Category: Uncategorized

When I was growing up in India, prayer was an integral part of our day. As we got up in the morning and saw the first rays of sunshine, we thanked God. As we took a shower, before breakfast, and as we got ready to go to school, we prayed. As we ate lunch, we prayed. When we turned the lights on in the evening, we prayed. 

I was told that God could see everything. God could hear everything. God knew everything. God was everywhere, including in the trees, stones, bugs, and animals. 

When I was six years old, I started questioning things. And so, at a family reunion, one evening I asked my grandmother, “What is this thing called ‘God’?”

My grandmother measured perhaps five feet—and I don’t mean just in height, but also in width. She was round, almost like a ball. When we kids gave her a hug, we would sink into her bosom. 

The family story was that Grandma had education only through the 3rd grade. However, behind her back, some family members smirked at that idea, because she could not even write her own name. But she was a great storyteller. 

And so it was that all of us cousins were tucked in under her quilt one evening during that family vacation, listening to her stories. That is when I posed the question about God.

In answering my question, she started by asking all of us to imagine a space in which we could see nothing but clean air. She explained that the air was actually filled with particles that were invisible to the eye. If we were able to magnify one of those invisible particles many times, we would see that it was shaped like an egg. And, there would be nothing visible inside that egg, but it would also be filled with specks so small that they were invisible to our eyes. If we were able to magnify one little speck, we would find that it was also shaped like an egg with nothing visible inside it, but we could magnify one little speck. 

She described this same process several times, until we could predict the next step—which we did out loud, all in a chorus. We thought it would never end, but she claimed she said it only seven times. Finally, in the seventh egg-within-an-egg, she said that the little speck was our entire known universe. 

One of the cousins asked if it would include our house. “Yes,” she responded. Would it include the mountains? “Yes,” she said. Would it include her house, which was in another city? “Yes.” On and on we went, until we established that it included our parents, the moon, the sun, all the stars in the sky, and everything our little minds could fathom. 

“But, what about God?” I asked, getting back to the starting point of the story. 

“Oh, all those invisible particles contained universes,” she told us. “But God is beyond all of them.”

“Ah! If God is that far away,” I reasoned, “then God cannot possibly see what I do or hear what I say!” My cousins all groaned. However, I was somewhat relieved that I would not have to worry about God anymore. 

Grandma didn’t say anything.

The next evening, we were tucked in with her again for more stories. Suddenly I felt a small, sharp pain, and I jumped out from under the quilt.

“What happened?” Grandma asked.

“A bug bit me!” I said.

“No, no, no, sit down,” she said. “It wasn’t a bug.”

When I was tucked in again, she brought her hand out from under the quilt. It was holding a needle. She explained that she had gently poked it in my left arm.

“Why would you do that?” I asked angrily.

“See what happened? I poked a little needle in just one tiny point on your arm, and your whole body reacted.” she said. “In the same way, even the smallest little thing that we do or say affects the whole universe.”

That experience with my Grandma became a vivid memory and the foundation of my concept of God.

I was six years old when I first questioned the meaning of life. I remember the moment as if it were yesterday.

My family was on vacation in the Simla Hills, in a rented cottage with a wide view of the mountains and valley below. That evening, as always, when the sound of the town’s power generator filled the otherwise peaceful valley, my mother and I went inside, where she switched on the light in the front room. 

A solitary bulb hung from the ceiling on a twisted wire. The generator barely produced enough power to create a faint glow in the bulb. One could barely make out faces and forms, but no details—not to speak of reading anything. Since the light was so dim, people irreverently called it a “shadow of light.”

My mother folded her hands in prayer, and I followed her lead. It was our custom to offer thanks as the lights came on each evening. I was told that light was a gift from God to illuminate our lives. Without light, life would be unimaginable. I remember the exact prayer we recited, because it was the offering of thanks we gave several times a day in various situations:

Om yogi yati muni dhyan lagawen
Sharad Narad sheesh navaven
Namoh namoh jai namoh shivaven
Sur brahm adi paar na paven Om

My parents had told me the meaning of this prayer was “Oh God, whose mystery none of us can comprehend, and who we all worship by different names, to you we bow.”

