When It Rains

There’s something about nature at her theatrical best that makes me want to give her a standing ovation. And the storm tonight is truly mythological. I don't think it's a monsoon, because I thought monsoons were just rain and this storm has thunder--real thunder, the kind that cracks the sky and sounds like the roar alone could tear up mountains. My little cottage is shimmying like a belly dancer as flashes of lightening surge through the rooms. 

 

Yet, here in a city that needs no excuse for power outages, the power is still on. I have lights, a computer and am washing my clothes. We’ll see how long this lasts.

 

I love dramatic weather. One of the things I always missed about Ohio were the summer thunderstorms. When I would visit my parents, I used to feel cheated if there wasn’t at least one good storm while I was there. 

 

This storm reminds me of my father who has been gone 10 years now. A storm would be a good metaphor for him. Unpredictable. Angry. That was my dad. He was also generous with a very big heart, but I didn’t appreciate that till long after I had left home. 

 

My memories of childhood are of fear. My father wasn’t physically violent, but there’s a violence of the soul that can also leave wounds and I remember breaking glass. Plates shattered against the wall. Loud, mocking words. A temper that could explode at the least provocation, or sometimes none at all. Every day he came home from work and kicked my dog across the room, sending her yelping under the couch. I never understood why each day she ran with wagging tail to greet him. Then he would mix a drink and disappear into himself.

 

I’m sure he loved me, but I always felt he was slightly disappointed that I wasn’t a boy. Although, I preferred the outdoors to inside, it was to climb trees and create my own private fantasy world, not to hunt or fish. Worms on hooks made me squirm. When he tried to teach me to shoot, the kick knocked me on my ass. My one redeeming quality seemed to be that I was good with boats and much of my childhood memories are of navigating the green channels of Lake Cable. 

 

And then he got old and he got sick. The man who had so terrified me shrank and diminished and eventually died. I began to see the man with lost dreams, who didn’t care that I was girl. Who loved my sons, who loved my brother and sister, but could never really express it. And so I forgave and learned to live my life without the ghost of an angry father haunting my footsteps. 

 

Celebrating Banned Books

September 24-October 1 is banned books week, encouraging everyone to take a stand for the right choose what to read, even bad books, and maybe especially even badder books. According to the ALA (American Library Association) the three main reasons books are challenged are:

 

• Too sexually explicit
• Offensive language
• Unsuited to any age group

 

So who decides the criteria for this? Naturally, the group doing the challenging. All kinds of groups have tried to ban books over the years. Nazis. Fundamentalists of all types--think Salman Rushdie with a price on his head. PTAs. Any organization who feels they have the moral authority to decide for the rest of us what we should or shouldn’t be allowed to read. 

 

I decided to do a quick Google search of books that have been challenged or banned over the years. So a quick run-down of some of my favorite banned books. Not all of these are currently under fire, although they’ve all made some list at some time: 

 

Catcher in the Rye, J.D. Salinger. No surprises here. This is probably the most oft banned American book of them all. Clearly, horny adolescent boys have no place in literature. 

 

To Kill a Mockingbird, Harper Lee. Makes sense. Someone might get the idea that the justice system isn’t always just.

 

The Color Purple, Alice Walker. Incest. Lesbians. A little reefer. Need I say more? 

 

Anything by Toni Morrison. Her books seem to consistently show up on banned book lists (way to go, Toni!). The reasons? Probably, she’s just too damn good. Anyone who writes like she does must be possessed.

 

The entire Harry Potter Series. Wizards and witchcraft. Elves in bondage (hints of S&M perhaps). So what if they’ve turned an entire generation onto reading again? If they’re going to be devil worshippers, better to keep them ignorant. 

 

Even Christian writer J.R.R. Tolkien doesn’t escape the censor’s net. Lord of the Rings has also made some lists. It’s filled with satanic hobbits.  

 

Call of the Wild, Jack London. WTF! Admittedly, it’s been a long time since I read this, but seriously? Call of the Wild? Can someone please tell me what a sled dog could possibly do to upset the censors? 

 

Bridge to Terabithia, Katherine Paterson. Okay, I’ve never read this book, but I’m pleased to see that something Walt Disney turned into a movie is on the hit list. Apparently, it was banned in some places because of the disrespect children show adults as well as combing fantasy with reality. Obviously, whoever decided this never had children or if they did, they must have kept them bound and gagged until they turned 21. 

