September 7th 2011, Paramount Theater. 9:15AM. My husband and I sit quietly in the cool, dark auditorium. A woman brushes past us. Congratulations! She mouths. I give a wry smile and wave back weakly. A man comes out onstage and takes his place behind the microphone. The ceremony begins.
It’s time to get our American citizenship.
My heart is sinking.
I glance at my iPhone; a missed call from my mother. I hesitate to call her back.
My family has a long and passionate love affair with India. My grandmother, aunts, grandfather all fought in the freedom struggle under Gandhi. Just a month back my aunt appeared in the media, supporting Anna Hazaare, denouncing corruption, recalling her memories at the Gandhi Ashram. One uncle was the Foreign Secretary, another uncle served in the Air Force, my mother is a Commissioner in the Information Commission. To be Indian and serve India has been the constant chant in my ears growing up. And yet—here I am. At the Paramount theatre, ready to be re-baptized.
My head hangs lower.
The presenter is now making light jokes, eliciting nervous giggles. He introduces another colleague. A lady from the electoral office. She informs us about the importance of voting. A few more pleasantries and then we are asked to stand up and sing the Star Spangled Banner. My eyes are welling up and my voice chokes. The hall is ringing with melody; but I am thinking Sujalaam Suphalaam Malayaja Sheetalam Shasya Shyaamala Maataram….Vande Maataram. I sink back into my chair. I cannot go through this. I feel claustrophobic.
I suddenly desperately wish my children were there. I know it’s impossible… after all they’re in school — but lo! at their thought my restlessness disappears. Instead a reel starts spinning. I think back to their birth – the nurses helping me lovingly; their school - teachers aiding them on patiently. In my mind’s eye I see the parks we play in, the roads we travel on, the policeman who patrols our neighborhood at night, my colleagues back at the office waiting to hear from me, the restaurants we eat in, the roses in my backyard, my favorite printed quilt on my CalKing bed– what has this new motherland not given me? For 13 years she has fed me, petted me, nurtured my dreams, my children - and yet, today I hanker after another mother I left behind. Funnily, suddenly, I think of Sri Krishna. Born of one mother, reared by another. True to both. Yet belonging to none. Known for himself, yet known as theirs too!
So the question is, can we be like that? Can we belong to all and yet to none at all?
Of course I can’t find an answer in the middle of Paramount Theatre, but I am much steadied.
Now a lady is reading out an alphabetized list of countries and applicants from each country are standing up. I like that. I am yearning to hear India’s name, acknowledge one last time I am an Indian. India! I hear it at last and spring up. I think about the people who designed this ceremony - what an incredibly sensitive thing to do. I love standing up for India this one last time, as an Indian!
The presenter beams down at us. She is acknowledging that each of us brings something special from our motherland. Yes! I nod emotionally. I see many people doing the same. But now – she continues- today we will all come together as one. We are what we are but we are also now fellow Americans.
Is that the true meaning of being American, I wonder. Am I being re-born a global citizen?
Not really. The oath dispels my illusions.
We stand up to take the oath. This time my voice is steady. I pledge allegiance to America. I renounce my fidelity to any other sovereign nation. I promise to bear arms for America. It takes all my strength to say the words aloud - yet I do it. I know some people fall silent or pacify themselves knowing they ‘don’t really mean it.’ But I repeat each word clearly. There’s no waffling mid-stream.
And so I have embarked on a new journey –from my Janmabhoomi to my Karmabhoomi. Many have crossed this chasm, so I hope it can be done. For now I am poised at the precipice. I am patiently weaving a tri-colored net. Orange, green, white. Red, white, blue. White… the white is comforting… White… Peace to me. Peace to my motherlands. Peace to my bittersweet tri-colors...
Sunday, September 11, 2011
Saturday, June 18, 2011
Who moved by Vitamin D?
This morning I wanted to call the pundits to my house. Light the holy flames, fill my house with Vedic chants and dissolve my grief like golden ghee melting blissfully on wooden chips.