My mother turned the light off, and we went outside. Each evening, four metal chairs were set outside around our radio. It was a German-made Gruendig shortwave radio encased in a large wooden cabinet. A German woman who lived in our city in India had left the radio with us for safekeeping when she was interned at the start of World War II. The radio was proudly displayed in our living room and traveled with us in a large, custom-made wooden trunk. At the time, my parents never mentioned that the woman who left us the radio was German, and we never heard from her again. 

We were one of the few families in the valley with a radio, so friends would drop by in the evening. The Second World War was in full swing, and everyone eagerly awaited the BBC News.

That evening, one chair happened to be empty, so I sat down with the adults. I could not understand the English broadcast, and I got bored. Afterward, I asked what the news was about. My cousin Padma, who was nine years older than me, cynically told me the British soldiers were “bravely retreating” as the Japanese were advancing.

At that moment, a question arose in my mind. I had recently witnessed the birth of my younger sister, Vijay Laxmi, who was delivered by a midwife in the bedroom of our cottage. Twelve days later, I witnessed my grandfather’s death. Now I was hearing of people killing each other in the war.

I voiced the question out loud: “Why are we born, and why do we die?”

The three adults looked at one another with expressions that said, “Who would like to tackle this one?!” From their momentary silence, it was obvious they had not anticipated my question. 

My father spoke first and talked about the journey of life and the will of God. Then my mother tried to elaborate on what he had said. Padma also shared her ideas. They tried to explain that we emerge from God and go back to God, and this life is but an interlude.

I raised another question: “If, after death, we return to God, then why does everyone want to live so long?” I argued that when we travel from one place to another, we try to go by the fastest means possible. “So, why do we take as long as we can on this journey of life?” I inquired. 

The answers that followed seemed fuzzy to that six-year-old sitting on a metal chair overlooking the enchanting valley. In the end, I asked in frustration, “If we go back to God after death, then why should I not die now?”

My father tried to answer. He did not rush it. Each of his words was deliberate. He said something to the effect that finding an answer to this question is the purpose of the journey, and each one of us has to find our own answer.

After that, the subject changed, and the adults went back to their own chatter. But I paid no attention to them. I was lost in my own thoughts, in some other world. It was not long before the sun went down behind the mountains, and the valley was engulfed in darkness. One by one, the others went inside, leaving me alone. 

I remember very well my pose of deep concentration—lips pursed, shoulders hunched, hands holding tight to the sides of the metal chair seat, body tense and leaning forward, legs dangling and swinging—as I pondered the question, “What is the meaning of life?”

Finally, my mother called from inside: “Son, it is getting dark and cold! You better come in now!” 

I did not answer. The cool breeze felt good.

*******

A couple days later, I woke up in the middle of the night with a severe stomachache. When I called out, my mother rushed to my bedside. Writhing in pain, I explained my condition. She set the kerosene lantern on the floor and knelt beside my bed. She clasped her hands together as if in prayer and pleaded, “Son, please promise me that you are not going to will yourself to die.” Her face was lined with deep concern.

I was surprised. I had asked about the meaning of life—I had no intention to die! At that moment, in some odd way, it became crystal clear to me: I wanted to know why I was here, and the answers being provided were not adequate.

Something flickered within me. It was as if I caught a glimpse of movement, but I could not make out what it was. Like seeing a stranger whose form was clear, but the details were indiscernible, shrouded by the “shadow of light,” and I would have to wait for daybreak so I could search and hope that the shadow would reveal its mysteries.

When electricity first came to the neighborhood where I was growing up as a child, our house was one of the first to be wired. 

For thousands of years before then, the main sources of light at night were cotton wicks soaked in mustard oil and placed in small ceramic dishes. Kerosene lanterns were also there, but they were still scarce. And now there was electricity. 

One of my favorite “show and tell” routines was to ask friends to face away from me, and I would stand on a chair and push the light switch on and off. My friends would stand in awe, mouths wide open, to see the room light up and then go dark again. After a few minutes, they would catch on to what I was doing and then insist on climbing the chair and performing the magic themselves.

