That may be true but this Parsi extremist seems like a bit of a birdbrain, for his snobbery means the population is ageing and shrinking. There are only about seventy-six thousand Parsis remaining in Mumbai. Kursheed shows us the community magazine Parsiana that features a table of figures of progeny gained and lost. Birth rates are consistently falling and death rates rising; in the year 2000 there were nine hundred and twenty-two deaths and only one hundred and sixty-four births. The Parsi maternity hospital is now full of Hindu patients – there aren’t enough Parsis to fill the beds.
What’s more, the genetic stock is weak. As a result of inter-breeding there’s a high incidence of heart problems, asthma and genetic defects. Dr Mizra can’t see the advantages of new blood; in fact the Parsi high priest can’t see much at all. I grow tired of his ranting and join his family on the back porch. The priest’s plump, friendly daughter tells me her dad is not just short sighted – he also has tunnel vision and night blindness. She introduces me to his aunt and uncle sitting so quietly on the couch I hadn’t noticed them. They are both blind. She explains in a whisper.
‘My grandparents were first cousins, so three of dad’s aunts and uncles are blind. Dad is going blind. I won’t be marrying a cousin.’
‘Are your eyes all right?’
‘So far so good and same with my brother. We have no problems.’
She points to her little brother playing in the garden. He has Down’s syndrome.
The Parsis are facing a dilemma: to populate or perish? If they choose purity they might die out like the dodo. But Dr Mizra is refusing to compromise. Back inside, Jonathan is still battling with the interview, and the priest is beginning to slam his fist on the furniture.
‘If we start losing the faith, if we start being ignorant and arrogant to this, then it’s going to be suicide, spiritual and communal.’
They discuss the vulture problem. The Parsi leader insists the planned breeding program will work and must work. He shouts an angry argument against cremation on spiritual and scientific grounds.
‘If you burn protein, it gives out carcinogenic product, seven percent of all cancers are caused by this.’
I point out to him that rotting bodies must be polluting the sacred water, earth and air in Mumbai. He shakes his head and yells, ‘NO.’ The priest insists the chemical powders being used to break down the bodies are herbal and non-polluting.
I’ve now been to about five Parsi homes and I can’t help but notice their obsession with purity goes beyond wearing masks for some ceremonies and staying away from menstruating women. Their places are fastidiously clean. Ornaments are kept in glassed cupboards. Televisions, video players and stereos are encased in huge plastic zip lock bags. It’s not that they’re suffering genetically inherited obsessive-compulsive disorder, it’s more that any kind of pollution and impurity are seen as manifestations of evil. Yet it seems the pure Parsi faith has been polluted by the Hindu customs of their foster motherland; Parsis wear a sacred thread like Hindu Brahmins, most don’t eat beef and they throw flowers into sacred waters. Some, including Professor Master-Moos, even believe in reincarnation. Almost as good as her US conspiracy theory was her bragging that, ‘Souls have evolved from the mineral kingdom, from the plants to the birds and the fish, to the insects and the reptiles and the animals and to the human beings. All souls are in evolution. To belong to the Zoroastrian community means that your soul is spiritually very highly evolved.’
Jonathan asked her if that wasn’t a wee bit superior and exclusive; she nodded.
‘Oh yes, very,’ she said as she smiled somewhat sorrowfully at us less evolved heathens.
Kursheed grows worried that we are getting a bad view of her kin and gets paranoid the story will be critical. Australian Parsis have power in Mumbai and she doesn’t want the community turning against her. She stresses the great things about the Parsis – their generosity in giving to charity, their belief in good words, good thought and good deeds. Zarathustra preached love, devotion, selfless service, compassion and respect for freedom, and he didn’t preach about vultures. Kursheed seems unfazed by the Parsi problem because she has faith in another winged-being that her people revere. Each Zoroastrian has a guardian angel; known as frvashi, these winged figures with human heads are always near to observe and help when the righteous are in danger. Kursheed wears a tiny amulet of a frvashi around her neck and it comforts her when she’s feeling down. Perhaps this explains why the Parsis seem such an optimistic group – everyone we’ve met thinks their community will somehow survive against the odds.