On most days the puja room in my house is a locked door. I trip past it happily on my way to work, trudge past it groggily on my way to bed. Ignore it most weekends through the clinks of wine glasses. But today is different. I am coping with the death of a 6 year old; I am grieving the loss of a twenty year old. I am dreading a surgery on my dearest friend. Illness, death, loss- a mirror to my mortality. A message that my clichéd haven of two children, a loving husband and a big, warm house are tenuous- oh so very temporary. So very transitory.
I have looked in this mirror before. I have faced losses before. One parent, uncles, grandmother...many painful losses seemingly washed away by exuberant youthful memories. My first beer, my first kiss, the first ride on my Honda, my first paycheck, my firstborn... And yet, yet- when I sat down to meditate this morning, the tears that rolled were not for my friend. They were for me. For all the people I have lost, for all the connections I have had to severe because death gives you no choice. When I closed my eyes and chanted the Mahamrityunjaya I prayed most desperately for myself above all else. As I sat in silence looking at the peaceful smile on Buddha's face, I begged for my sanity above anything else.
And perhaps, that's what God ultimately is all about. That's what praying is all about. It’s about a rock that you sit tight on when the seas start churning. No matter how far out you have swum, when that perfect storm whips up, you are going to swim right back to it. Land is far away. The sea bed is miles below. Your choice is to climb aboard that rock or sink with complete abandon.
I was fascinated when I read The God Delusion by Richard Dawkins. The book raises many questions on the existence of a supreme external being, especially when revered through orthodox channels of prayer and religion. It spurred many a discussions in our living room too. We extrapolated at length. What is God? Who is God? Should we believe in God? Is the act of praying important? Is a physical manifestation of our spirituality necessary? Should I teach my children all the little customs and religious practices we often watch our parents perform and join in condescendingly only after a little disbelieving shake of our heads? Ultimately, should I ask my children to pray every morning?
Spurred by doubt, aided by lethargy, blinded by the bustle of daily chores it was just easier to let go. To drop the evening meditations taught by my grandmother. To spurn the morning salutations suggested by my mother-in-law. To start believing in my invincibility. Did I let go of something important? Did I lose something precious?
This morning, in this searing moment of pain, I realize the answer is a crystal clear YES. (Displaying my oh-so-deep Bollywood roots) I am reminded of a scene in Abhimaan. The hero (Amitabh)asks the leading lady (Jaya) if she believes in religious practices and God. I recall her simple answer "Babuji kehete hain behes mein kuch nahi rakhaa.Vishwaas hi sab kuch hai." (My father says there is nothing to be found in arguments. Faith is everything) While I certainly don't endorse superstition or close-minded fanaticism, there is truth to these words. And it comes shining through in moments when we lose our ability to argue or be logical!
We are wired to look for God when we land in trouble. It’s an instinct as primal as a child hiding behind its mother for protection. But very few of us are evolved enough to find this comfort and strength from abstract spirituality alone. We understand life through our five senses. And that exactly is how we should also understand Death and seek comfort in our conflicted moments. To simply be good and spiritual in daily actions is not enough when the mind is reeling. We need to breathe in the fragrance of an incense stick, we need to hear the chime of the arati bell, we need to see the regal countenance of a merciful God looking back at us with a gentle gaze, we need to feel the stickiness of prasaad on our fingers, we need to taste the cooling assurance of tulasi water...and then, slowly our senses soak in some perspective, some slivers of hope. It’s a sense of sharing and community; Human sympathy and superhuman love reach us in ways we can finally understand. The simplest analogy I can draw is that Vitamin D is needed to absorb Calcium, so is the act of praying for us to absorb God.
So just as I teach my children table manners and find them piano teachers, I must also teach them how to find their faith and keep it. And just as I take myself to the gym and enroll in professional courses, so must I practice my faith daily, even when mortality does not stare me down with stony eyes. In the famous words of Kabir "Dukh me sumiran sab kare, sukh me kare na koi, Jo sukh me sumiran kare, dukh kahe ko hoi." (We all remember God when we are beset by grief, none of us remember Him in our good times. Had we remembered Him in our good times, why should the days of grief have come!')
So I end now my epistle now. The sun is bright outside my study. I am going to open the windows wide and find my Vitamin D.