When a lightbulb is lit, it is no longer merely a bulb. It becomes the light. A switch and wires are not just parts of the vast electrical network. They are the network. Similarly, during those magical moments, my friends and I were not merely “experiencing” something special. We became magicians. No, even more than that—we became part of the network, part of the magic itself.   

My act lasted only a short time, because soon everyone knew the secret, and the show was over. And, as happens with childhood toys, that experience was soon lost and forgotten. Many years later, it took some major life crises and some wise teachers and mentors for me to discover what that short-lived and seemingly insignificant childhood experience had actually taught me.

I came to the realization that, just like all those little light bulbs were connected to the source of electricity, everything in my universe was also connected. We children did not know the theory of electricity or why the bulb reacted to the touch of the switch, but we knew it worked. We knew that a person’s size, sex, race, religion, or wealth did not make any difference; anyone could become a magician by becoming one with the network.

So, even in the darkest of dark moments of my life, I have known that the solution was only a matter of finding the switch.

One summer day when I was four years old, my younger sister, my mother and I were resting after lunch. An afternoon siesta was a custom in India in those days, because the sun would be so blazing hot that no one dared to go outside. 

Ours was one of the few houses in our neighborhood that had a ceiling fan in the living room as well as a table fan that we moved from room to room as needed. Such fans were a luxury, and there was no such thing as air conditioning.

As usual, we were lying on the floor because that was the coolest place in the house. My mother was fast asleep, and I was lying quietly on my back, perhaps playing with some toy. 

I looked up and thought I saw something on the white ceiling right above my head. It was just an image, not something concrete. I knew it was not real, and yet there it was. My eyes were riveted to it. It was the image of a baby goat—a kid. The figure was light gray, not black like every baby goat I had seen before. Then it spoke to me, and said, “How would you feel if someone killed your parents and ate them?” 

I knew the image was not really speaking, but the thought was so profound that it did not matter. I closed my eyes as hard as I could and buried my face in my pillow. I did not want to open my eyes and face the baby goat. I did not want to answer the question. When I did finally open my eyes, the figure was no longer there. 

I laid there awake for a long time, my little mind thinking, wondering, and refusing to accept the possibility that the goat had posed to me. The prospect was horrifying. I could not bear to imagine what would happen if my parents were killed. And the very thought of someone eating them was sickening. I glanced over at my mother several times, just to reassure myself that she was alive and well. 

That is all I remember of the event, because I must have fallen asleep eventually. I never told anyone about that experience. It was too horrifying a thought for me to even consider speaking about it. But, that evening I told my mother that I was never going to eat meat again.

Several years later, my mother told me that everyone thought it merely a childish whim of a 4-year-old, and that it would last only a day or two. After all, my father had a restaurant famous for its meat cuisine, and I had acquired quite a taste for meat. I even remember some of the tantrums I threw when meat was not included in meals. It was a problem whenever we were invited for a meal by friends or relatives, because we lived in a vegetarian-dominant society.

But when my parents found out that I was serious and determined about not eating meat, they started to get concerned, especially since I also stopped eating eggs. I refused to eat anything I suspected contained eggs, such as cakes, pastries, and even chewing gum. I would not even touch meat or eggs.

The adults around me tried to convince me that I should eat meat. My cousins started to tease me by putting goodies containing meat or eggs in front of my face. But none of it worked. All the temptations and attempts at persuasion never bothered me.

My mother’s strength was one of her defining characteristics, and one she intentionally tried to pass on to her children. An experience when I was four years old comes to mind.

We were vacationing in the mountains of Srinagar, the capital of Kashmir, staying in large tents. Late mornings we would go sightseeing on rented horses accompanied by their owners, who walked beside us. Most children rode with their parents, but I refused to get on a horse unless I could ride alone, acting humiliated and pouting to get my way. My father indulged me, which made me feel very special—like a grown-up.