I think the Parsi sense of humour will see them through these times. While they are not outrageously funny and have little on the Aussie capacity to tell endless self-deprecating jokes, Parsis do tend to make a few cracks about themselves. In their Parsiana magazine, cartoons poke fun at the scrawny Parsi physique and a joke column contains witty new words such as ‘Dokhamania – a mental and physical hyperactivity triggered off by reference to dokhmas’. Kursheed gives us a parting gag as we say goodbye.
‘You know, Parsis love two things. They love good food and they love controversy. If there was just one Parsi left in the world, he would fight with the wind.’
I love the Parsi ability to laugh at their lot, I admire the faith’s respect for the earth and I’d love a guardian angel. Yet my birth in this life ensures I can’t join the flock. If I want to become a Zoroastrian I’ll have to migrate to North America where more liberal Parsi immigrants allow for conversion. As the sun sets slowly over the sea I find myself quietly praying to Ahura Mazda for the Parsi survival. May they be able to hatch a scheme to save the vultures and themselves, may they welcome cuckoos into their cozy nest, and may they learn to ride the winds of change before their fire is extinguished forever.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Come to Mummy
I’ve now been immersing myself in India’s spiritual smorgasbord for eighteen months. At times I feel god-filled, at other moments slightly spiritualised, but mostly I feel like I’m failing. It’s as if, after scrambling to the top of the wall that separates doubt and dharma, I fall dumpty-down into bad thoughts and bad living. Between faith and faithlessness is a sea full of sharks that pull me down into the depths of doubt, rip any emerging happiness from my heart and spit me back to the surface of cynicism.
The main predators are male.
India is a man’s world. As a result of female infanticide, where girl babies are aborted, undernourished or murdered, there are fifty-two men for every forty-eight women. In northern India the ratio seems higher – in the streets of Delhi and Mumbai gangs of guys are out in force, strutting and swaggering hand-in-hand, smiling and sneering with bravado. It seems no-one can adore them as much as they adore themselves; one of the most popular t-shirts stretched over scrawny chests and pot-bellies this summer declares ‘GOD I’M GOOD’.
It’s easy to laugh when Jonathan is around but he has flown to Calcutta for another urgent story and I’m stuck in Mumbai alone and extra-sensitive to being encircled by giggling idiots and silent stone-faced stares. I’m fed up with having entire busloads stare down at me, of truck-drivers motioning cabin mates to cop a look, and of being constantly followed. And I’m especially sick of the cocky display of the penis. It seems many Indian men have a chronic urinary tract infection – they piss proudly beside the road, up against buildings and in every park. Those with stronger bladders just seem to love the lingam – there are more hands on dicks here than at a hip-hop gig. What’s worse are the occasional bastards in a crowd who grab at my crotch or pinch my breasts. It doesn’t happen often, but it’s infuriating, especially when it’s dismissed as ‘Eve-teasing’ by lazy police. Even at home I’m not safe – once a week a mystery sicko calls to try to talk dirty, or just to say, ‘Hello, howww are yooou, I loooove you.’ He makes me feel as vulnerable and abused as the Sydney stalker did. The Indian overload of male attention is dehumanising and debilitating and makes forgiveness, love and understanding of fellow
humans almost impossible.
Of course these men are a highly visible minority who are uneducated and powerless in other parts of their life. I also blame the new cable TV channels. ‘Baywatch’ is big here. Perhaps many of the millions of men who watch it believe all we foreign females want is to shove a piece of lycra up our butts, run towards them without moving our upright nipples and then seduce them on the spot.
I’m still wearing my baggy salwar suits, but then again, so do the prostitutes. Apparently the only way to spot a sex worker is to look in her eyes; like a western woman, she will stare back. I’ve learned to look down all the time but that only contributes to my dejection. I used to worry about losing my kudos and place in Australian society. Now I fear I’m losing my identity as a human being. When I’m with Jonathan it’s common for men to say ‘hello, sir’ and engage him in conversation, while ignoring me completely. It’s better than being hassled but at times I feel I don’t exist.
I need a shot of female spiritual empowerment.
