brisk momentum of batsmen already well set.

The portions settled in easy, leaving one light yet satiated. The after taste lingered satisfyingly enough that we felt not the need to go in for the desserts. My first Yellow Chilli experience left me clearly impressed, though it seemed to search for the proverbial missing gap to bridge before making it to the league of excellent. I certainly wanted to go back again.

A visiting friend of yester year provided perfect company for a second visit in the space of two weeks. This time, our explorations forayed into sea food (the Tandoori sea bass and Bhatti ka jeenga), and chicken (the Murgh Angaar Bedgi). It was good to see the chicken and shrimp cooked in a tandoor (clay oven), the traditionally healthy manner of making Indian dishes.

The tandoori sea bass arrived moist and buttery, garnished with yogurt. This was a little surprising, because fish and yogurt are not complementary from an Ayurvedic perspective. It would be good if Indian restaurants held to some of the basic traditional food combination principles. The patrons of today look to not merely sample good flavors, but also leave in good health.

The Bhatti ka jeenga was served on slate, which made for an aesthetic twist to the presentation. It turned out fine, though the marinade was not quite adhering to the crustacean. The Murgh Angaar Bedgi was cooked well, with an interesting marinade. It was the spiciest chicken on the menu, and it lived up to its promise.

Vegetarian bites included the Hara Masaley ka Bhuna Paneer, which was overcooked and rubbery. The substitute that was brought to the table still didn’t make the cut, and seemed like it was done in a hurry. The Karara Subz Rolls (veg rolls) were crispy but overdone, lacking in flavor, for one could only taste the shell.

In welcome contrast, the rice pilaf (Nizami Tarkari Biryani) and the Punjabi favorite Sarson ka Saag proved outstanding, in terms of their richness of flavor and liveliness of taste. They were the magnificent fighting partnership down the middle order that proved to be the highlight of the second cricketing innings, when the top order, save for the Murgh Angaar Bedgi, had not exactly had a field day. It certainly restored the score back to a cheery total. The best was reserved for last. The Gulab-e-Gulkhand of gulab jamuns stuffed with rose petal compote was pure enchantment. It hit the ball clean out of the park.

Overall, I was grateful and glad to have had the opportunity to dine here both times, and so it was for my companions. The wait staff could have been just that little more responsive, though the dishes arrived quite promptly. My second foray into Yellow Chilli held good ground, turning out on par with my first, and perhaps a notch better. Considering there’s an internationally renowned celebrity chef behind this venture, one would hope the suggestions lead to well done improvements and healthier alternatives. I would recommend this place heartily.

Ambience    

Service         

Food               

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Berkeley’s Divas of Bharatanatyam

Church and Sunday sermons go together, but this event at the charming St. John’s Episcopal church in Berkeley took a leaf out of a different Bible, the Natya Shastra, the ancient treatise for India’s classical performing arts. The stage was given over to a performance of the classical dance of Bharatanatyam, by students of Aggie Brenneman’s school, the Bala Center for South Indian Dance. Church might not be the first place you would associate with a Bharatanatyam recital, but this was free spirited Berkeley, where several world traditions overlap in vibrant harmony, and one can choose to be joint citizen of as many as appeal to the soul.

The occasion was to celebrate the legacy of Tanjore Balasaraswati, or Bala, India’s legendary doyenne of the Tanjore school of Bharatanatyam. This year marks Bala’s birth centenary, which is being commemorated by aficionados of dance and music around the world. In her landmark tour of the United States in the early sixties, the New York Times fittingly christened Bala as the ‘First Lady of Bharatanatyam’ who ‘spoke through dance’. This supreme artiste went on to teach and train several dedicated American students, who took to the world of this classical art form with an enduring commitment and sincerity. Today, many of them are divas in their own right, continuing to carry Bala’s legacy forward. And here was one of Bala’s finest students, Aggie, offering tribute.

The crowd for this Sunday afternoon was a lively and cheery lot. It comprised all ages, from infants and toddlers to parents and elder folk, making for a family outing as much as a recital of dance. Among them of course were serious students and enthusiasts of dance, all ready and eager for the program to commence.

The opening featured the traditional invocatory piece, the alarippu, (flowering bud), in the rhythmic 3 pulse gait of tisram, performed by eight senior students of Aggie. They set the tempo well, their coordinated rhythms showing even in this brief piece that they were dancers of promise.

The next, also invocatory piece was the Natesha Kavutvum, in praise of Nataraja, the Lord of Dance. Two of Aggie’s students held the audience’s interest with their pacing and beautiful poses of the Ananda Tandava, the cosmic dance of creation.

Cute little ankle bells jingled on cuter little feet for the next piece of the show, as six of the youngest students of the school, none a day older than six, stepped gingerly on stage. This had to be their first time in front of a group of any size, and they had to both introduce themselves and tell a couple of lines of the story of Krishna they were going to enact. Their first piece was a sequence of basic adavus, or rhythmic steps, set to the music of a popular devotional song, the Thullu Matha in praise of the Lord Muruga. Even as they danced their petite little steps, the manner in which they stole quick glances at each other to ensure they were all synchronized was most amusingly charming.

Next, they enacted the famous episode of the child Lord Krishna perched atop a human pyramid of his naughty companions, aiming for the forbidden butter in a pot hung high and out of reach. As the plans unravel, Krishna the butter thief is caught and reprimanded. Entertaining as only children can be, the reprimand these kids dealt the child Lord lighted up everyone in smiles. As the row of little anklets trooped off stage, they received roaring applause.

A set of seven kids from the after-school program came on stage now, first for a devotional invocation piece, followed by the recounting and enactment of another episode from the life of Krishna. The episode this time was Krishna the teenager’s teasing of the blue-eyed maidens by making off with their clothes even as they bathed in the river. The unspeakable naughtiness of the prank, with the vociferous protest of the maidens and the air of indifference from the flute playing teenager, were all portrayed most delightfully.

Kids, indeed, played their cute part from the audience as well. One positioned himself in the center of the aisle, providing comic relief by keeping time and beat with the goings on. Another kept time jumping, while a third attempted an inverted pose in trying to mimic the poses on stage. Little girls skipped around in paavadais, their hair braided with flowers. This could well have been a concert in an Indian sabha.

The next piece, by a group of five older kids, showcased a slightly more involved dance sequence for the devotional song, Ra Ra Rama. The coordination that comes easier to older children was much in evidence here. They then proceeded to dance the Ganapati Kavutvum, in praise of the elephant headed deity Ganesha, involving a faster tempo of steps. The hand mudras (gestures) depicting Ganesha’s trunk that made short work of obstacles, his playing of cymbals, and his large flapping ears, were particularly endearing.

