Kumari-the living Goddess of Nepal...Nepal tidbit 6

Entrance to the place where the Goddess gives darshan

Outside the Kumari Ghar

Window overlooking the public place. Probably from where the Goddess looks at the mortals.

Place: Durbar Square, Katmandu

The temple that houses the living Goddess is just another beautiful brick and wooden-window building to the left of the white pillared palace.

Nepal has this centuries long tradition of worshipping a human being as the manifestation of their powerful Goddess-Talueja. A young girl, from the Shakya clan (Descendents of Gautama Buddha) is chosen after consultation with priests and Royals. She must apparently fulfill 32 criteriae and most importantly, must never have lost blood from any part of her body-not even when her milk teeth fall off!! The girls are chosen when they are about 3 or 4 years old and continue as long as there is no blood loss, only to be replaced by another similar girl when the event happens. Needless to say, all girls are pre-menarchal (not attained the first period)

The living Goddess is called Kumari and her temple-house is the Kumari Ghar at Durbar Square.

Within the main door is a rectangular open courtyard with carved wooden doors that lead off into more rooms or verandahs. To the left, at the corner is another unpretentious door which leads onto a narrow wooden staircase. “NO ENTRACE FOR FOREIGNERS” says a paper signboard. As Indians are not considered foreigners, we are allowed.

We trundle up the wooden stairs noisily before realizing it is very quiet around. Automatically we hush our tones and following others, we remove our sandals at the landing. Entering through a low wooden door we are in a wide verandah, rather than a room, in the middle of which sits the Goddess-all in flesh and blood!

There is a small throne, apparently fashioned for a six or seven year old child. It is actually a raised platform with a back rest and no arm rest. So that the child can easily slide off from the sides onto the lap of a person sitting on the floor next to the throne! And that was how the living Goddess was seated when we went to see her.

All of six or maybe seven years, she had slid off to her right, from the little throne and was now sitting in the lap of a 50+ year old woman, whom I thought was the guardian of the Goddess To the left of the throne, sat another lady a few years younger that the first. She was occupied with the chore of stuffing into a bag the currencies that were being offered at the feet of the Goddess.

To use the word peck-worthy and skinny for a Goddess could well sound blasphemous for her worshippers, but those were the adjectives that came to my mind then. Oval faced, pale skinned and underweight, she was dressed in red finery-complete with bright red lipstick, red bindi and even red socks! I cannot remember what headgear she wore because I was staring at her face and eyes. Though heavily made up with kohl, her expression was of dis-interest… spiritually oblivious (if it sounds less blasphemous!)Were she older, I would have described that look as condescending or arrogant! But for a seven-eight year old it can’t be anything other than boredom that arises because of the familiarity of a year-round routine!

She was sucking on a toffee within her mouth, lips pursed as the toffee rolled over in her mouth, shifting from her left cheek to the right. She seemed to be enjoying that more than her current devotees.

A middle aged couple had come in reverentially and the guardian had stretched out the Kumari’s red socks-ed feet. The couple bowed at her feet, made their offerings and after receiving the blessings, retreated to the stairs without showing their backs to the Goddess! We gawked at her and she ignored us as if we were no more than curious flies or mosquitoes!

“Does the same girl sit here every day?” I asked as I was then not aware of any of their traditions

“Yes.” Said the guardian. And before I could pry further, “Please make your offering, take blessings and leave!”

I felt like hoisting the kid high or even tickle her and hear her gurgling laughter. Or ask her how she felt sitting there in her finery all day or what she would like to do-eat an ice-cream perhaps? I admired how she kept an emotion-less face all through- out the public appearance... I don’t know why I did not touch her feet or make an offering and I left the room showing my back to her…Faithless, maybe!

I could not get the Kumari tradition out of my mind and was scouting for more information and the next day at the Patan Durbar Square, I found just the book. An autobiography of a previous Kumari, Miss Rashmila Shakya (Kumari from 1984-1991).I learnt that the name of the current Kumari is Matina Shakya and she was inducted as Goddess in 2008 when she was three years old!