While I suffer a strong aversion to gurus, I hear of one who might be able to help me deal with India’s men. Mata Amritanandamayi sounds like a saviour; ‘The Mother of Immortal Bliss’ claims to be the living manifestation of all the divine goddesses of the Hindu pantheon combined. Perhaps if I can get some shakti or goddess power I can find a way to stop my blood boiling or at least discover how to get blokes to leave me alone. If not, then at least I get to see an Indian woman who is respected, worshipped and adored by hundreds of thousands of men. There’s a rumour that the Mother of Immortal Bliss transmits this power with a hug and a kiss – including to blokes! Barring dark corners of cinemas and under bushes, I’ve never seen such a thing in India; public displays of affection are confined to male mates. This taboo-breaking religious rebel lives in Kerala – the only state where women outnumber men and where matriarchal tribes once ruled. Kerala was my favourite state when I came to India all those years ago; I decide to return.
I fly from Mumbai and as we land in Kerala I feel I’ve left India far behind. In the north, Mother Earth chokes in clouds of dust; she’s decrepit and worn down by centuries of invasion, plundering, squandering, depletion and desertification. Kerala, in comparison, is a young fecund mother of abundance. Big wide wet rivers snake through acres of fat coconut palms with electric green leaves. Pineapples, mangoes and coconuts sell under the shade of flame flowers and frangipanis. Above is the first big blue sky I’ve seen for months, and beside the road lurid billboards advertise computer jobs in Australia, gold, jewels and movies starring bosomy babes and men with lipstick. The Keralan people are beautiful, with big round bodies, wide smiles and dark skin. The women wear jasmine flowers in their hair, mu mu dresses and bright saris, and the men, all hail the men! The southern spunks are either ignoring me or smiling to my face. I smile back, safe that their looks aren’t sleazy.
Kerala has been a communist state for much of the last half-century and since independence has had the highest rate of literacy and best health care in India. Marketing itself as a retreat for stressed western capitalists, it’s importing bodies and exporting a divine soul. The state’s Holy Mother has just returned from Europe and Australia, and is about to set out for Japan and the United States. It’s May and the southern summer is horribly hot and muggy. It’s not the ideal time to visit her ashram, but it’s the only chance I may have for a holy hug.
Sweltering in a tin can taxi that bumps along sandy roads, I finally come to the coastal backwater town of Vallikavu. I squat in a small canoe crossing the deep dark lagoon, gliding under fishing nets suspended from bamboo poles like giant spider webs waiting for prey. Flies feast on my sweat and mosquitoes spear my slippery skin. Drums begin to beat, becoming louder and faster as we approach the bank. My heart takes up the ominous rhythm. I shut my eyes, fearing I’m being sucked into the heart of darkness.
I open them to see Barbie’s world.
Mata Amritanandamayi Math, the main ashram of the Divine Mother, is a candy-coloured kingdom. Nearly everything is pink – the phallic fifteen-storey high accommodation tower, the hospital, the Ayurvedic centre, the shops, the canteens and even the temple. Rising up in a series of storeys crowned with small domes, the Hindu temple, or mandir, looks like a pile of giant cupcakes topped with marshmallows. Spilling out the doors and teeming all around are thousands of devotees. I’ve arrived on a ‘darshan day’ inside the pink temple of love, Amma (as the Holy Mother is affectionately known) is hugging her disciples.
I leave my bags and let the swarm carry me into the temple’s holy hive. Balconies drip with devotees, the floor softly heaves with the brightly coloured bodies of hundreds of men, women and children. Up front, Indian white-robed brahmacharis (monks and nuns) are chanting holy bhajan hymns, and the room vibrates with a drone of harmonium, tabla, clapping, chatting, snoring and singing. It’s stinking hot and a sticky cocktail of body odour rises. Amma’s face is everywhere, on the clocks, on the walls, and on the faces of the goddess statues. But I can’t see her. On the stage, two chaotic conga lines of men from the right and women from the left, meet in a bulging knot of pushing, pleading pilgrims. Every couple of seconds the bulge engorges, pulsates and then pops out an ecstatic or weeping being. Within the bulge is the Holy Mother.
