Mostly at Mangaladis insistence and pleas that had fallen on deaf ears on every visit to Kolkata, yesterday we made a day trip to Belur Math, an oasis of spiritual bliss on the banks of the holy Ganges, on the auspicious eve of Swami Vivekanandas 150th birth anniversary. Ever since I lost my grand-mother to cancer, as a young, rebellious 17-year-old, I have held a grudge against God, her version of it, that is. Maybe because I saw Mamma pray diligently night and day, our sprawling marble lined thakurghor always abuzz with activity, the minute she awoke, daily plucking flowers with her own hands from our back lawn that was deliberately linked by a flight of narrow stairs to the puja room for her convenience. Mamma always arranging elaborate puja thalis, chanting sacred shlokas, observing every amabosya and purnima with dedicated diligence, organizing elaborate janmashthamis and Saraswati pujas, the characteristic scent of oil diyas overflowing with ghee and the flicker of prodips neatly lining the stairways a lingering reminiscence. I still remember her Sharaddo, held on Maha Ashtami, asking our family priest why someone who loved thakur debota so much and was a renowned social worker, must suffer from cancer, this way. Perishing sans a chance. Why the pain? What was she being punished for, in the end? Over the last month or so, thanks to the heinous terror attacks in Pershawar, Paris and Germany, the ludicrous PK controversy in India - the word religion has suddenly become dreaded. A face of fear. Which God I have asked myself will want to see his children shot dead? Which kind of faith deserves to be burnt at the stake? What about goodness, and human kindness? Are we all different because we chose to bow our heads to diverse forces for deliverance? My own personal belief system has been under threat. And then I watch Ma sit on a flimsy plastic stool murmuring the names of her deceased parents, facing an idol of Ramkrishna Paramhansa, Mangaladi and Pintu, her teenage son, hold hands facing the river, their eyes moist. Lilttle Geru spontaneously recite Ek Omkara, her morning prayer from Guru Harkishen Public School, Kalkaji, New Delhi, and I suddenly realize the largeness of the human soul. Despite its sufferings. The losses. The everyday defeats. I think of Bapi, my maternal grand-father, a freedom fighter and a staunch Bhramo, who later worshipped Goddess Kali and immersed himself in the Upanishads, influenced deeply by his father-in-law, Mammas father, a scholar in the scriptures. I think how easy religion is. God not the goal. But a medium. What if we lived in a world such as this? So simple, and rare....
Posted on: Mon, 12 Jan 2015 04:40:01 +0000
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