CHAPTER 7

LEARNING TO MEDITATE AMID CHAOS

Daily rituals serve to remind us to start
participating in life.

Each day a billion Indians, from poor farmers to Bombay billionaires, rise in the morning and awaken to complicated, chaotic lives. Before they leave their homes, however, they undertake a ritual that has been practiced for generations before them and will likely be followed by those who come after. They fold their hands in prayer, yielding their lives to the universe. Doing so is a recognition that much of their lives is not determined by their own will but by a force greater than themselves.

For many Indians, the day’s travels will also take them to an Indian temple. Indians do not banish chaos at the doors of most holy places—actually, in a sense, they expect it. There is so much confusion at an Indian temple. So many gods. So many people doing different things. Take off your shoes. Wash your hands. Ring the bell. Spill this water over this particular statue. Put a flower on the feet of that statue. The divine fragrance of incense intoxicates the mind while the ears take in the sounds of a schoolgirl’s whispered prayers and the ringing bells indicating that another worshipper has entered in search of solace.

Bells, incense—it’s all so much, so confusing. There’s so much noise that you can’t meditate. You can’t think straight. All the random thoughts about tomorrow that you entered with are drowned out by the noise, the smells, and the visual assortment. So many senses are being evoked that there’s no room for contemplative prayer.

Even the pandits don’t give you time to think. Instead, they make you move.

Amid all the confusion and these complicated methods of reaching God, however, you are forced to stop thinking about the bills, the problems at work, or the uncertain future that is yet to materialize. Instead, you are encouraged to start participating. You move your hands, sing, say verses in ancient Sanskrit, which you don’t understand.

Move your feet. Ring a bell. Throw flowers. Pour milk. Fold your hands. Say “Om.”

You can’t think. You do.

And that’s the point. It’s moving meditation.

I’ve realized that Indian temples are not there to provide the teachings of God so that you have the answers to all the questions in your life. They serve a more practical purpose, as a reminder that, just as your heart is moving and brings life beat by beat, you are living by actively doing. Living in the present moment is the path to the divinity all around you. While you are pursuing, chasing, walking, running, breathing, working, and engaging, you have a life worth living, right here and right now.

Stop at almost any traffic light in India and you can’t help noticing the bells ringing from the Hindu temples scattered everywhere. On major roads, in the middle of village cornfields, in back streets, and everywhere in between, Hindu temples delight the senses even as they offer a rich architectural offering to the gods.

In the New Jersey suburbs of the 1980s, there was only one Hindu temple nearby, and I had been there many times while growing up, mainly because of my mom’s deep religious beliefs. Every Tuesday—and occasionally Saturday or Sunday—became our family’s time to reconnect with our creator and the small number of Indian families making their way in America. Familiarity with a Hindu temple in the United States, however, didn’t prepare me adequately for visiting one in India.

One morning in New Delhi, slowly recovering from jet lag, I rose from my bed really early. From the small window of my cousin’s house, I looked out at the cows freely roaming the back street, looking for breakfast in the heaps of garbage spread everywhere. I also noticed a number of scooters beginning to fill the crowded area of what looked like the parking lot of the local Hindu temple.

I had been in India for a few days and the cold in the house was getting to me. How can they have no heaters in the house? What’s the deal with this thin little blanket? I felt angry about everything that seemed out of place. Why is this here? Why is that over there? I just wanted to check into a hotel to find some comfort in a predictable and seemingly safe place where things would be as I wanted them to be.

I had left my wife and kids back home and was feeling a bit guilty for coming out to attend another wedding. There also were changes happening at work, and I felt that if I wasn’t in the office I was missing out on something important. In fact, anxiety about the future of my job, the company, and the economic environment had disturbed my sleep more than the jet lag. I had a brain freeze and couldn’t figure the future out, and I was feeling as if I really didn’t need to be in India because I was spending so much time thinking about what was going on back home.

Partly because I needed to get some “fresh” air and partly because I was curious about the scooters at the temple, I decided to get out and see why so many people were gathering so early on a Tuesday morning. I walked over, hoping to find someone getting married or someone announcing the birth of a child. Or perhaps, in some subconscious way, I was trying to reach out to God to help me with my own problems. Couldn’t hurt, right?