I am now reading Rashmila’s book and hope to get an insight into what it feels like to be a Goddess and then later a mortal!!

Biography of ex-Goddess, Rashmila Shakya

Rashmila Shakya with her co-author

Changing festival profiles- The Deepavali

Diwali is an eternal festival-there is no denying that. But there has certainly been a sea of change in the manner how it is celebrated over the decades. Here is a peek into that:

Grandmother's ; the 1940s and 1950s-Large household celebration:

  The Amaldar’s household is a beehive of activity even a month before Deepavali. Home cleansing is a noisy, dusty affair; punctuated with generous bouts of singing, joking and laughter. The tailor is expected any moment. He was here four weeks back with a small book and a measuring tape and had diligently noted the specifications and measurements of the dozen odd dresses he was expected to make for the children of the house. Today he would deliver the finished products that were sure to evince squeals of delight and tinges of envy!

  The kitchen is in a programmed mode on its own. Preparations for Kajjyaya (a delicious sweet made of jaggery and pounded rice) are underway. It requires that the rice be soaked, dried and pounded to ensure a soft consistency for the sweet.

  Uncle ‘Mari’ is expected to come home any day from the city, lugging along the contingency of cracker packets. On his arrival, the crackers are examined and discussed with great interest and anticipation and put away carefully. They are not placed in direct contact with the cold floor for fear that they might catch a cold and hence perform below par! Every afternoon they are lovingly laid out in the sun to catch the warmth, remain crisp, and not disappoint with a pusssss when lighted!

Celebrations of Deepavali begin a day before Naraka Chathurdasi. We call it ‘Bhogi Habba.’ On this day, we offer prayers to Water. The bathroom is cleaned and decorated with Rangoli. The hande (huge brass vessel used to heat water for bathing) is filled with water, decorated with flowers, vermillion and rangoli. Pooja is offered in the evening. The culinary delights would have already begun, heralding three days of fun and frolic.

     Another feature of Deepavali is the ritual of bathing. The whole house is awake and about in the wee hours on Narakachathurdasi, everyone vying to be the first to take the wonderful ‘oil-bath’ well before sunrise. Then follow the burst of first crackers to coincide with first rays of the sun. Crackers are burst in the evening too. Doing it in large groups made it seem an unending, joyous affair.  

     The newly wed sister would be home with her handsome husband who has also come with loads of gifts to his in-laws and wife’s siblings. Pampering him and getting to know him better is another competitively done activity.

    On Balipadyami my granny would make figurines of Balindra and Vamana with clay and worship it in the courtyard of the house. Every threshold of the house was adorned on either side by a small nugget of cow-dung topped with few blades of grass. Bursting crackers continued on this day as well. Being the large household that it was, there never would be a dearth of people cheering, watching or vying to burst crackers. 

     Ten days after Balipadyami is the Tulasi Habba or Uthwana Dwadhasi. Some of the crackers are retained for this day when the Tulasi plant (Basil) is worshipped. A twig from the gooseberry tree is placed by the side of the tulasi plant.  An arathi (lighted lamp offering) is made of seven gooseberries and the women of the neighbourhood are invited for the arathi. Arriving in swishing, shining silk saris, they sit before the Vrindavan, sing songs and go home after the arathi, presented with a leaf-cup (donne) full of fresh kosambari (salad made from soaked moong dal.)

     For the rest of the month, at the fall of dusk, earthenware lamps are placed at the sides of the main threshold and before the vrindavan everyday. It is the Karthika Deepa.

Mother's; 1980s-Individual houses in Locality celebrations:

     Mother was fairly good at making dresses-but the choice in her repertoire was limited. It was either a long skirt with bodice and a back-buttoned blouse or a short skirt with a bodice and a back-buttoned blouse. She couldn’t make frocks, pants or shirts. Three weeks before the festival, she shopped for the materials buying colours of her choice and budget, and got down to work at the sewing machine. Trying and retrying the dresses-in-making on us, she would finally finish off alterations, buttons and buttonholes two days before the festival. That left her with a day to prepare obattu (sweet pancake). She would often complain that she could never make kajjyayas as soft as her mother did! 

