Festival of Lights

I’ve only ever imagined war zones, but I am hearing what I can only imagine one sounds like. Massive booms, crackling pops, epic blasts. The night air rattles with a constant crash. It’s Diwali (Dee-vaal-ee), the Hindu festival of light. And do they ever know how to do light. Without the restrictions of government, all order of fireworks are available to the everyman, who spends four nights using the street as his personal launch pad for flare. The festival explodes with excitement.

But it is the end of a long day, the last and most celebrated of Diwali. It started in Aundh, a booming neighborhood west of downtown.

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My second Diwali trounced my first one – and my first was really good. Recently, arrived in Mumbai from DC I woke up and took off for the island of Elefanta. The atoll houses ancient temples carved directly from the island rock. A beautiful spectacle evoked in me some awe, adventure and archeology. Indiana Jones fantasies. After exploring the island, I hopped the boat ride back. As the sun faded behind the Mumbai haze and night took over, a blast of fireworks roared over the city. An absolute magnificence.

This morning started different. No jet lag and in Pune, not Mumbai. After meeting her a month ago in Panchgani, we had arranged to take the crew to meet Sister Lucy, a nun working with orphans and destitute women around Maharashtra. We piled back into a Sumo and cruised across Pune to find her there.

We lost our way on the country roads and ambled by village and bullock-cart in search of Maher, Hindi for “Mother’s Home”. When we finally arrived, a group of women and children in holiday best, lined up to welcome us. Custom in India says that “Guest is God” and we undeservedly (at least in my eyes) incurred the loving the warmth of the souls being cared for by Sister Lucy and her gang. They were not an easy crowd to love or look at. They were mentally disturbed women, exiled from their homes and considered to be carrying demon spirits. Most had been tossed out on the street by husbands or families who considered their mental problem shameful. Other has been victims of domestic violence. The children were mostly street children, taken from busy Pune intersections and given a new chance to live in the village compound.

I walked down the sari-lined path to the main building on the campus. They showered rice on me and one lady gave me a fresh-made garland of marigold flowers and betel leaves. Bedazzled by the event, I focused carefully on each woman I passed, many just reaching out their hands to me to say hello and wish me “Happy Diwali”. I devoted energy into each “namaste” with an affection I don’t ever recall. I felt to trust each utterance as the only thing I might be able to do for these women in my life and I honored the responsibility with full heart. When the procession concluded, I walked in to spend more time with the residents there.

The story of Sister Lucy deserves more attention and I hope to give it some later on. My days in India will be filled with stories of incredible people who change society for the better, sometimes on mere faith alone. She started her work with 20 rupees (fiddy cent) and now runs 19 rehabilitation homes and vocational training centers. It’s an inspiring and challenging story.

After meals we left to celebrate Diwali with presents and treats in a nearby slum, a short visit in the heat of day to offer something to the kids there. We then passed through the dusty outskirt street to arrive in the first home of Maher where we briefly surveyed the home that started it all. But I was restless and tired, cooked from the heat, I couldn’t take it anymore and left the hall to see the kids playing outside. We made quick friends and after trying my hand at some Maher version of tennis (played with two pink rackets and a hollow plastic ball) I was invited for the most important of all games in India: Cricket.

I liken my Diwali cricket experience to playing football on Thanksgiving Day. It’s more than a game, its tradition.

As a sports enthusiast, I’ve tried my hand at almost every sport and found success with some (baseball, soccer, wiffle ball, bocce [yes, that’s a jab at Papa and Dad]), little with others (basketball, wrestling, swimming) and for some the verdict is still out. Cricket fits in the last category. It should match up well with the old baseball skills, but with the ball bouncing and the game often defensive minded, well, I do what I can.

Despite my warnings, the captain picked me first calling “Uncle!” loudly to razz his rival. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that he had picked the guy with the most power, but the least accuracy. No matter, they handed me the bat and set me to the stump to give a go. The bowler, an Indian bloke of similar age stared me down. His spin bowling didn’t hold up on the surface and I sent his first offering for a six, which is the equivalent of a homerun. This had never happened before. Usually, I just miss everything and make an out right away. Instead, I launched this ball (the way I used to swat tennis balls in Princeton Oaks straight out of the tennis court with my tennis racquet and shout “home run!”). My young teammates, all 10 and under, went wild, the way one does when Uncle scores big. Confused at my own feat, I slapped their hands and returned to the stump. My glory would be short-lived however, as I bounced out on the next bowl. But by that point I had already won their loving approval and I basked in the joyous ritual that is village boy cricket. It’s the purest sporting event on the planet.

The dinner bell rang and we transported back to the main site. I carried my 6-year old teammate who’s bum toe disabled him in the latter half of the tie. Our good spirits arrived to offer the Pooja to Laxmi, the goddess of wealth. We lit lamps and placed about 50 in the dining hall before we read scriptures. Sister Lucy does not seek to convert her patrons and she welcomes all religions to be practiced in her houses, despite her vow to Catholicism. It’s a beautiful freedom she has and many were moved by the reading from Gita, Bible, Koran and Buddha’s teachings.

