A Return to Kindergarten 

Toward the end of my trip to the Ujjain Kumbh Mela, the pomp and show, the big tents, the lights, the blaring music on the loudspeakers, the arrogance of the swamis, the blind faith and superstitions of the masses–things that I considered to be show rather than substance–were rubbing me the wrong way. I looked at the individual faces in the crowds hoping to find a reflection of my irritation, but there was none. These people were, in fact, enjoying themselves. I felt like I was in high school and this pomp and show was catering to kindergartners. There was a look about them that reflected a feeling of contentment. In my opinion, the swamis were utilizing the tools of mass communication and showmanship to attract the illiterate, for whom this whole experience was a vacation. 

Suddenly, something became clear to me: The people I had assigned the role of kindergartners found this experience most meaningful and important! My comparison of the kindergartners and upperclassmen now struck me as arrogance on my part. I now had a feeling of appreciation for the Mela-goers, and I felt humbled that, until now, I had looked down upon their way of doing things.

I mentioned this realization to Abhimanyu, who accepted it with a nod of his head, as if he already held this belief and was glad that I could now see it too. Abhimanyu suggested that I close my eyes to my skepticism and take a dip in the Shipra River at midnight the following evening. For those attending the Mela, this particular day and time was deemed the most auspicious moment to bathe in the river.

“I cannot do that,” I said. “I have nothing against taking a dip in the river, but to do that tomorrow night would be an acquiescence to the superstition and rituals that I firmly stand against.” I told Abhimanyu that this would be as if I were going back to kindergarten again. Let these people, for whom it has meaning, enjoy themselves. I told him, “It has no meaning for me, and an act without meaning is a wasted act.”

Abhimanyu accepted my feelings and said nothing. The next day he invited me to his home for dinner. I took Mohan with me, uninvited. Abhimanyu brought up the subject again. He said, “You should take a dip in the river tonight.”

Mohan was surprised that I did not plan to bathe in the river. While I did not want to make a big deal about this whole subject, somehow I was glad that it had come up.

“I do not believe in the blessings that come as a result of these rituals. Please tell me why you insist. What will be bestowed upon me if I am a non-believer?”

Abhimanyu replied, “As you have said yourself, the Brahma (Creator) is within us. This Brahman (Universe) is a mere reflection of our inner selves. So how can anyone give anything to anyone? It is you who has to decide what you want to get. We are the ones who desire and, in turn, receive what is dictated by our sanskars.

“For example, one who does not get two square meals may desire food. One who does not have a child may desire progeny. One who wishes to obtain higher consciousness may desire that. No two people desire the same thing in the same way. As you mentioned earlier, some people need a kindergarten education, while others may be working for their doctorate.

“Just like there is sunlight all over, you still require a magnifying glass to concentrate those rays to generate a flame. Similarly, all the accumulated energy of all the people gathered here provides that concentration. No one can give you anything, but you can benefit from the flow of energy to accomplish what you have set out for. Everyone in life has some mission, whether they know it or not.”

He did not press the point further or seek my agreement but told us that dinner was ready and that we should eat.

Unknown to Abhimanyu, I had already made my decision earlier that afternoon, but I was too proud to admit it. We are slow to grow up when we are born and then we linger in our death. Similarly, we do not readily wish to admit the defeat of our old beliefs and the emergence of a new comprehension against which we have fought so hard. 

That afternoon, I had been overcome by the feeling that I knew Abhimanyu’s wife before I actually met her–- as if I were her long-lost brother. I saw her image merge with that of my sister, Shakti. For the first time since Shakti’s death, approximately three years prior, in the privacy of my room, I cried. I had a great urge to do a “Kriya-sanskar” for Shakti while in Ujjain. However, in Hindu culture, this ritual, that is performed for the peace of a dead person’s soul, is a privilege reserved for the husband or son of the deceased. Then it occurred to me that the true bonds were not those dictated by traditions or rituals but those forged by love. I remembered my secretary, DeAnn, saying, “Listen to your heart.” I then understood that this was, perhaps, the reason that I had come to Ujjain. I had fought against such rituals for so long–I did not even perform this ritual after my father’s death. I did not want my son to perform such a ritual for me. But both my father and Shakti would have liked it; they were believers.

My decision was made, it was time to return to kindergarten, and I would start by taking a dip in the Shipra River.