     We had no hande at home and so Bhogi habba meant filling the boiler instead with water and offering pooja! There was similarly no ritual of feeding and lighting the firewood late the previous night to keep water ready for a bath. A flick of switch at four in the morning would suffice! 

     For us, the enthusiasm for the early morning ritual bath on Narakachathurdasi was sustained only because we were averse to hearing the sound of the first crackers from any other home in our locality! The competition had another face to it too. We would prevent anyone from sweeping the roads in front of our houses so that by the end of festivities, we could judge who burst most crackers by stock taking the amount of rubble before houses!

     The graduation from roll caps and guns to chinakuruli pataki (small green chilli sized crackers) to aane pataki (slightly larger and louder, post-office red ones) and lakshmi pataki (had a photo of goddess Lakshmi on it) and finally to the green coloured atom bomb happened in a span of few hours, bravado being spurred on by friends and taunting elders!

     I always remember celebrating our Deepavalis on Narakachathurdasi and Balipadyami. The Lakshmi Pooja that falls on the new-moon day between the two festivals is not a big celebration for us, unlike for the North-Indians. Even schools remained open on this day, thus seriously breaking into days of revelry. Mom never missed out on preparing payasa, ambode, kosambari and vanghibath or chitranna on these days taking care not to repeat a single menu on either day.

  She preferred lighting the diyas in the traditional earthenware lamps to lighting candles. When we reluctantly called it a day by the end of Balipadyami, the festival mood had not yet worn off.

     We were allowed to wear our new dresses to school the next day and it was an extended celebration of the festival, wearing off gradually rather that abruptly.

My family, 21st Century-Urban, nuclear family celebrations:

  Shopping for clothes is just days before the festival when I can steal two evening hours off from my busy schedule. It is a hurried affair, shopping beginning and ending at a one-stop shop, as I would rather pay slightly more for my children’s clothes here than take a whole afternoon or day off to drive to a distant shopping arcade.

  I am already inundated with boxes of sweets from patients, friends and medical representatives and we decide we don’t need to prepare anymore at home except for payasam. My husband is calorie conscious, children are not too particular about any sweet and anyway, I can’t make traditional sweets as well as mom or granny did!

  Bhogi habba is now reduced to praying in the pooja room only, before a mug filled with water! The geyser in the bathroom is too high to even be adorned with flowers or kumkum. I have managed to adorn the pooja room and the front of the courtyard with my favourite rangolis in Deepavali themes the day before.

  I didn’t want my children to miss the excitement of waking up early and bursting that first cracker. I had plans of an enticing offer of a Sunday outing in the mall if they agreed to get up early and burst crackers!

  “But mom, we have decided to celebrate this Diwali without crackers!” my son had drawled when I had coaxed them out to buy crackers

  ‘What? Diwali without crackers?” I could never understand this fourteen year old. Were they serious or camouflaging the laziness to burst crackers?

  “Yeah! Noise pollution, you know. Our club in school has pledge to make this a noise-less Diwali.”

  “But-well, OK. We could play with sparklers, colour matches, snakes…Rockets? Soundless rockets, perhaps?” I was desperate not to let go of the child in me.

  “Mom, don’t you know that it is polluting the environment with the lots of carbon-di-oxide?” My eight-year-old daughter chips in.

  ‘Then what do you celebrate Deepavali with?”

  “Why, the spirit of the festival, of course! We can adorn the outside of the house with lamps…candles actually, if Dad insists that the oil will spill over and stain the compound wall. Can’t you see? It is the spirit that matters! The schools are closed, shops offer heavy discounts and freebies for consumer products, and people are wearing new clothes and exchanging gifts! Mom, Diwali can be everywhere, even without crackers!”He sermones.

  “Guess so!” I sighed. It was time to grow up, time to stop buying and bursting crackers, enjoying myself on the pretext of my children! The house was watching Deepavali celebrations across the country on TV as I quietly escaped to the virtual world- to blog fantastic memories of bygone Deepavalis!        