One evening at bedtime, my father told my 2-year-old sister, Shakti, and me that the next morning he was going away for a few days, and in his absence, he wanted us to behave for our mother. I innocently asked if I could accompany him. That was impossible, he told me, because it was several days’ journey on horseback in deep snow—not a safe journey for a child.

Rationally, it was clear that joining my father on the trip was not an option. But, in my 4-year-old bravado, I decided to be obstinate and insisted on going along. I understood that it was wrong to make such a demand, and I knew I was being a pest, but I would not back down. 

To pacify me, my mother said, “Alright, Daddy has to leave very early in the morning. So, if you want to go, you must go to sleep immediately.” 

“You’re lying,” I pouted. “You want us to go to sleep so that Daddy can leave without us in the morning.”

“No, I promise to wake you up in the morning,” my mother assured me.

Even though I was certain she would not wake me, it seemed that this was a good way to save face. Soon, my sister and I were sound asleep.

When the first rays of sunshine struck our tent the next morning, I was wide awake and promptly woke little Shakti. As expected, my dad’s bed was empty. 

Patiently, our mother explained that Daddy had left at four in the morning. I was furious. Several times, my mother tried to explain that where he had gone was not a place for children, and that someday, when I was older, I would be able to make the trip. But, by this time, that was no longer the issue. I was inconsolable, but not because my dad had left. My mother had tricked me—and I knew it, yet I fell for her trick. My self-image was bruised.

I went outside, held one of the tent ropes, and sobbed my heart out. Shakti, who always wanted to do whatever I was doing, came along and started to cry too. I knew Shakti didn’t know why she was crying, but I was delighted to have some company.

My mother offered me every enticement she could think of to stop crying, but it was to no avail. I would only become more obstinate and sob even harder. 

Finally, she asked me what she would have to do to make up for her deception. During my extended period of crying, I had worked out my exit strategy, and I was ready with my answer. Without uttering a word, I pointed at the next mountain peak beyond the valley. My mother knew exactly what I wanted.

Several times during our vacation, I had expressed a desire to go to that peak for a picnic—by myself. It was a demand that was totally unacceptable. Now I saw an opportunity to press my advantage, though I fully expected to be rebuffed as usual.

I have no idea why I wanted to go to that peak, nor do I have any idea what came over my mother at that moment. To my utter surprise, she agreed to this outlandish request. Instantly, I stopped crying, as did Shakti. She was not to get anything in the bargain, but Shakti had no idea why she was crying in the first place. 

As my mother instructed one of the horse owners about my desired trip, his face expressed surprise and unwillingness. It was obvious he did not want to take the responsibility. I tried to intervene and say that I was grown up and could take care of myself, but he brushed it aside without even looking at me. My mother persisted. He wanted assurance that I would obey his instructions. Meekly, I consented.

Without a word, my guide lifted me onto the horse, and we started off. The rest of our group were still in their tents—a disappointment, because I had hoped for a hero’s sendoff. 

The ride to the far hillside was uneventful. There was silence between me and the guide. When we arrived, I ate my lunch. Then, the guide said it was time to begin the return journey. I resisted, wanting to stay on the mountain longer. He looked at the dark clouds on the horizon and shook his head.

On our way back down the trail, we saw a family on horseback coming up. This was our first human encounter, and I was delighted. Finally, someone could admire my adventure! When they learned I was traveling without my parents, they were incredulous. Obviously suspicious, they even tried to send a young man with us to make sure I made it home safely. I was horrified, and protested almost hysterically. Fortunately, the guide spoke up and assured them I would be okay, and we moved on.

We had barely reached the bottom of the hill when it started to rain. The guide led us under the cover of a tree. I wanted to keep moving, but the guide refused. I had no choice but to wait, listening to the pitter-patter of raindrops falling on the tree leaves.

I must have dozed off, because the next thing I remember is seeing our tent come into view up above us along the narrow trail. The sun was shining brightly. I noticed my mother’s exceedingly worried expression as she stood near the tent, looking down the trail that would bring us home. 