 

So, if anyone is reading this, what’s your favorite banned book and why? And thanks to the ALA who has long been at the forefront of keeping reading material available for all. 

Why Does the Sikh Wear Underwear?

 

My epiphany for the week is that I’m something of a spiritual whore. Always have been from the time I got down on my knees and became born again at age 14. Even back in those days I surreptitiously used to read forbidden, non-Biblical literature as well and tried to decipher the metaphysical poems of William Blake. As a result I’ve spent a good deal of my life building altars, gazing at crystal balls, dancing in circles under the stars and most recently, sitting and staring at a wall. I sample religions like some women eat chocolate. 

 

So India has been great for me--a virtual smorgasbord of faiths to try, and all within walking distance. Most recently I’ve been sitting in the Sikh temple which is conveniently located just a few steps from where I live at the Catholic college. Most evenings there are musicians playing and I love the music. But another true confession: I think Sikh men are sexy. Maybe it’s that scene from An English Patient where Naveen Andrews oils his long, black hair with olive oil, or maybe it’s because I like men who think and there’s something about those turbans that gets my curiosity going--what’s underneath them? 

 

But now it has changed. On the front of the temple are posted the four rules for Sikhism and one of them is to wear underwear. Now I have nothing against underwear, but does it really need to be a rule for spiritual discipline? I’ve heard Mormons wear long, wooly things, and well, it just seems a little extreme. 

 

So last night while I sat there listening to the men play the dilruba and jori drums, instead of wondering what was under their turbans, I found myself trying to imagine their underwear. Boxers or briefs? Do any of them have hearts or teddy bears on them? Are they bright colors like red or orange or do they go for the more modest white? Do their wives or mothers make them or do they buy them in packages of three or six? 

 

And does it really help them live more chaste lives which is the reason given for the rule? Somehow I think it takes more than briefs to curb desire. 

 

I think I’m learning something about my own spiritual tastes these days, and while I plan to keep sitting, I probably lean more towards the rowdy pagan than the celibate nun. 

 

Well, the rain has woken me up in the middle of the night, but  thoughts of sikhs and underwear are keeping me awake. 

Virgin Mary and Buffalo Poop

I sit in the principal’s office of the Don Bosco Catholic School in Cherapunjee and wait for him to introduce me to the class I’m going to talk to today. The school and church are in the heart of a Khasi village and the priest is Khasi, so I look around the office searching for some glimmer of the old faith among the iconography, but see nothing. There are plenty of crosses; I’m glad only one is a crucifix as I’ve always found them a bit morbid. A serene Madonna and child sits in an altar, a beautiful and comforting symbol of what is good about the church. I focus on that. There are also several vases of plastic flowers, a bronze plate with three engraved pinecones, a small flag of India and a small TV. 

 

Outside, next to the school, the brand new Don Bosco Shrine has recently been erected.  With chandeliers, stained glass windows, and a ceramic mosaic of Jesus, it probably cost more than the annual income of several village families put together. Surrounding the church’s compound are homes without water or electricity, entire families crowded into a single room. There is no hospital, although the Ramakrishna Mission does provide a free clinic for the people. The Don Bosco Shrine is kept padlocked except for mass. 

 

In the classroom of around 60 students, I ask how many are Christian and all but a handful raise their hands. Then I ask how many have parents or grandparents who follow the old faith. Maybe 10 students raise their hands. We talk about the sacred groves of their villages, and I ask them to write something about them and this is where the stories pour out. In the myths and legends, the family traditions, some of the old ways live on. But they are like shadow figures flickering in and out of imaginations that would rather be listening to rap music than telling me about the forest god or river goddess. 

 

When I leave the classroom, I wander outside. One of the sacred groves borders the church property. Even though Cherapunjee is advertised as the rainiest place on earth, massive cumulus clouds billow in a sky blue as a robin’s egg and the sun seems to follow me wherever I go burning my neck and shoulders. A graveyard decorated with crosses sweeps down to the very edge of the sacred forest and I wonder how many trees were cleared to make room for the graves. I wander around and notice that some of the grave sites also have bowls and plates that I imagine were once filled with food offerings to keep the soul from getting hungry on that long passage to the other world. Ah. So when it comes down to matters of life and death they still make sure to cover all bases. 