Hep and happening nights of Thamel, Khatmandu-Nepal tidbit 5

Would you believe if I told you that Khatmandu, the capital of Nepal, has power cuts for 18 hours a day? Yes. It does.
And left with the choice of keeping shops open with generators on or simply downing shutters, most shop keepers choose the latter. And so, though we reached Khatmandu by road from Beni by nine, most shops had closed. We were booked at a hotel in Thamel, which we learnt was a very happening place in the city. However due to unavoidable circumstances of peak tourist season and cancellation of flights, we were accommodated in an alternative hotel for that night, with assurances of transfer to the original hotel by next morning.
The grouchy manager easily invited instant dislike from all of us. For some reason (Maybe because we were Indians and not Europeans or because we had initially booked elsewhere) he was inhospitable.
“The kitchen is closed for the day. You may have to get dinner from some restaurant,” he had said.
Dumping our luggages in our rooms, we hurriedly stepped out onto the streets of Thamel. For a moment the Thamel  street appeared to be too modest to be a hep and happening place. It was just a little more than an alley with more smaller alleys running off perpendicularly. I could imagine how the tiny shops would be spilling over their wares by daytime.
Just then, we lost the pilot group with the guide who was taking us to a suitable restaurant. The dim lights, so many cross roads and growling tummies did not help at all.
“Lets go off by ourselves and find a restaurant.”  And that was when I really began to look around. Looking up I saw rows and rows of neon sign boards of pubs, bars, discotheques-all so unassuming. A group of noisy Europeans, descended onto the street filling the small place, smoking  and talking animatedly as a couple of taxis waited with engines running. Two young women strutted by giggling …an  Asian in high spirits broke into a  loud song as he brushed past us…Unknown faces, strange behavior, dim streets, blinking sign boards…I suddenly seemed transported to some ghetto scenery in Hollywood movie…complete with an eerie soundtrack that had begun playing in my brain. Across the street there were more waiting taxis and the crowd got thinner and shadier…
“Is there a good restaurant around?” we finally managed to ask a lonely local who looked sane. He pointed across the road to a first floor place-“Hotel Gorkhaland. Nice…”he said with an accent. Wondering what vegetarian food we could get, we went up. The hotel was dim lit with a bar to the right and a stage before us.
We grabbed the menu cards at the dining table, ignoring the server who wanted us to sit on the sofas for a drink before transferring to the dining area. Veg Chowmein had been my staple diet during most of Nepal trip and I was sure they would have it. The hotel closed in half an hour and we were the only customers there. Just as we managed to quickly place our orders, the quiet air was disturbed by blaring music.
“Oh please,” I said beckoning the manger,” No music please-“ the rest of my words stuck within my throat as, at that moment a dancer suddenly materialized on the dance floor!
Overweight, painted face and gawdy lipstick; she was clad in a sheer off white saree and almost a backless red blouse. Twirling to the garrulous song, she entered much to my surprise and embarrassment at this unanticipated occurrence. “Oh! Please no dance…or music-“ but the manager and waiters had all disappeared from our sides and had parked themselves at convenient vantage points for uninterrupted entertainment.
I stole a glance at others. We were three women, three men and two children. The first group did not know where to look, the second looked where they were expected to and the kids couldn’t tear their eyes off the danseuse! Ok! What cannot be cured must be endured-be it in pain or pleasure. I thought and only then registered that it was a Bollywood song…”Oh la la  OO la la …tu hai mere fantasy….!”
On cue, a man, also withy painted face and red lips and sunshades, sheer cream shirt and tight white pants, jumped onto the stage form the left side. Wasn’t it such a suffering to watch the two dance to the horrible song only a few feet away from us when all we actually needed was rest to eyes and food for the tummy?! And so we sat, waiting for the song to get over, waiting more eagerly for the food to come. Luckinly the manager had judged us well. After the first dance, he did not hoist any more dancers on us and instead ordered them to play soft Buddhist music!
As we head back to our hotel, we notice police patrol along Thamel’s streets every few blocks. Two vagabonds had made a bonfire and were settling down to sleep on the pavement. A biker’s breath was being tested and a policeman with a scary sten-gun strutted across eyeing us. A woman passed by, smoking… taxis still lingered around as silence was slowly descending on the streets of dark Thamel.
The next day, we shifted hotel. To Naxol area of Khatmandu, which was more residential than Thamel could ever decently get!!