The next piece had an unusual cast of two mother-daughter pairs on stage. They first performed a different version of the Ganapati Kavutvum, and then went on to a slightly more elaborate piece, the Jatiswaram. The dances were now more intricate, and the performance climbed steadily to match. Other older students then performed the Vallacci, a dance story encapsulating the search for the divine in the search for human love. The more nuanced head movements came into play now, keeping step gracefully with a decidedly more energetic tempo, and evincing meritorious talent.

Inspiring teacher, devoted student: Aggie Brenneman (R), with Evelyn Leong (L)

The piece that followed was a surprise treat, and a lovely one, not originally announced in the schedule. Aggie now came on to stage herself, to enact an episode from the story of the medieval saint Nandanar, where the view of his favorite deity Lord Shiva from outside the sanctum is obscured by the large statue of a bull.

Aggie’s performance shone with an exemplary classicism. All graceful flow, she portrayed the human element of the story with a surpassing emotion, bringing vivid glimpses of her legendary teacher. The high vocals that accompanied this piece were a recording of renowned vocalist T. Muktha, complementing the dance perfectly. We were witness to a remarkable tribute in spirit.

Six of the most accomplished of Aggie’s students brought up the final performance of the evening. They included, among others, the evergreen Evelyn Leong, upcoming teacher Deepa Natarajan and promising debutante Ruby Spies. The skillful portrayal of the Sakhiye varnam, where a love stricken woman confides in her friend, entreating her to trace and bring her back her beloved, visibly moved hearts. The piece was replete with abhinaya, the evocative communication of sentiment that marks depth of maturity in classical Indian dance. These were certainly students in the pursuit of excellence.

It is over thirty years now that the legendary T. Balasaraswati has passed on. The legacy she has left, however, is one of a living passion for dance. Aggie’s students range from the under seven to the over seventy. The audience could clearly sense the spark in them, as they went back all on stage for a final bow, evoking grand applause. And Bala, taking in the scene from wherever she might be on the celestial stage, would have surely leapt for joy.

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Embrace of Love

Nestled in the rolling hills of San Ramon county, California, the MA center is a pleasant and readily accessible haven of spiritual retreat. The landscape might remind one of a quaint little Himalayan ashram, but this lovely sanctuary lies less than an hour away from the heart of Silicon Valley.

Shaped by loving hands, the place certainly seems to be getting prettier every year. I notice new organic gardens and fruit trees. Signs strung with marigold flowers welcome us as we drive up the winding road leading to the main retreat enclosure. The center’s most anticipated event of the summer is about to get underway.

Amma has come to visit.

Several volunteers have worked long hours behind the scenes, preparing for the hundreds of people who have started to trickle in very early this morning. Hosting a retreat on this scale is no easy feat. Scores of parking assistants, kitchen staff, shop volunteers, dining hall helpers, ushers and stewards have all come together in a spirit of seva, or service, ready to help unfold the retreat.

Their inspirer-in-chief, of course, is Mata Amritanandamayi, or Amma as she is popularly known. If the measure of a leader’s impact is reflected in the joie de vivre in her followers, Amma is easily one of the leading spiritual lights of our times. Over the decades, her name has come to be synonymous with her mission of selfless love and service to the world. Her following cuts across boundaries of race, religion and nationality to comprise a truly global spiritual family. Aside from her exemplary charitable initiatives, Amma is also most popularly associated with her unique gesture, the embrace of love she offers everyone who comes seeking darshan, or the blessing of her spiritual presence.

Arriving early, I still had to park a distance away, giving me the chance to enjoy a scenic walk back to the main staging area in the crisp air of the morning. The crowd gathered was numbering in the hundreds already. Friends met and caught up with one another. First time visitors were formed into their own special line, for an early chance to have Amma’s darshan and receive her hug. A jolly mood prevailed, lightening the wait under a bright morning sun.

Shortly, the lines were taken up to where alphanumeric tokens were dispersed for Amma’s darshan, by the entrance of the main retreat hall. We went in to seat ourselves. There was still some time before Amma would come in to address everyone. A documentary showcased the far-reaching impact of ‘Embracing the World’, the umbrella banner for Amma’s several charitable initiatives worldwide.  Several stalls lined the side and back of the hall inviting people to explore their wares. On offer were eco-friendly clothes, blessed jewelry, incense and fragrance, pictures, books and music. More stalls were open outside, including one that displayed a whole lovely range of crystals. Crystals seem to be an integral presence today in almost every spiritual mandala.

A vibrant market of joy got going, but we were soon back to our seats, as Amma presently made her entrance, welcomed with a traditional invocation to the guru or spiritual teacher. The assembly rose in reverence as she walked up to stage, raising folded hands to everyone in namaste. She was soon seated amidst her entourage of swamis (monks), and several kids and adults who were invited to join her on stage, making for a cute family picture.

Amma spoke in Malayalam, with one of the swamis on stage translating for the benefit of the audience. Her theme for today was one of cultivating an essential fragrance as we go about daily life. If our thoughts were selfless and our actions kind and responsible, we would bring a natural fragrance to every situation we encountered, which would also buffer us from untoward circumstances.

A short meditation later, the stage was now rearranged for Amma to commence darshan. Seating in the audience was rearranged as well, to make space in front for a live orchestra, whose talented musicians embarked on a wonderful set of chants, songs and prayers. People queued up on stage according to the sequence of their tokens, as Amma, now occupying her asana or seat, began to hug each person in turn. A light yet palpable sweetness hung in the air. As each person came up, Amma held them for a few moments in an embrace of beautiful sincerity, sharing a personal moment of spiritual togetherness. Many also sensed a spiritual transmission.

The sheer scale of Amma’s profound gesture boggles the mind. Seated untiringly for hours on end, taking no breaks, she is there to ensure each of the thousand, frequently many thousands of visitors receive the embrace they so look forward to. We were witness to spirituality in action, of steadfast intent joined with genuine love, with an intensity rarely found anywhere else.

What might be attracting these multitudes of people from across the world to bask in her presence? Amma is certainly no scholar of a sophisticated philosophy to engage the ego of erudition. Her hug is certainly no mere feel good gesture of emotion. Perhaps it is the joyous mood she exudes as much as her air of reassuring calm. Perhaps it is people getting a glimpse of their own high spiritual destiny which her presence helps mirror for them. Perhaps it is the sense of pure and timeless presence she so naturally embodies.

