Showing posts with label religion. Show all posts
Showing posts with label religion. Show all posts

Thursday, 25 August 2016

K is for Krishna

Re-posting this one to celebrate Krishna's birthday today.
Happy Janmashthami!
Butter thief or makhan chor was how Krishna was introduced to me. I was little. Stories were my classroom. My mother and grandmother were the storytellers.

Who's Krishna?

Our God. Or rather, my mother's favourite God. My mother's family (her parents) called Krishna their Ishta Devata or their favourite deity.

It may sound strange to you -- this business of favourite deity and choosing a God to worship. In fact, I've been asked this question many times by friends, acquaintances, colleagues and students- Why do Hindus have so many Gods?

When my eleven year old students in London asked me this question during a RE (Religious Education) lesson, I read up and researched a bit to find out a way to explain to them. I used an explanation I found online to make my point one rainy afternoon in October of 2005.

'Do you wear the same clothes to go swimming as you do when it's snowing outside?'

No, Mrs Jain. (in unison)

When you look at your holiday photos, or birthday photos or school photos, do you notice you look different in different clothes?

Yes, Mrs Jain.  (in unison)

Do you become a  different person every time you change an outfit?

No, Mrs Jain.  (in unison)

Here's Kelly's photo when she went to Spain last summer, and this one was last week at her nana's 90th and today Kelly is in school uniform. Is that 3 Kellies, then?

The shuffling shoes and loss of eye contact meant I had less than 7 seconds to wrap up and make my point, and I did.

Our different Gods may look different, they may have different qualities, but they are all representing the One God. Just like you look different in different clothes but you are still the same person. As a Hindu, I can choose which God I like and make him/ her my companion and friend and guide. Isn't that the point of Faith? To find a way to make the best versions of ourselves with a little help from a friend?

Looking back, I sound like such a boring teacher! Poor poppets.

I digress.

As children, we would listen to our grandmother tell us tales of Krishna stealing butter and getting caught, lying to his mother and getting punished for it, being naughty and teasing his friends. He seemed so accessible.

His antics change as he grows into a young man. In his youth, he is a model lover. His girl friends (gopiyan) adore him. He adores Radha and teases her all the time. He plays the flute and herds cows. And you thought that Bollywood heroes are a modern invention?
This image was sent to me by my friend Mimi who took a photo of a wall mural in a restaurant. 
I love it.

Murali Manohar or flute charmer is another name by which we call him.

He will kill demons and destroy corrupt Kings. He will recite the Bhagwad Gita. His words and their meaning will be sung and recited in Hindu homes all over India and abroad by aging grandparents. Sometimes, these words will enter the souls of the young and take root. Most times, they'll become another hymn to be recited as a ritual, without any thought given to their meaning or relevance.

Krishna has been many things to me in my lifetime.

Lying on a charpoy in our veranda under the twinkling shadow of sapta rishi (Ursa Major), my mother's chiffon dupatta (scarf) would flutter over my eyes in the evening breeze. I remember covering my eyes with it, while listening to her Krishna stories, imagining him stealing all that butter, some smeared on his mouth while he protested his innocence. Only the yellow light of the lamp was visible from our veranda. Rainbows appeared around the yellow light when I saw it through the dupatta. Playing hide and seek with the rainbows, I'd beg my mother to tell us another Krishna story, the one about his evil uncle, or the one when he stole all his friends' clothes when they went  swimming, or the one when he showed the entire universe to his mother...or....or...the requests were many, the time was limited.

I met Mark, an ISKCON devotee in Budapest yesterday. He told me about organic farming and I said I'd like to volunteer once my son goes to university. This chance meeting with Mark gave me my K. I was pondering over Kabir, Kolkata, Kareri while flying back to Doha, when Krishna presented himself. I was saved.

It's impossible to write about Krishna in a single post and that too when I'm typing with eyes half shut --I'm shattered. It's late and I've had a long day.

I'll leave you with a quote from Bhagvad Gita. It's easy to understand but very difficult to imbibe. I try and fail almost every day. But, I try gain. It's the reward bit I get stuck on. I'm working on it.

You have the right to work, but never to the fruit of work. You should never engage in action for the sake of reward, nor should you long for inaction. 

For more information about ISKCON:

http://www.iskcon.org/

Friday, 6 May 2016

David's lunch (trip to Tbilisi- part 2)

Sharing fond travel memories here today: of rugged nature, human kindness, autumnal colours 
and 
the universal language of love. 
The sun shone. The sky sparkled its blue smile. He met us in the lobby and gave me a coy grin. I had a feeling that this trip from Tbilisi to Tazbegi would be an enjoyable one.

But, there was one slight problem...he didn't know much English and my Georgian was limited to:
'Didi Madloba'- thank you.

We put our seat belts on and settled for a day of adventure on the road. He offered us chewing gum. We declined politely.

The road stretched  in front of us sans traffic.

The colours of Georgia played 'rangrez'  - colouring my soul. The autumnal concert of oranges, russets, yellows and ochres rang out a symphony so beautiful, I can still hear the melody when I close my eyes.

Suddenly, he stopped.