Thamel's street by day...so innocuous looking

Thamel by day...

Mysterious Muktinath...Nepal tidbit 4

Outer shrine and inner sanctum sanctorum

Outer shrine

Call it co-incidence or miracle, something interesting happened when I visited Mukthinath-the giver of Salvation.

Mukthinath is a small shrine which is nestled in the Torang La mountain pass, at an altitude about 3700+ meters. Tucked away amidst sylvan surroundings, it overlooks the mighty Annapurna range of Himalayan mountains.

Around the side of the shrine, running from the right to the left are 108 water faucets that constantly spill freezing water from the mountains, mostly from the tributaries of the mighty Gandaki river. They are the Mukthidharas or ‘streams for salvation’. Devotees pass beneath all the 108 spouts of freezing waters before the darshan of the Muktinath. Though I did carry a set of fresh clothes, even before we reached the place, I had decided that a cold water shower was not for me. But my daughter put me to shame by deciding to have the cold showers and before I could concoct why it wasn’t good for a twelve year old, she was peeling off her sweaters and removing her shoes.

I watched as she, shivering, hurried beneath the 108 spouts. “My God, hats off, “I thought. But she did not stop at that. There are two ponds of more freezing waters before the shrine. Someone told her that salvation will be incomplete if she did not dip into both of them also. Before I said no she was immersing herself in one after another…shivering body and chattering teeth I later helped the imp change into warmer clothes.

“Ok. I am done! “she said and it sounded like a challenge to me.Like- “I bet you can’t!” And isn’t that slight enough for an Arien like me? 

“Ok. I go now, “I said not feeling even half as bold as I sounded. I never have cold water shower even in peak summer. And now to have freezing showers-not under one but 108 spouts! Well at Muktinath…will attain salvation instantly were I to die of cold shock! And so I sprinted in tees and tights beneath the 108 spouts.. I was praying loudly I think-some shloka of Vishnu…and before long I was out on the other side of the 108 faucets! “Now you do the pond,” someone said. 

“…..” I thought I said no. But no voice came out as I was cold-gagged. “No, this I can’t,” I said.I will only sprinkle the pond water on my head. Taking a dip is beyond me, “ I said, certain I would die if I dipped!

Feeling better after changing into fresh clothes I was ready for darshan. 

My daughter under cold showers

Cold shower time for me

Shower spouts shaped as bulls' mouths

Mukthinath is a sacred place for both Hindus and Buddhists and is rich with legendary references.

For Hindus, it is the Muktikshetra or the Place for salvation and was known also as Thiru Saligramam as it is believed to house the Saligrama (naturally formed black holy stone) of Lord Vishnu. It is one of the 108 Divya deshams as perceived by the Sri Vaishnavites (worshippers of Vishnu) and one of the 51 Shakthi peetams for the Hindus. The Hindus believe the idols to be of Lord Sri Murthi and Goddess Sri Devi Thayaar.

For the Buddhists it is known as Chumig Gyatsa (meaning 100 waters in Tibetian) and is one of the 24 Tantric places. They believe the idol inside to be that of Avalokiteshwara.

There is a sanctum sanctorum within the shrine and of course photography is prohibited here. Interestingly there is a 3-4 feet tall sitting idol of a four armed god with a hole at the tip of his nose! He looks like a Buddha but has the conch, the Sudarshan chakra, a lotus flower and a lotus bud in each of his hands. He is surrounded by smaller figurines which look very much Tibetian. All in bronze I think, but I had read somewhere that it was a statue of gold! At his feet is a heap of offering of currency notes- Indian and Nepalese

A Buddhist nun watches us as my cousins have parked themselves in the tiny place and have begun chanting the Vishnu sahasranama, full throttle. I don’t know the hymns and after offering an abridged prayer I get out of the sanctum into the courtyard.

My cell phone jingles and I am surprised there is connectivity here too! It is my sister on Whatsapp.