As I turned the last corner and came face-to-face with her, I asked, “Why are you crying?” She did not answer, but quickly wiped her tears with her sari and began to jump up and down with excitement. The guide helped me dismount, and my mother hugged me repeatedly. She looked at my face as if to make sure she was embracing her own son, and then she wiped her tears again before embracing me some more. It was a few moments before she could collect herself. I could not comprehend what all the fuss was about.  

Then she asked me to thank the guide. I turned around and looked up into his eyes, and I thanked him. I was struck by how different he looked from this perspective. During the trip, I had only viewed him from where I sat on top of the pony. All I had seen were his shoulders under the cover of a rough, brown jacket, and the top of his head covered by a round, black-and-brown, native Kashmiri cap. 

Standing on the ground now, all of a sudden I was small and he was tall and muscular. For the first time, I noticed his face, which was narrow and handsome. He was not as old as I had thought. In a split second he was no longer my guide; he had become a giant of a man.

Without a word, he reached over, and with both hands lifted me high over his head. I could again see him from above. I detected a proud smile on his face, as if to say, “Well done, partner.” The tension between us was gone.

* * *

I never thought much about that day until years later, when my own children were that age. Looking at them, I would often ask myself, Would I send my four-year-old child alone with a stranger for an all-day horse ride in an unfamiliar land—or anywhere, for that matter? It was unimaginable. I would wonder what steel nerves it took for my mother to allow her eldest son to have such an experience, especially since her first baby had died at the age of one. The only answer I could come up with was that it was a different era (the 1930s) and a different place (India) and it may not be fair to compare the two situations.

Many years later, I finally posed the question to my mother directly. We had finished our lunch and were chatting at the table when I asked if she remembered that incident. She gave me one of those distant looks, smiling gently. Then she quietly shook her head and said, “How could I ever forget that day?”

I gently asked if she would be willing to share some of her feelings. “I was an emotional wreck,” she said. 

She explained that, after I left on the ride, she was doing okay until our neighbors from the other tents came out and started questioning her wisdom. She got a good scolding from one person, and that was when she realized what a blunder she had committed. The darkest thoughts assailed her: “What if he does not return? What if he falls off the horse? What if he falls into the steep valley? What if the horseman abducts my child?” She said she cried all afternoon, could not eat a single bite, and kept her eyes fixed on the trail.

There was a silence. Then I asked her, “Why did you allow me to go? What was on your mind?” 

She laughed a nervous laugh, as if it was too painful for her to talk about. Then she looked straight into my eyes. Her gentle expression froze like steel, and her eyes narrowed. With quiet firmness, she said, “I did not want you to grow up being afraid of anything.”

She was savoring her victory.

Postscript: On Memories

When we take a photograph, we capture a moment. When we look at the snapshot later, we see the details of that moment. Each time we view the captured moment again, we may see new details that we failed to notice before. 

The same is true of our memories. We may notice some details only when we review a memory at a later date. During my horse ride at the age of four, I did not notice the color of the guide’s hat or coat, but I could clearly see those details later as I looked at the events in my memory. 

Yet, some details hide in the maze of our memories and become evident only when circumstances help to reveal them. For many years, I could vividly recall the image of the tree under which the guide and I took shelter that day in the rain. I could recall the luscious green leaves up above, and the ground littered with multicolored leaves and an array of fallen fruits. I could remember the pitter-patter of the rain. However, as much as I tried, I could not recall what type of fruit tree it was. What bothered me was that, as a child, I knew what kind of tree it was, but now I could not remember.

Then, one day in the fall of 2007, I joined my friends Bob Doenges and Sophie Oppenheimer for dinner in London. It was quite late by the time we lazily finished our main course. Most of the customers at the boutique restaurant had left by the time we were served our dessert—cashew parfait decorated with two halves of a fresh fig. 

I could not take my eyes off of the pink stamens in the green halves of the figs. I was  mesmerized, because in that moment I was four years old again, looking at the stamens of the fallen anjeers (figs) on the ground, and I realized that I must have dozed off under the anjeer tree while still sitting on the horse. 

Voila—almost seven decades later, the memory was reawakened.