As blasphemous as it may sound, truth is I am never good with the Almighty. I love and respect Him, but all on my own terms. That means no standing in lines for hours in a temple waiting to see Him decked in all His finest jewelry or giving up things I love (chocolate donuts, beer) for weeks in a row to gain some leverage on Judgment Day. On any given day my conversation with God would be thus, with me (putting on a fake Australian accent) kicking it off,
“Hi mate! How’re things up there?”
(Nothing)
“So… are the Lakers going to win tonight?”
(Nothing)
“Well… About my promotion and bonus at work…”
(Nothing)
“Am I going to get married to a beautiful woman?”
Buzz off! Go fight your own battles. God helps those who help themselves.
What the ….? But… Ah! Never mind! Precisely at this moment is when I stop staring at the sky, heave a long sigh and start fiddling with the remote. As is with any other soul on this planet, God don’t answer none’s prayers or questions. Obviously He’s got bigger fish to fry, like taking care of the universe among other things. And I’m cool with that. Throw a few freebies my way once in a while and I’m content living my doggone existence nary a murmur.
Shockingly such altruistic outlook wasn’t a part of my psyche growing up, especially during the “Dark Ages” a.k.a graduate school. “No money. No job. No girlfriend. No nothing” I’d continually scream peppering it with a few choice expletives in my mother tongue, wondering at the end if there was a God and if so what was He doing tuning me out. Screaming sessions that only pumped up in volume when we were drinking, which happened faithfully every weekend, hell or high water.
On one such Saturday night my comrade-in-arms Siva was present helping my drunken kinsmen puke their guts out in the bathroom, clear the pile of pizza boxes etc.
“What the hell are you doing here?” I slurred, having switched to beer after God-knows-how-many rounds of whisky.
“I need to talk to you”
“Why? What did I do?” amazed at having been singled out among ten other not-so-sober oafs.
“Follow me” Yessir!
We found ourselves in the parking lot where without warning Siva launched into a three minute infomercial on the VishnuSahasraNamam prayer group, which gathered every Sunday morning at 7.00am, chanted holy hymns for an hour and then dug into delicious food (which he stressed twice). Not to mention that it’d changed his life and made him look at beer like it were boiling water.
“Wait! Wait! You want me to wake up at 7 and join some old guys mumbling words that I don’t understand?” I started laughing uncontrollably. Almost a minute later I realized I was the one who looked like a darn fool. Siva was staring at me stone cold as if I’d insulted his mother. “You better be there” he left leaving me scratching my head thinking what the #$%^ just went down.
7.00, bhajans, food… Yeah! Like that’s going to happen…
The Lord works in mysterious ways. In my case it was snapping me to attention at 6.15am on Sunday. All the more mysterious since my previous best were nothing later than 1.00pm. You know those mornings when you peek from deep inside the blanket, look at your watch and almost leap in delight because its still wee hours. And that means it gives you a license to waft in your dreams for quite a few more hours before your roommates start to think you’re dead? Yeah well… that wasn’t meant to be. The moment I’d opened that eyelid I knew I was awake like a cricket and alert than a night owl. More tossing and turning would just make me feel more miserable.
“Well… What the #$%^ am I supposed to do now?” I loudly wondered as my gaze shifted to a midsize photo of Lord Balaji (one of our Hindus’ premier Gods) smiling on the wall.
“Surely you’re not…”
“Well… What are you waiting for? A glazed invitation?”
Balaji had answered and now Balaji was dragging me to the bathroom. Thirty minutes later I emerged showered, shorn off my three week scraggy beard and smelling like a bellflower. Looking at me bedecked in a neatly pressed full hand shirt, nice dress pants and gelled hair, any of my roommates would’ve thought whether I’d a hot date. At 6.45am? Speaking of which, my last was three months back with a coed at the university Pizza Hut with yours truly nattily attired in a MasterCard T-shirt, worn out cargo shorts and flip flops. Pursuit of bhakti and Brahmin food can make a man do cartwheels too, I mused to myself.
Apparently I wasn’t the only one making a fashion statement. Siva, the chief instigator looked like my photocopy, except in different colors.
“I thought you weren’t coming” he smirked.
“Keep dreaming! For all of this the food better be good” I shot back, looking down to adjust the folds of my pants. Six months of not wearing proper clothes I felt stiff like a #$%^in’ mannequin!
“Is that Aravind?” Siva suddenly screamed into the silence.
Indeed it was. I couldn’t think of no one else who’d amble down the pavement like a pregnant woman totally lost in thought. Judging by his clothes I concluded that we were now officially “The Three Musketeers” on the quest for some soul stirring Brahmin food. To recite some hymns, of course. God! Let’s not forget that!