“Bad news…”I feel giddy. My uncle (Dad’s youngest brother) has passed away! He had been ailing for sometime. And when I call her back to enquire about the details, the phone goes dead!

Brimming eyes and heavy feet I get back into the sanctum sanctorum. The chanting is still on. I stare at the Muktinatha-golden, Buddha-looking ears, adorned with colorful shining vastras. I was here, at this hour, sent for a reason!

“God, let him rest in peace. Grant salvation to my beloved uncle,” I pray. I make an offering in currency for the second time and get out of the shrine.

I failed to make any contact with home for the next two days! It did not surprise me. Something had ensured I pray for the departed soul at Muktinatha! 

Lovely Lumbini..Nepal tidbit 3

The Maya Devi Temple from outside

      There is something about the Buddhist holy places that makes me instantly calm. The Maya Devi Temple at Lumbini was no exception. It is a UNESCO World Heritage site, no less and the holiest of holy places for the Buddhists.

      From the India-Nepal border at Sunauli, Lumbini is a 2-3 hour drive. The Maya Devi temple is a good 2 kilometers further inside the sprawling Lumbini park-woods premises.

     According to legend, Queen Maya Devi was enroute to her parents’ place through the beautiful Lumbini Gardens when she went into labor. Standing beneath the Sal tree, clutching a branch, she is supposed to have delivered Siddhartha, who later became the Buddha.

     The exact place of birth is marked by a stone and the glass enclosure is about 2 feet beneath the ground level. A reddish-brown mural of Maya Devi adorns the wall above the birthplace. Japanese and Sri Lankan pilgrims stand in extreme veneration in a single queue waiting for their turn to see the birthplace. Only after clicking two photos, I see the board prohibiting photography. I am sorry to have violated it and hurt sentiments. But I can’t get myself to delete the two pictures. Sorry though.

Visitors peering down to have a look at the exact birth place of Buddha

The exact birthplace.Note the dilapidated Stupas in foreground

 

     As you can see, there is no Sal tree now but only the stone monument at the birth place. Around this place Stupas were built from the 3rd Century BC to 7th AD. Today only the remains of the dilapidated Stupas can be seen (in the foreground in the pictures)

    Outside the temple there are more Stupas and also one Ashoka Pillar. A congregation of Japanese pilgrims prays quietly while a group of children seated before a teacher sing Buddhists hymns so endearingly. Under a Bodhi tree, on the left, is a young Sri Lankan priest animatedly preaching to a rapt elderly audience of about 50 pilgrims.

Children singing hymns

The Ashoka pillar

Sri Lankan monk preaching

     Everything looks and feels peaceful and harmonious. Over a hundred worshippers of all nationalities sit before a Stupa before which burn several lamps. The dusk setting in simply enhances the peaceful experience of the moment.

Stupas outside the temple

Ancient Stupa

 

     Nearby is a pond, a Pushkarini and a group of Japanese tourists and monks sit by staring down at the water. Curious, I approach them and ask their friends who are sitting on the steps, “What are they doing?” not expecting the Japanese to understand me, let alone reply. I am pleasantly surprised when they break into English, though haltingly.

“This was where Maya Devi bathed before delivery…where baby Buddha had his first bath.”

‘’Oh?!”

“Looking at yourself in the pool, you can get to see all your previous lives….!” My heart began to race  because they sounded so earnest when they said that.

“Why don’t you go and see yourself? Know your past lives…” A nun suggested.

“Me?...Oh! no, no…I don’t think I am so…exalted…blessed,” 

“No…anyone can try…do. Concentrate...” they coaxed.

     I went to the brim and knelt by the pool. The pool was so clear and startlingly reflective. I managed to stare at myself for a minute and just as I was enjoying the experience, I was called…It was getting dark and we had a 6-7 hour drive to Pokhara.I got back very reluctantly.

Japanese tourists at the pond

     How many past lives of all those here…? The Japanese, the French, the Sri Lankans, the Nepalese, the Indians…how many of us had changed nationalities along lifetimes…how many had I met in previous lives…how many were real strangers….? It was nightfall suddenly.

