zazen

i am not a lamp lighter. i light incense sticks only because they take me back centuries to jokhang, lhasa. i do not bow in front of beautifully crafted bronze and brass idols. i do not touch my forehead and neck (or chest?) when i pass a gopuram. i do not fast and i certainly do not pray. to god. i guess you can say i am not religious.

my maid today said to me "i have never seen you bow in front of god even one day." her tone was almost accusatory, in the light of sanat doing his rituals. my tone was slightly defiant, surprising me. "and you wont see me ever, not in front of an idol," i declared with a smile, nevertheless.

over the years, especially after moving back to india, i feel more comfortable with myself, my feelings towards religiosity. i dont feel compelled to conform anymore. if people don't like it, it is really their issue. praying and religion are personal and no one, not even my mom should have a say in what i believe.

so do i feel no reverence? no awe at a superior force? i do. my dad sent me this photo and when i opened it up, i drew in a sharp breath of calm amazement. the brahmaputra river valley. all the way from the high plains of tibet to the bay of bengal. my supple mind zoomed its way up to the yarlung tsampo that gurgled in joy beside me in tibet and swooped down to the depths of the serene, deep gorge of the ganges, in uttaranchal. i remembered the first touch of the icy cold water on a maroonish black sand bed. we rafted down the ganges, head upturned in awe at the sheer beauty. yes, i felt reverence. yes, i felt awe at the superior power of white water. to give life, to take it. to replenish and drain. to ebb and flow. like emotions. constant, yet ever-changing. there was my inspiration, my religion.

away from the glare of hot stars, i stretch out on a cold bed beside the small warm sanjana who snores ever so softly and lean towards her to take in the sweet fragrance of her freshly bathed skin. when i feel her cheek and the slight beads of perspiration on a warm summer night, i remember her laughter and her ready forgiveness each time i impatiently berate her fiestiness. there, lying in the dark everything seems so clear -- her wonder at the smallest beetle and her joy at the sight of her 'snoopy' and i feel humbled. here, in this child, is my faith.

when i walked on the streets of lhasa into jokhang, when i ran my fingers along those centuries-old, butter-soot soaked walls, i felt the same reverence as i felt leaning against the red stone of the 9th century temple at the base of nandi hills. stone bearing testimony to history. good, bad, ugly, bloody, glorious. history. i know i will feel that same reverberation in mohenjodaro, like i felt when i stood on the terraces at chittorgarh, or even when i stand in the archways of my alma mater xavier's. i know i will tremble with joy in the sunderbans like i did when i saw lion pugmarks in samburu. in such resonance lies my solace.

in knowledge, in learning, in virgin forests and cold gushing valleys, in a spirited child, in the paw print of a feline, in sudden pink of a stork in flight, in the joy of a passing shot down the line, in a perfect stroke of calligraphy... here lies my deference.

and i bow everyday.