Among the many people in the darshan line that afternoon was Ash Kalra, member of the California legislature. It happened to be a day of statewide direct primary elections, but he was taking time out along with his deputy to visit and welcome Amma to California. Post darshan, one got to converse with him for a few minutes. Surveying the huge and joyous throng of people, Ash reflected sagely that these were precisely the types of people we needed to come out and vote. We needed the energies of love represented in the ballot, in contrast to the energies of divisiveness and hate. A lady in the audience, who happened to also be a former member of the legislature, joined in the conversation, echoing similar sentiment.

Philosopher Teilhard de Chardin has written eloquently about love. “The day will come when, after harnessing space, the winds, the tides, and gravity, we shall harness the energies of love. And on that day, for the second time in the history of the world, we shall have discovered fire.” Amma, for her devoted following, is an embodiment of the sacred energies of love.

There have of course been other extraordinary spiritual masters from the East who have made no less of an impression upon America. More than a century ago, Swami Vivekananda had captured the American imagination as he paved the way for the arrival of Eastern spirituality on Western shores. The great disciple of Sri Ramakrishna and his spiritual consort Sharada Devi spoke of dynamic will and nerves of steel, delivering a message of leonine strength and fearlessness, which he felt was the positive need of the time. A century and more later, however, the message from Amma, while of very same essence, is clearly in the spirit of Sharada Devi, of the Motherliness of the Divine.

It is almost fifty years as well since the Summer of Love, during which time the West has readied itself for the touch of the Mother. India has produced women of spiritual genius aplenty, but few of them have taken their message beyond its shores. In this Age of Aquarius though, it is Amma who has carried the tradition of the divine feminine to a world thirsty for love. And the crowds were there to catch a glimpse, a touch and a hug from their beloved Mother.

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Crystalline Fugue

I have always been fascinated with the potencies of sound, especially its use in healing therapies. Wind chimes, bell choirs, the sounds of flowing water, mantras and music…all of these, at some level, carry the potential for healing. Working with sound can filter deep into our consciousness, eliciting response from our own inner rhythms of body and mind.

It took little prompting therefore to show up, recently, for an introduction to healing with crystal bowls. The session was announced at Aum Aradhana, in a consecrated hall of beautiful images and sacred art. Vaidyaji Priyanka was hosting the lovely duo of Dixie and Saryon, and their ‘family’ of healing crystal bowls. It promised to be, at minimum, an interesting afternoon.

The first thing that struck me was Dixie and Saryon’s intimate connection with their crystal bowls, of which there were easily two dozen or more. You could sense the bowls being spoken to, with care, love and sensitivity, as the couple went about sounding and tuning them, while the class prepared itself into a state of quiet receptivity, eyes closed for an experience of immersion.

The notes from each bowl would correspond to the sounds of particular chakras, or the seven primary energy centers of the subtle body. As each bowl was sounded, its note, beginning at a lower octave would go on to generate overtones in the higher octaves, and sounded in succession, a concert of crystal bowls was soon in full swing. A pulsating ensemble of purest notes of sound now wafted in and out of auditory center stage, dramatically interwoven with sounds of the Ancients sung by Vaidyaji. As the voices seamlessly spoke to the bowls, the audience heard the spray of the Vedic ocean.

Like a flock of birds alighting now on one branch, then on another, then on a third branch of the legendary wish fulfilling, blessing tree (Kalpa Vriksha), the notes jumped and straddled the scales of the musical octaves. Waves of sound washed over the crystal bowls and the audience in turn, taking on a life of their own. The effect was beyond words. The sounds were doing their work of harmonization on the inner rhythms of each individual’s unique energetic constitution. Some people felt energized and vivified, while others reported a feeling of heightened balance and calm, as internal energies aligned in the different organs of the body that required adjustment and healing.  The musical ensemble then paused briefly, while the class was presently introduced to some interesting suggestions.

Saryon explained that the sounds emanating from these precious bowls frequently served as a bridge of communication with angels. Higher Beings, attuned to these sounds, would send messages of guidance and blessings, riding the waves, which could be intuited if we were receptive enough. Also, we would now complement the sounds of the crystal bowls with our own voices, for greater vibrational potency.

A second session followed, this time with several sonorous voices, led by Dixie’s, singing the mantra of Lord Shiva. As Dixie’s hypnotic chants ascended the scales, like wisps of incense rising in a quiet room, one had the feeling of angels transporting her pure vocals into the stratosphere, merging beyond into pure silence. This was the palpable experience of unstruck sound, or anahat nad, also sometimes referred to as the eighth note, or aathvan sur. The vibrations of the bowls would persist, even if one was no longer able to hear them, continuing their work of healing for a long while after. The Gurukul continued to meditate deep into the profound stillness.

Further sessions followed, where there were chants synchronized with hand gestures (mudras) from the ancient science of Kaya Kalpa, to amplify the effect of the bowls and the vocals. The vocals were poetic Sanskrit invocations to health and all noble and desirable qualities. At other times, Buddhist prayers of refuge were chanted, invoking the blessings of the Buddha, Dhamma and Sangha.

The class was then let on to a truly intriguing suggestion. We might think we were playing the bowls, but the reality was that the bowls were actually playing us, bringing us their gifts of healing. Interesting as it was, this shift of perspective brought in me a profound relaxation and a deep contemplation of gratitude. There was indeed an entire world of angelic forces that were transmitting through sound, well beyond the realm of intellect.

It is true that all of life is essentially an exchange and interplay of vibrations. Healing happens through vibrational harmony of the inner and the outer, the micro with the macrocosm, the best condition for which is inner purity. It is no wonder then that in all of the world’s ancient healing traditions, crystals have played a significant role. Clarity, purity, transparency, luminosity, magnificence…these are qualities nature has vested in crystals and precious stones, making them beautiful vehicles for the work of transmission and healing. Sound, and especially sound with pure intention, can impact the molecular structure of water, the body’s most abundant element, transmuting it into crystalline purity for a somatic enlightenment.

This tryst with crystal bowls was transformative, opening new vistas for awareness. Certainly, an avenue worthy of further exploration.

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Retail Therapy

I am no scientist, but I do consider myself rational. I once even took a master’s level course on inventory and logistics. Rationality however can be an elusive phenomenon, especially when confronted with the temptations of Retail Therapy.