On most days the puja room in my house is a locked door. I trip past it happily on my way to work, trudge past it groggily on my way to bed. Ignore it most weekends through the clinks of wine glasses. But today is different. I am coping with the death of a 6 year old; I am grieving the loss of a twenty year old. I am dreading a surgery on my dearest friend. Illness, death, loss- a mirror to my mortality. A message that my clichéd haven of two children, a loving husband and a big, warm house are tenuous- oh so very temporary. So very transitory.
I have looked in this mirror before. I have faced losses before. One parent, uncles, grandmother...many painful losses seemingly washed away by exuberant youthful memories. My first beer, my first kiss, the first ride on my Honda, my first paycheck, my firstborn... And yet, yet- when I sat down to meditate this morning, the tears that rolled were not for my friend. They were for me. For all the people I have lost, for all the connections I have had to severe because death gives you no choice. When I closed my eyes and chanted the Mahamrityunjaya I prayed most desperately for myself above all else. As I sat in silence looking at the peaceful smile on Buddha's face, I begged for my sanity above anything else.
And perhaps, that's what God ultimately is all about. That's what praying is all about. It’s about a rock that you sit tight on when the seas start churning. No matter how far out you have swum, when that perfect storm whips up, you are going to swim right back to it. Land is far away. The sea bed is miles below. Your choice is to climb aboard that rock or sink with complete abandon.
I was fascinated when I read The God Delusion by Richard Dawkins. The book raises many questions on the existence of a supreme external being, especially when revered through orthodox channels of prayer and religion. It spurred many a discussions in our living room too. We extrapolated at length. What is God? Who is God? Should we believe in God? Is the act of praying important? Is a physical manifestation of our spirituality necessary? Should I teach my children all the little customs and religious practices we often watch our parents perform and join in condescendingly only after a little disbelieving shake of our heads? Ultimately, should I ask my children to pray every morning?
Spurred by doubt, aided by lethargy, blinded by the bustle of daily chores it was just easier to let go. To drop the evening meditations taught by my grandmother. To spurn the morning salutations suggested by my mother-in-law. To start believing in my invincibility. Did I let go of something important? Did I lose something precious?
This morning, in this searing moment of pain, I realize the answer is a crystal clear YES. (Displaying my oh-so-deep Bollywood roots) I am reminded of a scene in Abhimaan. The hero (Amitabh)asks the leading lady (Jaya) if she believes in religious practices and God. I recall her simple answer "Babuji kehete hain behes mein kuch nahi rakhaa.Vishwaas hi sab kuch hai." (My father says there is nothing to be found in arguments. Faith is everything) While I certainly don't endorse superstition or close-minded fanaticism, there is truth to these words. And it comes shining through in moments when we lose our ability to argue or be logical!
We are wired to look for God when we land in trouble. It’s an instinct as primal as a child hiding behind its mother for protection. But very few of us are evolved enough to find this comfort and strength from abstract spirituality alone. We understand life through our five senses. And that exactly is how we should also understand Death and seek comfort in our conflicted moments. To simply be good and spiritual in daily actions is not enough when the mind is reeling. We need to breathe in the fragrance of an incense stick, we need to hear the chime of the arati bell, we need to see the regal countenance of a merciful God looking back at us with a gentle gaze, we need to feel the stickiness of prasaad on our fingers, we need to taste the cooling assurance of tulasi water...and then, slowly our senses soak in some perspective, some slivers of hope. It’s a sense of sharing and community; Human sympathy and superhuman love reach us in ways we can finally understand. The simplest analogy I can draw is that Vitamin D is needed to absorb Calcium, so is the act of praying for us to absorb God.
So just as I teach my children table manners and find them piano teachers, I must also teach them how to find their faith and keep it. And just as I take myself to the gym and enroll in professional courses, so must I practice my faith daily, even when mortality does not stare me down with stony eyes. In the famous words of Kabir "Dukh me sumiran sab kare, sukh me kare na koi, Jo sukh me sumiran kare, dukh kahe ko hoi." (We all remember God when we are beset by grief, none of us remember Him in our good times. Had we remembered Him in our good times, why should the days of grief have come!')
So I end now my epistle now. The sun is bright outside my study. I am going to open the windows wide and find my Vitamin D.
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