The place looked deserted. My Indian instinct kicked in. What's going on?

He came back loaded with bread- fresh from the oven.

"Puri", he said..handed one to my husband and one to me to share...it was delicious-  like salty sour bread. All those images from my childhood (when the USSR and India were close political 'friends') of heavily braided Russian girls offering salt and bread to Indian visitors came alive.

We drove on.

We stocked up on hard boiled candies and gummy bears at a store called 'Smart' in  Gudauri. He liked gummy bears.

The rattling road and the steep climb from Kazbegi town to Gergeti Trinity Church earned my husband and I some street credit in our teenage children's eyes. For the duration of the climb, at least, we were cool. The 4X4 was rocking like a cradle to the rhythm of the rough road- scary and exhilarating.

Gergeti Trinity Church had the serenity of a spiritual place where many have come in the past to connect with the spirit of the universe. My daughter and I had to wear skirts and scarves to enter. We lit candles and stepped out feeling light with love and heavy with happiness.

'India'? 'Christian'? asked a rosy cheeked, robust looking Georgian grandmother as we were hurtling down the hill and she was climbing up.

Almost involuntarily, I nodded yes to both her questions.

Her face broadened into a beaming smile and she gave me a look that said- God Bless you. I think we communicated in the 'universal language of love' that Paulo Coelho talks about in 'The Alchemist'.
Religion, gender, age, nationality- became redundant.

If time had been no object, I would have stayed on for much longer but hunger kicked in.

We were all set to find a restaurant to eat when he parked the car in a sort of a car park. Imagine a patch of plane trees with healthy looking cows grazing and a flock of turkeys creating a lot of noise.

He got out of the car - opened the boot. There were quite a few bags with the 'Smart' logo on them in the boot. He dug out a sausage, used his Swiss knife to cut it. My husband and I decided to look for a hot cup of coffee at a nearby kiosk while our children wandered towards the cows- the cutest amongst them was referred to as 'Daisy' by our daughter for the rest of our stay there.

He said something in Georgian which we didn't understand but we grinned and nodded anyway and carried on.

We came back to find our children chomping away on wholesome looking sandwiches- stuffed with meet and oozing ketchup.

"Russian ketchup is awesome Mum!"spluttered my son, despite his mouth full of food. Tut-tut.

David kept slicing the bread and the meat and fixed another mouth-watering treat.

His sandwich was ready. He offered it to my husband who willingly accepted it. I offered to help.

As if by magic, a cut out plastic cup appeared in front of me (he had cut out the bottom of a  mineral water bottle to make it). He poured steaming hot coffee from his flask into it. He continued in Georgian and now I could comprehend his gestures. According to him, why would we want to waste our money on shop bought coffee when he had brought it from home for us?

I have no words to describe how good that lunch tasted. There we were- four Indians and one Georgian - standing among cows and turkeys, eating lunch from the back of  a car and basking in human kindness. Who needs language to communicate?

Yes, for me- David's lunch is the essence of Georgia.

Our children have become fans of Georgia. It only takes one person to be the ambassador of his people.

I wanted to share the kindness of  the Georgian people without the distraction of its natural beauty. So here are the pictures of our road trip with David as our guide who didn't need to speak our language, nor we his.
Ananuri Fortress
The church at Ananuri
David guided us down these steep steps....
to see the closed off church through a loose brick in the wall.
The view from the fortress wall.
The Zhinvali Reservoir
David stopped at a sulphur spring on the way...it smelled like Sulphur Springs (Sahastradhara) in Dehradun.
On our way to Gudauri.
Gudauri turns into a ski resort in the winter months.


Sharing  puri with the animals of Gudauri
The rugged road to Gergeti Trinity Church
Gergeti Trinity Church- Mount Kazbegi in the background


camera shy Daisy
David's lunch:)
The autumnal concert...
(Fall 2013)

If you are planning a trip to Georgia, David can be reached on davidi.datukishvili@gmail.com 
or 
via his facebook page: daviddatukishvili
His number is +995 597 33 09 31.


Friday, 11 December 2015

Where blue poppies bloom-- Hemkund Sahib


"Ay kuddi kee kurdee payee hai?" 
What's this girl doing?

" Fotuan khich dee payee hai." 
She's takings photos.

"Fotuan? Ithey? 
Photos? Here?

"Aaho, phullan dee." 
Yes, of the flowers.

I hear these words crouched between a rock and ground, trying to get a good shot of the blue poppies I had spotted. Flattered by being referred to as 'kuddi' (girl), I decide to move my body out of its contorted knots, turn and face the two conversationalists. The glaring sun hurts my eyes as I try to look up.

"Phullan dee fotu kyon kud rahe ho, saadi fotu kuddo." 
Why are you clicking the flowers? Take our photo.

Even before I can straighten up and face them, the two pilgrims have issued me with their request as if we've known each other for years. Maybe we have.

I try to explain why I photograph flowers and impress them with how rare the Blue Poppy is and how lucky we are to see it growing here. They are not impressed.

They straighten up and get close to each other to strike a pose.

"But I won't be able to send the photo." I tell them as they pat their kurtas down and stand stiff as sticks to indicate they are ready.