Years ago, I was strolling the aisles of a Ukrop’s grocery store, right next to the apartment complex I lived in, in Richmond, Virginia. Ukrop’s was a family owned chain of stores, where I made frequent errands for precisely what I needed, which in those days of blissful simplicity, could be for even as little as a single bag of chips. On this particular occasion, I was weighing my choices between a small bottle of pretty Himalayan pink salt, and next to it, a large Morton’s salt jar. Health conscious, organic me would have normally opted for the Himalayan salt, but for a minute I dithered. Pinch for pinch, I calculated the Himalayan pink salt would cost several times over the Morton salt, and there was also family due to visit soon, who couldn’t care less, among all things, for dilemmas over table salt. My economical brain thus prevailed, but just as I reached for the Morton salt, I had my first comeuppance.

‘Don’t take that’, a voice rang out, in Gujarati, as a short and stocky lady puffed up to me, grandmotherly concern writ large on her face. ‘There’s a sale going on in Costco, where you can get 5 of these same jars for a dollar. Be not taken in by the pretty lights of this store!’

I was a combination of miffed and amused. What would I do with 5 salt jars? Have salted tea? Elderly ladies can sometimes give you the most insistent, yet ridiculous advice, but you only take them on at your own peril. In this case, this was easily the most harebrained proposition I had heard in a while, or so I thought. But I decided against voicing my reaction, and told her instead that I would surely checkout Costco sometime.

Several major retail conglomerates dot the modern American economic landscape, and among them are a few who have helped shape whole new paradigms in consumer buying behavior. In the world of bulk buying, I was soon to discover, Costco is king.

Shortly after the encounter with the Gujarati lady’s advocacy, I was on a long afternoon road trip in California, while also looking for roses to bring to a dinner party later in the evening. ‘Find the nearest Costco’, a friend advised, even as I had a 4 hour drive ahead of me. ‘They stock lovely red roses, and you’ll get plenty more roses than from a local florist for the same price’. With quite a few social occasions slated over the next few months, I decided this would be the impetus for my plunge into the world of buyer’s club shopping.

At 55 dollars per annum, I knew I had to make the Costco membership pay for itself. And it didn’t disappoint. Several times in the subsequent months, I went to buy big bunches of red roses. And then one day the same friend called out of the blue to say there was a Costco deal going on with innerwear. In an impulse bout of bulk buying, I carted dozens of sparkling white vests and briefs. I had managed to find the break even, or paisa vasool as they say in India, for the cost of membership. It was in fact a truly economic order quantity, I consoled myself, except with a restocking frequency of 10 years and more. One could, hopefully, still emerge rational in the long run.

Till the day I discovered that you could do even better by sharing costs of membership, or better still, piggybacking, if your purchases were occasional, on the generosity of a friend. I have since been lucky enough to do the latter.

Just last month, I needed to get some vases and plants for my front porch. After considering several local stores, we found that Costco might have the best deals. So piggybacking on my friend’s membership, a group of us embarked on a ‘Costco Run’. Not surprisingly, we were not the only ‘buyer gangs’.  One could see several gangs of software geeks trooping in along with us, ready for their slice of adventure.

Yes, the conquest of shopping can satisfy as much as the conquest of a peak, or similar such adventure sport, for the majority. Retail therapy is indeed the great American adventure of modern times, especially during the weekends, when enthusiasm understandably surges high. Conducted on terra firma, amongst fluorescent aisles in the safety of the indoors, this is a sport almost everyone can indulge in.

By the Costco entrance, one could see families wheeling in their kids in shopping carts that are wide enough to seat two kids at once. The difference, on the way out, is usually that the same kids are now precariously positioned over endless cartons and boxes, and may even have to perch atop their family SUVs on the ride back home. Outside, new tires are readily available should you want to replace your old worn out ones, especially considering the gargantuan bulk of what the typical shopping expedition ends up with.

Entering the store, one feels one has just come through the gangway of a major ocean liner that has docked at port, stacked with its trove of mercantile treasures from halfway round the world. Row upon shining row of goods can be found stacked on shelves impossibly high. You might do well to come in with your own tall ladder, should you intend exploring the upper decks of the ship.

A trained eye can easily sort out the seasoned shoppers from the novices. The novices, or ‘Costco virgins’, spend their time gaping at the promotions on display, usually in the front section of the store, or by the checkout. They are the ones who have made the brave (and grave) mistake of barging in without a shopping list. The optometry section right upfront offers help to such folks, ensnaring them with every imaginable kind of lens so they might be able to shop and impartially succumb to all deals with clear vision. As if that might not be enough, there are rumors of soon to be introduced Costco retrievers, dogs trained to help you navigate to the juiciest deals store wide, cutting through all the crowds and confusion. The catch? True to Costco spirit, you’ve got to bulk engage a dozen of them at one go. Which is as well, considering one might have a sledge of goods to check out with, having come in not knowing what to buy in the first place. The longer you linger around, the more enticing your shopping discoveries, and the bulkier you will return home.

We were of course predetermined with our shopping plans for the plants and vases, and happily, found a couple of enormous, yet beautiful blue vases from Japan. The plants and pottery section was indeed stocked with some great items for home decor. We then headed for the excellent selection of organic fruits, chips and other snack items which have now become a mainstay for the grocery business.

But if you did not quite know what to get, and came in with an ‘open list’, the treasures of the Costco universe are endless. There’s dog food to feed all the dogs in town, strays included. There are enormous sized hiking pants that can make excellent gifts for any grizzlies you might invite over to your campfire. There’s organic maple syrup that could represent the output of a large Canadian forest. Enough laundry detergent to wash all global politics clean. Batteries to power your home for the next decade, and endless arrays of diapers and toilet paper. Thankfully, if you belonged to a shared buying team, bulk scale is less of an issue, especially when settled through the wonder app, Splitwise.

One has to wonder, however, what all of this humongous retail therapy portends philosophically for happiness. In terms of sheer scale, I would not be surprised if we found out that the annual business of a single Costco store could be about the same order of magnitude as the GDP of Bhutan, the tiny modern Shangri La which prefers to measure Gross National Happiness over GDP.

In this case, we should perhaps then look for the happiness afforded from Costco shopping and see how it compares. The happiness of the Bhutanese stems from lightness of possessions and simplicity, and of course, pristine mountain air and fresh tasting jam.  Americans, by contrast, can buy the equivalent of the average Bhutanese’s annual purchase, from a single visit to Costco. At least in the immediate aftermath of such a shopping expedition,  their finances become modest, and a content frugality settles in.  Overall happiness might thus turn out quite comparable. Especially if you owned stock in Costco, which would allow you to have your cake and eat it too.