     Lumbini lingered all the way and still does now…!

Lamps and candles at dusk...magically serene!!

Pillion with a handsome biker…!...Nepal trip tidbit 2

Mukthinath is a steep climb from Ranipauwa. Before the steps begin, there stand a group of Nepali men with their bikes, offering a paid ride up hill and down for those who cannot climb.
“Would you want to take a bike ride?”Anil asked. I thought I was fit enough to climb and was about to say no when I saw a handsome fellow with sunshades leaning against his bike.’Ok. I think I will,” I said and before anyone changed their minds, “I will go with him!” I said heading towards that hero’s bike. With a bike pass dangling, I sat behind my chosen biker.
The ride would be so steep that some bikes might even tumble back. “Madam, dhono haath se idhar pakdo…” (Hold here with both hands)the other men said pointing to the biker’s waist, much to my pleasure and amusement. So I sat astride behind him, hugging him at his waist and zoomed off never once looking back at Anil, who was still standing there, with God knows what running through his mind!
Once at the top, I told them all I had a good ride and that I was more thrilled that I got a handsome biker.
“Hey do they have a suggestion box around?”Anil asked.
“Why?”
“Actually they must provide lady bikers too, for people like my wife…someone like Lara Croft in Tomb Raiders,” he said half jokingly!
The ride was paid for both ways. So when I came out after darshan, there were many bikers hanging around and we could take any bike back.
“Udhar…” they showed, pointing to the first one in the row. I took two reluctant steps before spotting my biker who was fourth or fifth in the queue.
“Nahin. Mein iske saath aye. Iseeke sath chaloongi…” (No..I came with him and will go back with him.) And again before anyone changed minds, I was seated behind him! He seemed pleased I chose him too. And so we started a conversation. His name was Sonam- something…the mountain wind blew away his surname.
“Yeh to ladkiyon ka naam hai!”(This is a girl’s name)
“Haan. Yahan to ladke bhi rakte hai…” (Yeah. Here it goes for boys as well) He was planning to study hotel management and was 20 years old. I was impressed and told him that that would do more good to him than ferrying passengers up and down hill for the rest of his life. I felt very happy sitting behind the young man. This time I held him at both his shoulders…It felt so familiar…it reminded me very much of how I rode behind my son. Needless to say, Sonam reminded me of my son whom I was sorely missing in this trip.
“Mera beta bhi tumhara jaisa hai…” (My son resembles you…) I said hoping that the wind carried away the tremble and choke in my voice too….
By then, we had climbed down.

Half breeds of Fate

       Beyond the skies… do I actually need a Karmic telescope to find something that might never be there? One week of idyllic surroundings, meaningful discussions and workshops at the Ashram had failed to quieten the unrest within me…

       I have long understood the meanings of contentment, compromise and amicable symbiosis with all people I have crossed in this finite life of less than ten decades or 1200 months. How little that sounds when so reduced! When periods like million-billion-trillion years or centuries get mentioned, I wonder how many of us can fathom the enormity of such Time. With a little math I could write down one followed by those many zeros and then not know how much that really means! It is like asking an ant to imagine how many steps to the mountain summit!

       What am I then, along so much Time and on Earth, a humble planet in Universe? A fleck or a grain or an atom of Consciousness? Is this it then? Just be born and die, not knowing why it had to happen? Just no more than a flower which also goes through its life cycle in a pre-ordained manner? Or how would a flower, bird, mountain, river search for peace? Or want anything else than being themselves? And how would wanting something even as less materialistic as Peace make me a superior creation than all the living and ‘non-living’? What is my quest? What or who waits to quench my restlessness?

       Futile workshop.. What made me come at all? Hot tears sting my eyes, my coffee is now cold and crusted and the food court is deserted. The public address is announcing the departure of another flight. Mine is delayed by over 3 hours…Three hours in a 1000 months is hardly significant. Yet whiling it away minute by minute is so agonizingly long…!

“Excuse me?”

“Yeah?” There is a Japanese man staring down.