 

These virgin groves are the most alive places I’ve ever been. The whirring, buzzing and vibrating of a million insects reverberates through the air. It’s the only sound, but it’s loud as a chainsaw. 

 

The afternoon is getting hotter so I seek the shade of an old church at the edge of the property erected in 1906 by the Salvatorians--Order of the Sacred Heart. One of the priests told me earlier that it’s now only used to house the dead before burial. But the stone entryway is cool and it feels good to sit on the cement steps. Two of India’s feral dogs, known as Pariah dogs, race by, nipping at each other. The incessant buzzing continues to make the world vibrate. I feel perversely pleased to see a pile of steaming buffalo shit in front of the door. 

 

 

Hare Krishna

I never intended to make this thing about God in either the singular or plural tenses, but India is so imbued with spirit, and being inclined that way anyway, that just seems to be what’s happening. 

 

One of my traveling rules is to always say “yes” to invitations, and so far it hasn’t let me down. In the past yes has taken me on an elephant ride, to a torch festival and feasting on bugs and mare’s milk. Last night I ended up at a Hare Krishna kirtan. So how to describe? They sort of struck me as the holy rollers of Hinduism, but a lot more fun as there were all the good parts--dancing, clapping, drumming and chanting without the scary preachers damning you to a fiery hell if you aren’t saved. 

 

I started to wonder why Buddhism and Hinduism are both so appealing to me when I have such a hard time with so many other organized religions. Am I a case of reverse snobbism? 

 

Then their guru started talking and I realized that there really is something different here. There’s no push to convert. No condemnation of other faiths. In fact, it’s the opposite. To summarize--and simplify the teaching last night: the point of this life and the way to happiness is to be true to our own inner nature and to connect with God. It doesn’t matter how we get there. It can be through Jesus or Mohammad, the earth mother, or nature spirits. The important thing is to find a path and follow it. And, of course, the vibrational power of chanting can open the way. Probably so. An amazing energy does happen with sound. It reminded me of the day I walked through the Mawphlang sacred forest and the entire earth seemed to buzz with the vibration of insects and birds. Last night felt the same, some sort of energy happened in that room with the drums and music, the chanting hare krishna. Must all be the voice of God. 

When gods sleep

The rain sounds like it’s about to tear the roof off. I can’t hear individual drops, just an incessant deluge hammering the tile. The lights flicker and go out, and Saihun lights a candle so I can continue talking to her grandmother, Cong Rilda, one of the oldest residents of Mawmluh Village, just outside Cherapunjee, the “wettest place on earth.”  

 

Just a bit over 4 ft. tall, thin and frail, Cong Rilda nearly disappears in the plaid shawl wrapped around her shoulders. Golden hoop earrings scintillate against her aged skin, but her eyes are bright and intelligent.  She becomes emotional as she talks with yearning about the old Khasi gods of the village. “I know those days can’t come back; it’s the nature of things to change,” she says. “But the gods have always been part of our daily life. There is one God for all of us, but there are also many gods for each village. They are all different because we are different. When we go to the river to wash clothes, we call on the water goddess. When we walk, we ask permission of the gods first and promise not to harm anything. The sacred hill, the forest, all have their gods. Some are male. Some are female. We did nothing without prayer. The most important one we prayed to is the god who protects our inheritance. And we had rituals. In Mawmluh, we have four sacred places. The sacred forest. The river. The hill. And the clearing just on the edge of the village. I don’t know what will happen to them.”

 

“This is true,” says Bansam who is translating. “Even though I am from a Christian family, from the time we are little, all of us, even those who have been converted, are told to not harm these areas. We are to walk softly. We cannot harm even the branches of the trees, or take plants from this area. If we do, something bad will happen. Maybe not right away. Maybe not even in our lifetime, but in our children’s lifetime or our grandchildren’s.”

 

Cong Rilder agrees. “There are always consequences for our behavior. We must do good in the world. Not lie or steal. Nature is what sustains us, that’s why for us, all our gods are of the earth.”

 

Bansam says, “I believe the old priests--what do you call them? Shaman? They knew these times were coming, things like the greenhouse effect, all this pollution. They could see the future and that’s why they stressed us to care for these places.”

 

But Cong Rilder is not convinced that the changes are for the good. “The new ways don’t respect the forest, they say it’s superstition. Foolishness.” 