Bhutan still beckons though, and we must explore it some day. Hopefully before the advent of Costco in Bhutan.

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Transcending Dance

The crowd began to stream in quite early at the San Jose Center of the Performing Arts, the hallways soon a chattering buzz of anticipation. They had come to witness renowned actress and danseuse Shobana’s latest production, Trance – Dance of Drums.

Nestled well and comfortably in their seats, the performance commenced precisely at the appointed time. Two mesmerizing hours later, the enthralled audience rose to its feet in generous and sustained applause. The masterful performance had impressed even the most seasoned of the cognoscenti to the very core.

The word trance can suggest several nuances, but the hypnotic rhythms and sounds that strung through the evening’s many acts transformed the stage into a space of swirling energy. The themes were chosen for their universal import, starting with the Dasha Mahavidyas, the 10 Tantric wisdom goddesses. This was no dainty ballroom dance, but a startling, unsettling, dynamic immersion into the fathomless energy of Mahakali, the Goddess who is the devourer of time.

Vanquishing the ignorance which masquerades as evil with her sword, challenging all limiting conventions, Kali stormed the stage with an electric tension, the haunting background score of the Kaapi raga heightening the charged atmosphere. Depicted also as the South Indian goddess Mariamma, Kali’s inebriated sway and dominance of stage was a searingly authentic portrayal of the inscrutable, often implacable aspects of Reality. No sooner had it come to a peak of intensity though, than the tempo turned swiftly into one of Kali’s reassuring protection and grace. The soothing notes of Nilambari and Shankarabharanam now accompanied the dancers’ exquisite hand mudras, reminiscent of blossoming lotus flowers. The audience by now had its appetite whetted.

If the first act saw a supine Lord Shiva struggle to catch a glimpse of the Goddess’s crimson feet, the next act showed the Lord coming into his own, first in eternal play with Kali and a host of yoginis. Shiva as Tripurantaka, destroyer of the three citadels of evil, emerged ultimately as Nataraja, Lord of cosmic dance and rhythm. A glorious sequence of poses culminating in Nataraja’s cosmic pose with raised foot will remain imprinted in memory.

God and Goddess acknowledged, the next act celebrated the divine romance of Radha and Krishna, as immortalized in the lyrical poem, Lalita Lavanga. The infatuating environment of the spring season, Radha’s pining for Krishna even as he frolicked in the forest with the other smitten maids of Vrindavan, followed by Krishna’s atonement and subsequent charming and entrancing of Radha…all of these classical themes left the audience in rapture.

The next segments of the show, we were now informed, would highlight interfaith themes of religious harmony, and especially of lesser acknowledged yet great women mystics from various traditions. First in sequence was the story of the Buddha. This was much like an abridged version of Edwin Arnold’s classic ‘Light of Asia’, enlivened with form and movement, chants and voice, color and light. Particularly poignant was the episode of the prince Siddhartha’s renunciation, and his brave surmounting of the dragons and dangers of the spiritual path. The steps and musical scores suggested a distinctive Asian influence, including hypnotic chants of the Tibetan and Japanese mantras of compassion and surrender. The dance itself seemed to melt into a living stream of compassion.

The story of Bibi Nachiar, the Muslim princess and exemplary devotee of Lord Krishna, was depicted next, in a flowing fusion of Sufi and Bharatanatyam dance styles. The devotional element was highlighted by some soulful Sufi Qawwali music and the strains of the Carnatic Rangapura Vihara in equal and delightful measure. The choreography, in addition, proved to be an unforgettable visual treat.

No less impactful was the next piece about Mary of Magdala, the ‘apostle of apostles’, and her tale of great devotion to the prophet of Nazareth. Set against a backdrop of Mediterranean visuals and the life of Jesus, the dancers did a stellar job of bringing home the high spiritual stature of Mary Magdalene. Magdalene’s pure devotion made her the first person to whom the Lord Christ revealed himself after his resurrection. Through these remarkable stories, the audience received a sense for the universality of aspirations to Truth, and its genuine manifestations across varieties of religious practice.

The crowning highlight of the evening was the entrancing ‘Dance of Drums’, a celebration of the pure potency of sound. The audience was treated to a panorama of different percussion traditions, with Shobana’s astonishing drumming talents providing further confirmation of her astonishing versatility. For a few charming minutes, she invited them to keep step with her captivating percussion chants from the various regional styles of India, and across the world, getting everyone to partake in the flow.

The rest of the dance cast were no less impressive. The live orchestra comprising Prithvi Chandrasekhar on the keyboard and Anantha R. Krishnan for percussion provided excellent support, and were good enough to host an evening on their own. The jugalbandi playoff with the live orchestra, as well as the delightful interweaving of dance snippets and styles from around the world was a high point. This was truly the dance of sound competing for honors with the sound of dance, the creative expressions of these artistes of extraordinary endowment. The final piece was an energetically paced yet soul stirring rendition of the Hanuman Chalisa, an offering to herald ultimate auspiciousness.

The harmonious blending of visual imagery and vocals, electronic embellishments and traditional styles was a feat of perfect orchestration for the evening as a whole. Above all, Shobana had, with her vivid stage presence and genuine passion, succeeded in communicating something of the esoteric essence that underlies all true art. Hers was indeed, in the beautiful words of Tagore, the dance that is ecstatic meditation in the still center of movement.

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A Wedding of Indian Hearts

‘Phir Bhi Dil Hai Hindustani’…

Early summer is prime wedding season in India, and childhood memories of summer weddings are of throngs of people, elaborate ceremonies, pranks with cousins, and overwhelming feasts. The typical wedding lasted three, sometimes even four days from start to finish, almost like the timeless train journeys of those days from one end of India to the other.

Decades later, and continents apart, I went last month to a wedding of Indian diaspora friends in California. The nuptials lasted a tidy seven hours, mirroring today’s airplane journey time from Pennsylvania to California, home bases of the families involved. The India­­­n wedding in America has indeed morphed with the times. Happily, it has also retained the essence, adroitly blending past and present, every moment suffused with gaiety and joy.

