Growing up in our house we had a ritual every Sunday. It was
a weekly battle that would involve physical combat, divine incantations, and
ancient Indian guilt trips.
My mom would wake us up, drag us out of bed, and insist we
to go to the Chinmaya Mission, the Hindu spiritual center around the way. My
resistance in the name of slumber won out now and again; but for the better part of a decade I would attend
the Sunday classes on Hindu spirituality, philosophy, and symbolism.
While we spent our Sunday mornings donning kurtas and churidaars trying to relate the knowledge of subcontinental
scriptures to our suburban-born realities, my dad had his own Sunday routine. In
fact, I can’t remember a single time he joined us. I’m pretty sure he had his
own beliefs in the divine; he simply was not willing to come even close to
ascribing them to any institutional form. I have a feeling his experiences in
India with a culture of god-men, false promises, and pie-in-the-sky hustles
gave him enough insights into that world. I remember he would joke, “Religion is the
only thing keeping the poor from killing the rich.” His Sunday mornings, instead,
were spent on the golf course.
By afternoon, we would all reconvene for another form of
worship: fervently rooting for the Washington Racists Football Team with
a fanaticism that would make the most zealous, jealous. It is a devotion that
continues to date.
Last week when I found myself gazing out the window of the
second-story Hindu temple in Monrovia, the memories came rushing back. Outside
the sun was setting. People were jostling into packed mini-buses for the
journey home. The streets were full of grime and massive puddles – a testament
to the ongoing rainy season, reminiscent of past monsoons. And I remembered how
those past Sundays dug roots for me, revealed perspectives from other worlds,
and reinforced a love for storytelling.
The cultural connections that were built those mornings have
proven enduring. And lasting lessons have been learned from my parents too.
Like understanding the role of faith and sharpening a sense of humor. Both of
which have proven necessary for navigating modern jungles from West to East
– especially in places where daily life proves to be consistently unpredictable.
In addition to faith, laughter, and
heart, I would add: the search to reach
a higher level of consciousness should not be divorced from everyday struggles
for social justice. After all, how could we begin to talk about conquering ego,
letting go of desire, and glimpsing humility without addressing the circus
abound. The flashing lights of the gleam are calling. Being able to enjoy them without getting lost is the challenge.
The internal hard work involves a
journey. And at the center of the movement is a love for the people strong
enough to support self-improvement projects. The insanity of unsustainable
consumption, the violence of unfettered capitalism, and the arrogance of empire
are what surround us. And with it, religious nationalism manifests its ugly
face through communal hatred, violent sexism, and misguided xenophobia.
Sitting on the floor in Monrovia, I spy the familiar gods
and goddesses shining their light on my path. Looking around I see that everyone
here, like me, has left their home to build another life on unaccustomed earth.
But unlike me, everyone else has come on a separate hustle. I am the only one who
wasn’t born in India. I suppose I can only embrace my identity crisis whose
many layers were starting to develop on those Sundays. As my brain switches
over from English to Hindi, my mouth obeys, joining in with the bhajans my mom used to lull us asleep
with many years ago.
But the train of existence barrels forward. I’ve become
accustomed to enriching the journey by circulating between different classes
and compartments. I’ve learned the value
of hanging out the side to witness the heart of the countryside. It’s okay if I
haven’t found my seat yet on the Hari Om
Express.
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