 

Although, she doesn’t mention the church, Bansam tells me, “She doesn’t want to offend anyone, especially if you are Christian.”

 

I assure her I’m not and that I, also, would like to see the sacred places, all the earth, in fact, cared for better than it has been. She smiles, but sadly, and says, “I just don’t know where our gods will go when there is no longer a place for them.”

 

When I return to my guesthouse that night, I find the thought also haunts me. Where do the nature gods and goddesses go when the missionaries with their white Christ move in and the sacred hills become decorated with crosses? Do they simply fade into the shadows of the groves, go to sleep in the streams and ancient monoliths waiting for the day when they are called out again? Even now, a few of the younger Khasi are returning to the old faith. But not many. They have a lot of opposition. The Evangelicals call them devil worshippers. Other denominations more subtly try to erase the memory of those who protect the natural places. And so the gods grow silent, their incantations becoming whispers, no longer song. 

 

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Culture Torpor

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Culture shock isn’t an accurate description for what hits you after the initial high of being in a new country wears off. It’s more of a languor, a malaise that creeps up on you until one day you find yourself in a torpor and walking out the door becomes an effort. 

 

Mine hit a couple days ago. Fortunately, I’ve lived in enough other countries that this time I didn’t do something stupid like go out on the streets where I was sure to have a melt down or snap at some undeserving stranger. I drew the curtains, locked the door and painted my toenails. Then I read, made endless batches of tea, turned on the TV for the first time since I’ve been to India, and watched marathon movies on the MGM station.

 

The thing about culture torpor is you don’t really know why it hits when it hits. Things have been clipping along just fine. I love my place with its uneven floor and slight whiff of mildew. I really do. For the first time in forever I have uninterrupted hours and have put myself on a writing schedule. I’m finding time to work on a novel almost every day and have been working on a paper for a conference in January. In between I’m reading books about northeast India and making notes for future topics to write about. And, of course, there’s the field work. But for some reason I woke up in a funk. I didn’t want to go home. I didn’t want to be here. I didn’t know what I wanted. But after my second cup of Nescafe (I really have developed a taste for the stuff), I recognized the signs and just gave into it. It’s amazing how things work out when you quit fighting reality. 

 

The next morning I woke up and took my camera to the Aurobindo Institute and walked around the grounds. For hours I sat and watched dragonflies as they hovered over the pond, then zipped like arrows from rock to reed. I laid on the ground and stared up at the bamboo grove. When the wind hissed through the branches they rattled and shook, leaves pirouetting  like ballerinas to the ground. 

 

And that’s how I deal with culture torpor. 

 

Meghalaya's Sacred Groves

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For centuries Khasi tribal people have been protecting certain groves and forests as dwelling places for the gods. Among the taboos are hunting, gathering, or using the wood for commercial purposes, and only on rare occasions can it be used for private consumption. As a result, the sacred groves have been virtually untouched and are a rich depository of endangered plants--orchids, medicinal and rare plants--many of which can now be found only in these isolated pockets. Scientists place the origins of these forests to the pre-agrarian age. Many animals and birds also live here.

Two things stand out for me with these sacred places. One is the importance of myth and how seamlessly myth dovetails with ecology. Many of the sacred forests fall on important watershed areas, so their preservation has also been instrumental in protecting water sources in India. The villagers are well aware of this as well as the unique biodiversity of the forests and the role they play in soil erosion. Perhaps the ancient shaman knew more than we realize?

The other is the similarity in beliefs between Khasi, and no doubt other Northeastern tribal people, and Native American spirituality. If the Native American population in America had not been so decimated, perhaps the U.S. would also have an abundance of protected, sacred spots where the people could commune with the gods on a regular basis. In northeast India, the majority of these places are still under tribal protection.

Meghalaya has also been steeped in Christianity and western civilization is once again a culprit in destroying the land. Christianity has taught that the old religions are primitive superstition, and introduced the idea that we know so well in the west--the land and its resources are for our consumption. Many of these areas have now been subject to deforestation, yet surprisingly over 50% are still relatively intact--a high number considering the times we live in. Maybe the world is finally ready to listen to ancient wisdom in regards to the planet?

There are over 100 of these sacred groves in Meghalaya alone and literally thousands of sacred sites--forests, rivers, mountains--scattered throughout India.