Proceedings commenced early at the sprawling community center venue in Livermore, with a stream of Indian, Chinese and Western guests tucking into a welcome South Indian breakfast on a typically chilly California morning. Folks had certainly turned up in their Sunday finest, presenting a pleasing spectacle in their Conjeevarams and other elegant outfits. A call for the baraat party (the groom’s procession) rang out on the dot at 8:30 am, and a group of baraat enthusiasts soon gathered at the far corner of the grounds. From there, they danced their way to the main quadrangle amidst much tumult and revelry, even as a stiff breeze helped lift their Bhangra leaps a couple of additional inches into the air.

The wind in fact was brisk enough to blow a few scarves and shawls and sundry items over, prompting the waiting bridal party by the main altar to launch with gusto into the Sri Hanuman Chalisa, a popular supplication in praise of the ever auspicious deity Hanuman. No sooner had they sang it through, than the winds calmed into a gentle breeze, the sun peeped out, and the baraat party led by the groom and his parents arrived to enthusiastic shouts and songs of welcome from the bride’s family. The bride, in accordance with custom, waited indoors.

The ritual preliminaries now got under way, adhering largely to a South Indian format, with the bride and groom parties each represented by their own officiating priest. The priests invoked the blessings of the elements, praying for the success of the main ceremony, while the groom retired into a chamber for the next ceremonial act, the Kashi Yatra. The Kashi Yatra requires the groom, spurred by a last minute fit of renunciation, to embark on a pilgrimage by foot to Kashi, only to be stopped shortly by the bride’s father, and after some convincing, to relent finally to continue with the wedding. Kashi of course being in India, and the groom not quite equipped with either visa or airplane ticket, this Kashi yatra of California origins was not going to last too long. More laughter ensued when the bridal side’s priest counselled that the versatile bride was already one step ahead having visited Kashi earlier, and could certainly help make arrangements for a guided tour if he went through with the wedding!

Next came more sweet and fun preludes, the oonjal or swing ritual, with several ladies singing, dancing and celebrating around the couple seated on a swing, followed by the ‘maalai maatral’, an airborne exchange of multiple garlands between the couple, each hoisted on the shoulders of their respective supporters.

For the main ceremony, the bride, now looking radiant with joy, donned a traditional saree presented to her by the groom. The priests made sure to provide wonderful translations for many of the beautiful Sanskrit invocations, so all present could appreciate. The audience followed with heightened interest, making it a most user friendly nuptial ceremony to witness.

Vows exchanged, the groom vested the bride with the mangalsutra, the ‘cord of auspiciousness’ that would signify them man and wife. This was to be the first time the couple would hold hands…clearly the prevailing mores of earlier times, but with the priest quipping this surely was their first time in front of such large gathering of family! Congratulations flowed all round, and the couple came off the altar stage to walk down the aisle, receiving wishes from friends, and seeking blessings from the elders in the audience.

However pre-compatible the bride and groom of today may be with each other though, the actual moment of the mangalsutra remains one that transcends place and time. The son and daughter of timeless generations who have suffered and striven, rejoiced and loved for this blessed moment, beholding each other, ancestors pouring benediction from the far corners of the universe. Mother to be of countless future generations, their destiny being woven from the cosmic thread of this holy wedlock, gazing into the eyes of her knight in shining armor. Praying together that may there be no one in their line who would not come to realize the bliss of God. Promising to be tender and caring for each other, not for this life alone, but for seven lives in the future where they would, by traditional belief, continue to find and be wedded to each other.

The post wedding reception was no less memorable. The bride’s brother officiated as master of ceremonies, delivering brilliantly witty punches in a modern day version of the katha kalakshepam. His side splitting life advice to the couple and their equally humorous repartees regaled the crowd. The prince now proceeded to serenade his princess in mellifluous tones, accompanied by a high school buddy on the piano, and she seemed to approve, soon joining him in graceful step. Their friends from school, and all over the world, shortly took over the stage for a performance that could do a Bollywood professional dance troupe proud. This cool and hip generation can certainly excel at just about everything.

An exceptional luncheon culminated in an array of enticing vegan desserts, while easily surpassing the most scrutinizing standards of connoisseur’s tastes. The proceedings then dissolved into further dancing and merriment.

Everyone went away happy for having witnessed a joyous union of hearts.  This modern day Indian wedding, all of seven hours, was as complete and wonderful as it could be, in every sense of the word.

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Awakening

 

There I lay, quietly

In the light sleep that precedes the dawn,

Blurred images streaming by.

And suddenly, this beautiful maiden

Floating into my presence,

Caressing my hair tenderly…

‘All will be well’.

Ah, what sweetness and grace

Such kind benediction.

 

Gently rubbing the sleep from my eyes,

I woke up.

Heart aflutter and glad,

Still cocooned in the sweetness

Of the early morning dream.

 

The morning sun rose,

Spreading its light

O’er the countryside that is my home.

The rhythms of life and work

Settled into their cadence,

The  clear blue day

Humming in easy flow.

 

With all my chores accomplished,

I contemplated a long walk,

On my favorite country road

With its rolling ups and downs

That always promised a view

Of distant horizons.

 

Setting out with sprightly gait,

Seldom had I felt so boundlessly content.

No human in sight, nobody for company

Save for the wide outdoors themselves,

Bidding fair welcome.

 

Soon coming up

A steep climb of road,

I paused briefly to behold

The vista of the verdant country

Which lay at my feet.

 

And lo!

There she was,

This lovely maiden,

Walking up to me,

With the eager air

Of finding someone long lost,

Looking exactly

Like the damsel of my dream.

 

Eyes met,

And we melted into each other’s gaze

With the sweetest, most tender knowing.

No words exchanged.

My hand reached out, to caress her hair

Just grazing her cheeks,

When she vanished,

As magically as she came.

 

Leaving me engulfed

By a sphere of rainbow light,

Resplendent like the noonday sun,

And yet the pleasant coolness of the full moon.

The chimes of distant bells,

And a sweet fragrance,

Enveloping every little strand

Of my grateful being

With a long forgotten happiness.

 

I had finally woken up.

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Random Acts of Kindness

My favorite story of kindness dates back to a rainy July day in Calcutta, sometime in the mid-nineties. The monsoon had been bearing down hard all weekend, but come Sunday afternoon, as can frequently happen even on the wettest of days, there was a brief letup in the rains. From amidst a canopy of deep purple clouds, a little patch of blue sky peeped out to tease.

Having been sequestered in by the rains, I promptly grabbed the chance to step out, with a long stylish English umbrella for accoutrement. Dodging and occasionally wading through pools of water, I ventured on to the main road, and started trudging towards a popular tea shop a little over a mile away. This shop served an immensely satisfying sweet and spicy tea, in eco-friendly matka cups, which was eminently worth braving the wet weather for. The road was empty, with nary a soul in sight, and the green landscape and cool breeze, with the mildest of drizzles made it a perfect Sunday afternoon excursion.