Nothing special was going on that day. No wedding, no funeral. It was a typical Tuesday morning, when lots of worshippers drop in before heading to work, opening their shops, or going to the market.

As I approached the temple, I noticed an older woman using a broom with intense calm to clean the dirt outside. I questioned her progress, because she only moved the dirt from one spot to another. I thought she must be in meditation. Temples in India are really old, always reminding the worshiper that no matter how strong or divine you think you are, you eventually turn to dust.

As I approached the temple, I noticed a collage of shoes littered in front of the entrance, along with a nearby tap used for hand washing. You take off your shoes before entering the temple, and if you use your hands to untie your laces, you must then wash your hands to rinse off the dirt you may have picked up. It’s not a precise custom, given the shortage of water in many places throughout India, but the goal is to purify your hands before you touch God.

Inside the temple, I got in some sort of line and did as others do when entering a temple: I rang the bell hanging above me as loud as I could. I always thought it was sort of strange to have such a loud sound at a place where you’re supposed to be in prayer.

Walking barefoot onto the cold, wet floor of a local temple brought me to the same level as all the other worshippers seeking answers, strength, and a little help. Man, that floor is cold!

Inside the small temple, there was so much to see that my eyes couldn’t really focus on one thing. Many statues of different gods, some small and some large, were placed throughout, with no order. Ganesha with his elephant trunk. Shiva with his blue skin and the famous snake around his neck. The couple Rama and Sita with their monkey-man follower. And God in his own right, Hanuman.

A handful of pandits helped the early-morning worshippers perform prayers of gratitude and requests for prosperity. I observed with keen interest the performance of a man in his forties. He was a little overweight and his graying hair was dyed with henna, which gave him an auburn look. He was with his mother, and it looked as if they might be there to mark the anniversary of the passing of his father, a common Indian practice. The pandit, comfortably seated with his back to the statue of God, was guiding the man and his mother through their rituals.

Another, younger man was there with his mother and father, getting a bit of divine boost for an exam that day. A young woman, her sister, and her mother were perhaps praying for an early wedding. From policemen to businesspeople to teachers and retired civil servants, the temple was filled with worshippers who folded their hands in humility and hope.

Then the pandit turned to me and started to walk me through the rituals, which I originally had no intention of performing. But something inside me just went with it in the hopes that it might help.

Take the marigold flower and break off a piece and put it in front of Ganesha.

Take the holy water from this small bottle brought all the way from the Ganges and pour it over this statue.

Hold this diya (candle) and move it around this way.

Touch the feet of this statue of God and say the following words in Sanskrit.

The pandit lit incense and moved around the statue, then he moved over to me to give me the fragrance while I held my hands in prayer.

Take milk and pour it over a stone in the center of another statue, called the shivling.

The pandit finished his task by putting a red powdered bindi (dot) on my forehead and grabbing my right hand to tie a red thread around my wrist.

By the time he was finished, I was in total confusion. But I went with the flow and did what the pandit told me to do.

My reward was a round, sweet, butter-filled pastry called prashad. Like most sweet things in India, it is really, really sweet, and I loved it.

I wasn’t sure what else to do, so I walked out of the temple and started putting on my shoes, feeling that the dirt on my mind had been washed away, along with my troubles.

As I began to walk back to the house, my shoulders felt less heavy and my neck was less stiff. Each step I took gave me a little more momentum. The warmth of the winter sun was so inviting that I lifted my face to the sky, taking it in deeply. It seemed to shine in all its glory, bathing the cows that lay about, carefree, probably after finding their morning meal delivered by one of the worshippers coming out of the temple.

My breath was slow and deep and I could feel the presence of all the things around me, as if the earth’s rotation had slowed just for me. I heard a dog bark at a cow for stealing his sitting spot. The tiny bells on the rickshaw passing by seemed to be chiming in unison with the beating of my heart. My feelings no longer asleep, I felt each moment. Everything was so clear, and the loneliness of the troubles kicking around in my mind folded into the step, bell, and movement of a greater purpose yet to be revealed.

Going through the motions forced upon me by the pandit had made my mind stop overthinking about the future and had helped to kick-start movement in my feet, turning it into motion and ultimately momentum. Looking down at the red thread on my wrist, I couldn’t help but smile, and I found a certain rhythmic spring in my step, in harmony with the locals around me as I kept walking forward.