Our ride it seemed was someone named Sriram, whom Siva for some inexplicable reason gushed about for the next few minutes. “He’s smart, intelligent, recently graduated, holds a good job, drives a nice car…” Even his dad couldn’t have given him such a glowing character reference. Ten minutes later the object of his affection pulled up in a swank Lexus that made Siva smile even bigger. Now, I’d thought I’d seen my share of weirdoes but this fellow certainly took the cake. No sooner had he stepped out of the car, did he brush past our outstretched hands, point at Aravind’s muffin and shout,
“No eating in my car. Throw that now!”
Poor Aravind looked like he was about to cry. Well… How else were we supposed to get there? We didn’t even own a bicycle between the three of us! With a heavy heart I watched the delectable muffin go down the trash can as we settled tightly in the back seat. Front seat was out of bounds because Sriram felt the tear on the side would only get bigger if someone sat on it. I craned my neck as he spoke and found nothing but a gleaming leather seat with all fibers intact. #$%^in’ liar!
Our destination was someplace in Chandler, a good 30 miles away. Slipping into my Mr. MapQuest modes I started reeling off unsolicited directions to no one in particular. “Go east on Rural Rd. get onto I-10E South on 101…” until Sriram rudely cut me off. “We’ll take Rural Road all the way. We can enjoy the drive better”. Without coffee and muffin? What a first class bitch! Siva was the only one who seemed to hit it off with him. Pretty soon they were singing along to some carnatic music and discussing stocks. Aravind was pretending to fall asleep at right angles, while I, stuck in the middle like a kidnapped teenager bit my nails and wondered how the next three hours were going to pan out…
Chandler’s a classy suburb of Phoenix, but Fair Oaks, our final destination was the crème de la crème. Lush greenery on both sides, million dollar homes lined by trees other than the drab cactus for a change, it looked like we’d driven into a set inside Universal Studios. Finally after what seemed an eternity of driving at 30mph we pulled into a cul-de-sac. Aravind was now wide awake and blurted that he’d never seen so many Hondas and Toyotas in one place. Rightfully so, since there was certainly no showroom in Arizona that could beat this sea of cars.
Now, technically, I’m still a Brahmin, right? And I even have the “poonal” (holy thread) across my torso to back it up. But that’s where the buck stops. Because being a Brahmin in large parts entails the man surrendering himself to God at least once a day reciting holy verses and hymns by rote. As easy as if he were brushing his teeth. Me? Pfft! Somewhere along the way I’d deemed that this were unworthy of my time and stayed away from such congregations too.
“A nervous mind digs itself into deeper s**t”, which only made me recollect in graphic detail that scene from the Tamil movie “Idhu Namma Aalu” I’d watched a few weeks ago, where the hero gets caught in a similar predicament and is exposed in front of some 50 odd people because he couldn’t pronounce a goddamn word. I pulled Aravind aside and confessed,
“Dude! I feel like Bhagyaraj. Help me!” expecting some reassurance that everything would be ok.
“Hahaha! I feel the same too. We’re screwed”
That’s it! My insides were now a colony of butterflies as we were led into the palatial mansion that was Mr. Srinivasan’s. Aravind and I stuck together like Siamese twins determined that if either were kicked out it’d be as a pair.
“Would you like a tour of the house?” he volunteered.
“Yeah! Sure” realizing that refusal wasn’t an option.
We were then introduced to an enormous living room where the Brahmin humanity had gathered, a scrumptious kitchen overflowing with stocked vessels which only confirmed the feast that lay waiting, three huge bedrooms, an exercise room and an assortment of items that until then I never realized existed in a household. I mean, at some point I stopped saying “Wow!” since such a setup I knew I’d never get myself even in my wildest dreams. A few minutes later we were back to where we started and Mr. Srinivasan had discreetly moved onto another group to boast about his baby. Almost immediately we were poached upon by a Mr. Ramanujan, a portly bespectacled man wearing traditional attire including a thick long red tilak on his forehead. An Iyengar, implies a more orthodox Brahmin. Perhaps obnoxious would’ve been a more appropriate adjective. Uncalled for, he launched into a tirade on the US foreign policy, recession, the inevitable malaises troubling India and what we ought to be doing to fix them. Emphasizing (twice) at last that his son Arun was a process design engineer at Intel and that we should get to know him better. Why? Because I was looking for someone to date? Thanks to Ramanujan’s bad oration he’d made Sriram (our driver) look like a saint.
Unable to take it any longer, we excused ourselves to look for Siva who seemed to have conveniently forgotten us the moment we’d reached there. Aravind spotted him amidst a crowd of 40somethings laughing and backslapping.