Sauntering along, I soon saw a little kid, on the opposite side of the road, his tiny frame tugging a large bag of enticingly pink, fluffy cotton candy on his back. He was seven or eight years old at best, for the bag was almost as big as him. Perfect occasion for a little indulgence! I floated across the road, and in no time was chatting with him as to what he was doing all by himself on a day like this with nobody around for business. With a charming smile, he shot back saying ‘But you are here, aren’t you. You can be my first customer this afternoon’.

I happily accepted his suggestion, and was soon finishing up a truly delicious little treat of candy, when I remembered to ask him how much it cost. Twenty paise, he said, which in today’s terms might be something like two cents, and certainly no more than a dime at best. Reaching into my pocket for the change though, I was aghast to find I had left home with pockets empty. Twenty paise, while small change for me, would certainly matter to a kid hawking candy.

He was repacking his wares to go. I requested him to wait for a few minutes, so I could dash home and come back to pay for the candy. He paused for a moment to look at me, and then said in the sweetest and most sincere of tones, ‘My home is far, and I have to be going now. You really relished that candy, so take it as a little gift from me, and let the payment be. But please promise me that someday in your life, you will do something similar, for someone you might encounter, just by chance, like we met today’.

Hoisting the bag on to his back, he walked away in the gently pouring rain, with no raincoat or anything else to shield him. I looked on wistfully, enveloped by the gentle rain, and the softest and most spontaneous kindness.

Kindness knows no boundaries of land or clime. Many years later, I was in Virginia, and heading out early in the morning to work, a little rushed for time. As I quickly reversed my car from the parking lot, I just about managed to notice a passing car behind, but it was too late. Even as I slammed onto the brakes, I couldn’t avert a solid little side-on impact to the other car. Stepping out, and apologizing all the while, I saw a little old lady come out of her car, and promptly offered her my driver’s license and insurance detail, admitting my fault completely. My morning hurry had just tickled the well-established statistic of most car accidents happening in the parking lot.

She shrugged, looked at me, looked at the dent on her door, and without even the slightest trace of upset, said, ‘Young man, this kind of thing does happen to everybody some time or the other. Will you please remember to be careful going forward. I will handle the dent to my car on my own, not to worry on that count’. Again, a sweetly random outpouring of kindness that left me touched, humble and grateful. In my personal scheme of things, the happiness genie would for sure visit and stay with that little lady forever.

If we contemplate our lives, each of us might discover that we have been graced with unexpected kindness multiple times over. Who among us would not want to pay it forward? The gestures have no need to be grand or imposing. Even a kind look, a soothing word, can brighten and sweeten someone’s day when they least expect, yet perhaps most need it. The smallest random kindness can for sure connect hearts and ennoble our humanity like nothing else can. It’s a most reliable, precious link to our happiness.

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Mumbai’s Rhythms, Human and Bovine

Mumbai, or Bombay for old timers, is India’s version of the Big Apple, heir to a still visible Victorian legacy juxtaposed with eternal Indian ingenuity. One can almost touch the pulsating energy in its air, thick with ambition and enterprise. This is a city that never sleeps, with Bollywood for a glittering dream machine. The city is also synonymous with big Indian business, having played home to the legendary Jamshedji Tata, whose vision bequeathed to India its very first modern industrial empire.

I’ve often wondered what makes Mumbai tick, the city’s secret sauce, so to speak, that sustains all of its tremendous bustle and activity. The city bucks the stereotype of the average Indian metropolis, and is perhaps, in many ways, a closer cousin to Tokyo. Just as Japan is culturally the most Westernized of all Asian countries, Mumbai is the most Westernized among India’s cities. There’s a clockwork precision to Tokyo that Mumbai tries to emulate, and fairly successfully at that. For Mumbai, far more than the rest of India’s cities, thrives on a remarkable orderliness.

Take queuing for instance, something one might take for granted in the West. Most of India would prefer a non-linear approach to get ahead with life in general. The Indian mindset is smartly endowed to figure out the shortest path through any and every situation. Mumbai, by contrast, queues up for just about everything.

The lifeline of Mumbai is its suburban rail network, which like Tokyo’s, is one of the world’s busiest, transporting millions of people day in and out with relentless efficiency. Mumbai’s rail network, with all of the feeder systems that support it, does a stellar job of keeping the whole city on the move with a palpable rhythm.

The exception to orderly queueing, curiously, is for the actual suburban train ride itself, which can demand an act of genuine acrobatic dexterity to board and exit. Rest assured, however, that this is for good reason, and there is a still a certain knack to the process, which requires positioning oneself strategically to ride with the crowd’s momentum. Embarking and exit is then simply a matter of being swept in and swept out with the tidal surge of humanity. For coaches with crowds packed like sardines, this system works far superior to queueing.

Once on board though, you will find that that order settles in rapidly. If you rode in the same coach on the same local train every day, you might notice the same straphangers occupying the same spots, as if theirs by right. Not surprisingly, a lively community bond ensues, forged by this daily commute. Such bonds have lasted, in many cases, through entire working lives of 30 years and more.

Once the frenzy of the morning rush hour subsides, it’s prime time for Mumbai’s dabbawallas to swing into action. The dabbawallas operate a meal delivery system that can justifiably be called Mumbai’s pride. Their noble enterprise delivers hot lunches from homes to offices every working day. Hundreds of thousands of dabbas, or lunchboxes, make their way from people’s homes to their offices, picked up late morning to be returned early afternoon. Come rain or shine, hosts of clanging dabbas can be seen on bicycles or transferring on to the local trains, ferried by the intrepid fleet of dabbawallas.

Notwithstanding the humongous scale of operation, instances of mismatches or missed deliveries are exceedingly rare. The reliability of the century old system of the dabbawallas continues to confound modern day pundits of logistics. Many an aspiring Silicon Valley food delivery startup can take a leaf out of the dabbawallas’ book, and they have been the subject of several business school case studies.

Many of the dabbawallas are barely literate, and the stipend for their tireless efforts is hardly enough to make ends meet. Yet, they bring to their job a proud and passionate work ethic, and an almost religious sense of mission. A scriptural simile is appropriate here. Just as in a herd of a thousand cows, a calf unerringly finds its own mother, Mumbai’s wonderful dabbawallas ensure that each dabba finds its exact owner to bring them nourishment from home.

