Tag: #Ganges

Posted on

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.

Posted on

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.

Posted on

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.