“May I…?” He trails off gesticulating towards the empty chair before me. I shrug. Why did he have to choose my table when it was the only one occupied in the whole cafeteria? I plan to get away and park somewhere else.…

“Akio Takeda.” He says sitting down and still staring at me. Only when he extends his right hand I realize he is introducing himself.

“Uh? Howdy?” I thrust out my moist hand, unwillingly, just so that they don’t conclude Indians are rude. I don’t give out my name. His palm is soft and cool, the handshake warm and lingers longer than intended. He appears vaguely familiar. I could never tell one Japanese or Chinese from the other but him-I think I can recognize him anywhere. Grey strands in thick black hair-may be as old as I am, grey, open collared tees, clean shaven, fair skinned…I am mortified as I realize I am staring too! Yet I fail to look off.

“Do I seem familiar?” he asks with a slight accent.

“Uh? Where have I seen you before?” I blurt out, actually intending to say no! And before long we have actually launched ourselves into conversation! We are poles apart professionally, geographically and every how else by peoples’ standards…yet we have so much to talk and discuss. It isn’t culture, world politics, weather…it is all others but! 

       He tells me his name means ‘glorious hero’…and Takeda is a famous Samurai clan. He is curious about Hindu Gods–Ganesha and Hanuman. I recount the mythologies…“Chimeras,” he says. “Distinct breeds born of two genetically distinct parental cells. Human cells plus elephant’s or monkey’s or snake’s…” I marvel that he thinks it is scientifically possible and not deride our beliefs. I discover he agrees or has similar views about most of my thoughts. I only had to start with the outline and somehow he got the whole picture! What’s it with me today that I have shared so much with a stranger than I had ever with any friend of mine, all my life!? Something was happening here and it was beyond romance or a casual fling! He may be Buddhist or a scientist, an actor or a factory worker… it doesn’t matter to me. Doesn’t matter if he is married or single, straight or gay…only that I have met him does. 

       “Akio Takeda,” I don’t realize I have said his name aloud. “Yes. That is me in this life, “he says cryptically. I suddenly recall he hasn’t asked my name…actually he has not asked anything about me and knows nothing more than what I have divulged. It seems he too isn’t bothered who I could be. He is sitting across happy, attentive and talking excitedly as if we were longtime buddies. We have latched on to unseen twines…had we left them off only yesterday or in some yester-life? Like two jigsaw pieces that found each other! A Karmic aura engulfs us. Us…it sounds so intimate now. So apt and bound to happen. 

“Hello soul-mate!” I jump back from reverie as he says Sssssooul maete. And suddenly it dawns on me that it was the perfect word to describe us. My eyes brim with happy tears. He looks deep inside and I know instantly that he was what was missing from my life. At that moment I feel blessed that my life is complete now. He is my inner peace. I don’t care if he will have any part in the rest of this life time. That he had always been there before is soothing. And that he has found me in this lifetime is magic enough.

“Had you been searching?” I whisper. He nods as he places his hands on mine. The touch feels delicious and carries with it a de ja vu, of so many past lives. We have sought and found each other in this life. Strangely, it now doesn’t matter if we have to go our ways. The knowledge of a soul-mate somewhere on the planet is company enough…is proof enough that Time and Space can be vanquished.

“Last and final call for passenger…travelling to…” The three hours of my 1000 months has simply flown! “That’s my name they are calling on the PA,” I say as I gather my purse. He nods. Sadness descends on us. How many lives had the two of us passed together? To so part after a fraction of Time? The thought that we could have many more in future thrills me. My heart lurches at his sad expression. ”… we can still stay in touch, for the rest of this life...” I say fishing out paper and pen. Jotting down my name, phone number and mail ID, “Hey, where is your home? “I ask as an afterthought.

“Ishinomaki, Japan.”

I hurry off not looking back, thankful I can hide my tears. Can catch him on chat, Facebook…no more isolation.

Next day, as I look up Ishinomaki, I begin to cry. People dead-2127, people missing 2720. Number of buildings destroyed-unclear. Maximum devastation…The 11th March 2011 Tsunami has ravaged his home-town. Has he also been reduced to statistics? As days pass and he does not contact me, I realize I have to wait another life time for Akio.