“He’s been here for just a month and already he’s acting like a Senator hobnobbing for votes!” he hissed.
I couldn’t agree more. For what it was worth, this meet-and-greet before the main event had actually served to calm my nerves. I wasn’t under the spotlight; no one was here to judge me. Just a bunch of folks who’d gathered to pray to God and fill their stomachs afterwards. Too bad most of them were characters way out of my wavelength. Half expectantly I scanned the room again hoping to see a cute Brahmin chick trapped by a garrulous old crank,
Excuse me sir. Can I borrow her for a moment?
Hey! I figured you needed to be rescued before he swallowed you…
but found none. Save for a fair aunty who showed more skin than was necessary this place was drier than the rocks. Oh well!
Clock struck 8 pulling me out of my reverie. The crowd shifted to the center of the living room where a huge cloth mat was spread out. Someone handed out prayer books. Me and Aravind grabbed one each and slyly made our way to the last row. Backbenchers in class. Backbenchers in VishnuSahasraNamam.
“This is in English. It’s so easy!” we exclaimed as we flipped through the pages and high-fived each other gleefully. It’s just like one of the prayer sessions we had in school, except this time we really have to say something, clarified Aravind. Right on the money again. The Grand Master stood up, chanted “Om” three times in a booming voice and the train had now left the station…
What followed for the next 60 minutes was purely transcendental. Say what you want, but VishnuSahasraNamam has that effect on people. Atheists, agnostics and believers alike. Every verse talked about Lord Vishnu and/or his army, espoused his powers and qualities and I had to agree that as the moments passed I was intrigued even more. Of course, the English prose made it almost child’s play. I couldn’t decipher Sanskrit or read Tamil fast too for that matter. So instead of fumbling the ball like a sacked quarterback I was soaking up every bit of along with my brethren.
This wasn’t like taking in a music lesson. No alternating low and high pitches; no octaves to be concerned about. Just a single monotonous tone ideally suited to bring out the profound meaning of those words and engulf you in warmth and goodwill. Why am I still gushing about this? Well… Let’s see… Not even a single second did I think about food, girls, cricket, glance at my watch to see when it would end or peep across the room to see who was faking it. Stuff I’d gladly done in my teens with no guilt whatsoever.
Overall I’d give myself a 7/10. For sincerity, effort and commitment. It was the execution that left a little to be desired. Like when a verse had to be repeated twice or thrice and I blissfully skipped to the next one sticking out like a sore thumb. Next time I’ll be better, I promised myself.
This entire exercise ran like clockwork, I understood. Right on the hour, the Grand Master rose, recited a prayer by himself and then thanked everyone for a fulfilling session. Myself and Aravind were still caught up in the trance and we readily agreed that we could’ve endured another of Mr. Ramanujan’s rehearsed speeches without feeling the need to stick a knife through him. VishnuSahasraNamam imparted patience too.
And now to the next and most important order of business. Food! And copious quantities of it. Laying hands on it required a certain amount of skill since you didn’t want to look like famine stricken famished blokes who were there just for that sake. Which is where, I thought the wily fox Siva earned his paycheck. Swiftly emerging from the huddle he deftly made his way to the tables and began by distributing plates and spoons to the queue. In a few minutes he was the “good cop” mingling with the aunties, serving multiple dishes at the same time and enquiring everyone how they were doing and if they’d prayed well. Oh please! An old lady walked by us with her plate stuffed with friend potato curry and avial and I wanted to abandon all decency, jump the line and make a beeline to the tables. Actually, that was Aravind. I stopped him at the last minute in a rare moment of reasoning. VishnuSahasraNamam imparted restraint too. Perhaps in an answer to our prayers, Siva flashed a huge grin at us with a twinkle in his eyes. Guy code for “Don’t worry. You’re taken care of”. Next thing we know we were ushered into the kitchen where we were handed metal plates and cutlery and staring at the delicious buffet…
(Morgan Freeman voiceover)
The three of us stood there serenely admiring the spread before we dug into it like kings after a conquest. I don’t know if it was the aroma, spices or whatever but food tasted pretty darn good that day. Maybe because we’d fought for and won every morsel of it. There comes a moment in a man’s life that enriches and uplifts him in every sense of the word. If ever there was one in mine, this was it. For all you heathens that think this is the same as gathering some families for an afternoon potluck, here’s some unsolicited advice. No. Not in a million lifetimes. I have a better idea. Go find yourself a VeesshnuSahaa….Namaam prayer group nearby. Nothing like God to crank the taste up a notch. May the forces be with you…
All right! That was no Morgan Freeman à la Shawshank Redemption. But you catch my drift, right?
Atmarajan A.