‘You’re here for darshan? Mother wants westerners, come,’ whispers a western woman at my side.
Suddenly I’ve joined a queue of five foreigners pushing in, ahead of the Indian queue of thousands. Within moments I’m halfway up to the sacred stage. I don’t feel like a hug. The humidity is horrific, my thighs are stuck together like two wet slimy flounder fish, my hair is plastered to my skull, my face is red, blotchy and sticky, and my body is bumpy with an angry heat rash and infected mosquito bites. I also have onion breath from lunch.
‘Don’t worry,’ comforts an American grey-eyed, ghostly pale girl in front of me. ‘Mother loves all without conditions and without limits, she is pure, unconditional, beautiful love.’
Western helpers in white saris are on all sides of me. One gently wipes the sweat from my face and then roughly pushes me into the backside of the devotee in front. She rams the woman behind me into my spine. The next helper shoves me forward towards the churning Mother mass. Before I have time to compose myself I’m in the centre of the heaving hive. A disciple squatting on the floor yanks me to my knees, grabs my bottom in both hands and pushes it forward. Unseen arms take my hands and put them on either side of Amma’s feet and clawed fingers roughly tilt my head to one side. I’m in the lap of the Holy Mother! Before I’m tucked into her sweaty armpit I catch a quick glimpse of a short, plump body wrapped in white cotton, a sweet round face with slightly bucked teeth and the glint of a nose ring against dark skin. She looks like my cook Rachel. Amma puts one hand on my shoulder, another behind my neck and babbles in my ear: ‘mooneemooneemooneemooneemooneeeemooooneeemoooneemooonee’.
I feel a kiss on my cheek, a sweet pressed into my hand and I’m yanked up, pulled away and pushed off the stage. The entire encounter has taken about five seconds.
‘Isn’t she wonderful?’ the woman behind me raves with a rabid look in her eye. I nearly burst into tears of disappointment.
I felt nothing.
Mother, as I’m told to call her, is not the first manifestation of the Divine Goddess in India, but she’s definitely the most popular at present. I buy her official biography from the shop and read the story of a spiritual Cinderella. The fourth of thirteen children born into a poor fishing family in 1953, Sudhamani, as she was known then, grew up right here. She was dark blue at birth (like Lord Krishna), laughed as she took her first breath and then promptly sat in the lotus position. When she was six months old she walked and talked and went dark brown. At two she said prayers, at five she composed her own devotional ditties, and at seven she began meditating. For some reason, Sudhamani’s family didn’t see this brilliant development or even the blue skin as anything significant – they thought the girl was ugly, so they pulled her out o
f school when she was ten and made her the family servant. She worked happily and endured bloody beatings before becoming a teenager obsessed with merging with God. According to the book, ‘The sounds of Krishna’s flute played within her, she danced until God intoxicated and fell on the beach losing consciousness.’
At twenty-one Sudhamani manifested the divine moods of Krishna, turned milk into pudding, ate burning camphor and tongue-pashed a cobra. She foiled murder attempts by her detractors and marriage plans by her parents. Sudhamani died. She resurrected. At twenty-two she ‘merged with the Omnipresent, the Omniscient and the Omnipotent Being; the Divine Mother.’
The foreigners’ information centre at the ashram gives me a key to a tiny room high in the pink tower and a list of rules. The German boy on duty also recommends I meet Amma’s right-hand man, translator and spokesman Swami Amritaswarupananda Puri. I take a cold shower, then travel to the back of the temple where the swami has an office. A rotund, long-haired, bearded dude in an orange caftan opens the door and motions me to sit opposite him. I ask him about when he met his guru. In eloquent English, the swami softly tells me he was a student called Balu when he first came here, and his first hug sounds much more auspicious than mine was.
‘She told me she was my mother and I was her child. These words entered deep into my heart. I burst into tears and became enraptured with inexplicable joy. This is what I had been searching for, love in all its purity. Motherhood in its universal essence had assumed a form. I saw the universe of love overflowing with divineness, an experience of complete peace of mind beyond space and time.’
‘You saw all that in a hug?’
‘Yes, I did,’ he smiles serenely.
Holy Cow! an Indian Adventure Page 21