"Koyi gul na puttar, twanu phullan de naal naal saadi we tasveer mil javegi". 
No worries, child. You'll get our photo along with your flowers.

So I click and show them the screen afterwards.

They beam like the sun.

They are pilgrims who come to Hemkund Sahib every year. They don't need any climbing gear or fancy hiking boots. Their faith is enough.

They don't understand my flower photography, but they are curious. I share my love of flowers. They share their faith in Wahe Guruji. We exchange nods and smiles and carry on our own paths.

The cold mountain breeze carries their words towards me as they walk away from me,
"Phullan dee fotu...?"
Pictures of flowers...? 




Earlier that morning, we had been warned of the long arduous climb and the ill-effects of high altitudes. Hemkund Sahib is located at an elevation of more that 15000 ft. And I had taken a second helping of the hot breakfast for extra power! BIG MISTAKE!
The first kilometre kills me. I'm out of breath and panting hard. Would I be able to carry on?
''One step at a time," encourages Yashpal, our guide. A group of pilgrims, walking ahead, are singing shabad kirtan (hymns and religious songs). Their voices ring out clear and strong in the crisp morning air.
One step, one step...and five hours later, I am by the blue poppies. Enroute, there were reminders 
from mother nature to eat only as much was needed. 



On the way to the top, and now, as I catch my breath, the mountains continue to echo with the assurance of "Bole So Nihal- Sat Sri Akal." 

I loved it when our guide (who is from Garhwal) sings 'Nihal' in a typical Punjabi accent --you know when the 'hal' is elongated to 'haaal' and the 'aa' sound dips deep in the end, comes up for air and lands strongly on the last 'L' making it ripple through valleys leisurely. As if our sound knows the truth- Sat Sri Akal-- that Truth is the Timeless One.

Bole So Nihaal had kept me going. And continues to as I scramble the last half kilometre to the Gurudrawa.  The sun scorches. The thin air forces me to gasp open mouthed for breath. Snippets of kirtan from the Gurudwara waft down, energising my tired legs. 

The long, long, path.
At last. Hemkund Sahib ji.






Sitting in the Gurudwara...

At first, my tears hang on-
aware we are not alone.
The first drop escapes 
reluctantly,
ashamed at
such public display of weakness.

What will Arshia think?

Guru ki baani floats on cold air.
Tiny puffs of smoke escape the kada prasad-
I extend my palms, right over left
 to receive 
the sweetness waits

for my fingers to 
pass the prasad through my trembling lips.

I taste all the Gurudwaras of my childhood.

The tears come thick and fast-
openly,
shamelessly.

The shabad kirtan breaks through my pores 
with such meaning, such intent 

I stifle a sob, but it escapes anyway.

No longer a trickle, I'm a torrent
the tears flow, follow
jubilantly

Why am I crying?
Is it the thin air?
Am I mourning the past?
Or worrying about the future?

None of the above. None of the above.
I hear a whisper.
Be the being
this, this, this
be in the moment-
dear human being

I'm in the moment so completely.
with all my senses
and
senselessly,
that I've forgotten the rules and the norms.


It is time for us to leave.
So I leave.
 Downstairs, I put my shoes back on.

Yashpal nods from the other side of the shoe counter. Go back, he says. You're not done. I take my shoes off, run back up the stairs as if love awaits.


The crying goes on.


Now, the Granthis  are putting Guru Granth Sahib Ji in Sukhasan

Satnam, Satnam, Wahe Guru ji 
resonates

I scrunch up my cold toes on the carpet to warm them up.

My time to be at peace.
How long?
Always.



"Sometimes, it's just time to wash away all that has build up inside."

says Yashpal when I finally join the rest of my group to take a dip in the glacial cold water of the sarovar (lake).


After the dip, we sit in the sun to dry our hair.
Langar prasad is kichhdi and sweet tea; not hot, but I am grateful.




Can you see a beak in this peak?
We did it!
On our way back, my camera and I explore a bit more of the surroundings.




'A,' says one.
'B,' the next.
'C,' the third.
And they carry on. They've obviously heard us chattering in English and decided to either review their letters of the English alphabet or just show us that they know the language, too.
Reluctantly, we head back to Ghangaria. My camera always delays me. 
I end up being the last person to join my waiting group. I don't mind;)

On my way back from Hemkund Sahib ji, for almost an hour, I am the only human among these mountains. 
It feels really, really special.

The Blue poppy turns lilac in its old age. It's still stunning, I think.











The Brahma Kamal



Watering hole for the humans...

I've  added a tint to this shot.
And watering hole for the donkeys who carry pilgrims and supplies.


The sun was about to set when we reached Ghangaria. 

The view from the last bend before we reach camp reminds me of Japanese poster art. 
We are told foot massages await. Yes, these are the perks of trekking in India, especially, if one happens to be on a route of pilgrimage.

And the lady who makes it possible- the treks and the foot massages- is my dear friend Aparna  

If you are curious or interested, here's the wikilink that tells you more about Hemkund Sahib.

I hope to see you soon with a tour of the last Indian village.

Soak in the sun, or sleep in the shade -- have a great weekend. xx