Speaking of cows, this is where Mumbai gets truly interesting. Humans and cows have coexisted happily for millennia in a rural and pastoral setting, with cows free to roam and graze. City cows in India though are a stressed and challenged lot, uprooted as they are from their carefree natural environs and having to contend with the dangers of modern traffic. Bombay’s cows are however champions of the game, with street smarts to surpass even their human cousins. In this respect, the cows of Ghatkopar, a Central Bombay suburb, must take honors for a most impressive spectacle of bovine order.

The rail tracks in Bombay, running through its suburbs, are for the most part unfenced, and several people tempt fate daily as they cross over from one side to another. The rail stations on the network, of course, have pedestrian overbridges and subways to cross over safely. For example, if you needed to cross over from one side of Ghatkopar to the other as a pedestrian, the rail station at Ghatkopar is one place to do so, and thousands of pedestrians use its overbridge daily.

As you enter the station to cross over the bridge, though, be not surprised if you find yourself in the company of cows coming and going freely in either direction. These are Bombay cows, and like the human residents of the city, busy and hard pressed for time, and difficult to schedule appointments with even if you tried. Yet, unlike some of their foolhardy human brethren, no cow crosses the actual rail track, always using the pedestrian bridge instead. Cows and bulls routinely make their entrance, to climb up the ramp, saunter across and come down on the other side with nonchalant ease and familiarity. There’s no one to point or direct, but every cow conducts itself perfectly as if following the signs.

Swishing their tails about to keep away the ever pesky flies, the cows of Ghatkopar have crossed in this manner for generations. It is a curious sight indeed, especially in the rains, to watch a seamless crowd of humans and cows, coats and tails, horns and umbrellas, marching in jolly stride. Bipeds and quadrupeds might even exchange notes as they go about their daily commute. Rumor has it that savvy stockbrokers in the crowd interpret bull language for trading tips on the bourses.

Monsoon rains can sometimes make it challenging, especially for inexperienced calves, to find their footing on the wet and slippery ramps. Some of them choose to therefore make a speedy and carefree descent, where even the burliest of human commuters must make way with alacrity. A little monsoon fun is always in order.

All told though. Mumbai’s cows are probably the smartest of city cows anywhere, with a discipline that would do humans proud. Bovines and humans share a most easy and familiar bonhomie as they go about their respective daily business. This forever funny spectacle has to place Mumbai in a league all its own.

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Soul Déjà vu

In the everyday course of life, our experiences can range from the comfortable and mundane, to the challenging, to the startlingly new. For children, of course, all of life is an exotic discovery, starting with the surroundings of home and family, to every new and enticing color, flavor, sound and sensation. With time, the freshness will fade to make way for the familiar, but perhaps never completely so…for even if things stay the same on the outside, our view of the world evolves, and we see it through ever changing lenses.

Somewhere along this stream of life’s interactions, most, if not all of us, might have at some time or other encountered an experience of déjà vu. Seemingly new situations on the surface, something about these déjà vu occurrences feels uncannily, even overwhelmingly familiar. As  a déjà vu situation unfolds, one feels like the past has vividly stepped into the present, resonating and triggering recall from distant archives of memory.

You happen to visit a place for the first time, and it feels like you are simply rediscovering environs you have known before. As a kid growing up in Chennai, I had heard of Mumbai and its famous Marine Drive. When I did visit this lovely beachside promenade for the very first time, everything about the place felt like I’d been there already.

Similar was an occurrence later in life when I first moved to New York City. As I hopped off the Manhattan subway into the bustling beehive of activity that is Canal Street, the sights and sounds and the overall ambience impressed upon me the very definite conviction of having been there before.

My very first Sanskrit class in primary school had a situation which in hindsight seems a little curious. Something about the teacher and learning a new language felt very naturally familiar, and got me all eager and attentive. At one point, the teacher paused to ask the class the word (in Sanskrit) for ‘I’. Though not consciously having heard of the word before, I fairly jumped out of my seat to answer ‘Aham’, as if by spontaneous recall.

I’ve often wondered what triggers this phenomenon of déjà vu, and from where it might bubble up. For a start, let us consider a fairly common ‘new’ situation, as happens when we shift residence to new surroundings, or start work at a new place. In the first few days the landscape is pretty unfamiliar, and we have to navigate our way around quite consciously as we try get accustomed to the environs. At some point though, the place becomes ‘known’ territory, and we slip into auto pilot mode and merge in with the surroundings.

There is one explanation for this shift from ‘new’ to ‘familiar’ which I’ve come across. It builds on the fact that each of us carries a unique vibrational imprint which we exchange with our surroundings. As these energetic impressions from us accumulate over a few days in the new place, the place gradually becomes less alien, as there’s enough of our own imprints now in the environment, to welcome and make us feel ‘at home’.

This explanation is indeed quite intriguing. If we extrapolated this hypothesis, with the possibility that some of these imprints persist long enough, perhaps to even carry across lifetimes, we might just have found a metaphysical explanation for déjà vu.

Generally speaking, déjà vu occurrences are specific to the individual. There is also however déjà vu that happens on grander scale, as is the case with places of sacred geography. People have taken a holy dip in the Ganges and other sacred rivers and lakes since time immemorial. One can imagine the collective vibration of humanity from ages past, waiting to greet everyone who visits these sacred waters today, with a crystalline flow of blessings. That collective vibration could well have included our own.

Likewise for the solitude of pristine nature, which is imbued with the vibrations of saints and mystics and angels that resonate with the harmonious vibrations of our higher nature. The high Himalayan ranges and open spaces of Tibet can thus be teeming natural hotspots for déjà vu, as those fortunate to have soaked in the vibrations of these magical places will heartily attest to.

I also think of the déjà vu of legend. Whoever heard the music of Krishna’s flute was transported by an ineffable sweetness. Whoever might hear such music today is transported similarly to the sweet pastoral Vrindavan of the mind.

Perhaps the ultimate déjà vu is afforded by the inward journey of meditation. Mystics through the ages have made the extraordinary inner journey of penetrating through the veils of personality, to gaze upon their innermost being. With one voice as it were, they speak of this vision as the supreme homecoming. In a sense, this place is wholly foreign and uncharted, as there is nothing so perfectly hidden from us as our very own nature. But once glimpsed, even if fleetingly, they who have dwelt in this grandest déjà vu of all have called it the most intimately familiar place in the universe.