At somepoint, the post-sunset light hung glorious blues and yellow in the sky and my bare feet walked along the tiled terrace while I carried a bowl of soup. The dry air coupled with the perfect evening temperatures reminiscent of southern California in the late summer. Basking in glory, I smiled knowing full well that I had stumbled upon another one of those moments when life feels full beyond measure.

After dinner, the whole event went to romper room. We danced and played and sang with everyone present. A huge Diwali party. When dark fully set in the fireworks began and sent us home on our way. My heart went out for them. A couple cried as we left, including my main mate from the cricket ground. Orphaned, he struggles with abandonment and I could do little to console him, knowing I couldn’t fulfill any promises I might want to make. We embraced and I got in the Sumo, struggling with the moment.

The drive home memorized. Rolling through the crowded streets seemingly exploding on their own. Massive blasts pummeled the side of the jeep with thunderous bolts of sound while light filled the sky in epic fluorescent explosions. Our packed jeep seemed to be running the gauntlet of Diwali. I lapped up my view from the front seat, watching as it all unfolded in front of me.

Diwali: the festival of lights. The celebration of light overtaking darkness.

Indian Road Trip

Panchgani slowly disappears into the rearview. The Hindi radio station drops a road trip beat in the background and the Sumo creeps down the mountain announcing our descent by horn. With dusk an hour off, we’ve captured my favorite time to drive to a new destination. The Maharashtran sunset serenading a soundtrack for our evening expedition.

For the first two months of my time in India I’ve spent most of my weeks in Panchgani, a small hill station in the Deccan. Even there, I’ve taken most of my days at Asia Plateau, the conference centre that hosts AfL. But with a month of the program behind us, the time had full come for some serious time away from the mountain. I couldn’t be more ready for a road trip.

It would be hard to describe to you my sense of freedom, flying down the hill towards the valley. A full release that only the road can offer. I chat with my friend Nigel as we survey the countryside. Smoke from the sheathed sugar cane stalks, burning in the fields rises skyward. A pack of goats bob along the road in front of their goatherd. We speed by a man on a bicycle stacked with gas cylinders. A group of men swap stories in the paan shop. Children grip their mother’s hands tightly amidst the confusion of the Indian traffic system on the way to the highway from the provencial town of Wai.

We stop at a toll booth and attract the attention of a number of hawkers in the queue. Grilled corn, dried nuts and fruits, even mango and cucumber spiced with masala. Its available. Despite the tempting treats, we pay a toll and steam on, The interstate allows us to increase speed and we bolt north to the metropolis. Pune, our destination, boasts almost 4 million in population and is one of the fastest growing cities in India. Unlike Bangalore, one of its main competitors in the south, Pune’s leadership has developed the 7th biggest city in the country into a crowded but fairly well run boomtown.
Night falls and we make a switch just on the outskirts of our city. My aforementioned guru, Prabhakar trades his carload of people into our truck. He will head off to see his family while we head in to meet some friends in town. Unsurprisingly, the exchange takes longer than usual, but we manage and pile in, now an India-comfortable nine of us in the truck. Passing the outer neighborhoods, we begin our circle along the south border of the city and eventually trade the dry flats of the country for the tall trees of Aundh, a well-established neighborhood on West side.

Patting our friendly driver Pradeep on the back, we ascend the steps of the non-descript apartment building. The night air cool and noticeably crisp for the packed city. Noise begins to fill it. We’ve arrived for the Diwali festival. The Hindu festival of lights. Fricrackers shatter the silence and fireworks shower the sky in color. A month removed from the spectacle of Ganpati, India still swaggers in the festival season. Up the stairs our friendly host welcomes us in. A giant hot pot of chicken biryani waits to fill our hungry stomach. We sit down to commence our feast and welcome in the first night of our week in the city.

Gift

It’s nice to live in a community. I’m around a strange and wonderful collection of people ranging from a 66-year old Zambian to a 20-year old Fijian. On Saturday I sat under the starry Maharashtran sky by a fire with the men. It flowed with the soul-feeding spirit that arrives when sharing stories about families, fathers and the often hilarious stories that accompany one’s own coming-of-age.

I told one of my favorite stories. The time when I received a gift that changed my life.

The September of my senior year in high school, my parents and I rolled up the Delaware River on Route 29 for a reason I can’t recall, perhaps a Grandparent visit or something like that. The fall air still a couple weeks off, we strolled through the relaxed town of Lambertville on our way across the bridge to New Hope.

Along the way I spotted a music shop and pressed my father to come upstairs with me to check out the guitar selection. My interest in guitar had just reached its first peak. I’d recently played my first songs in front of audiences and even had won some money with my friend Jeff at a WWPHS showcase. An early love of James Taylor’s style had turned into a study of Ben Harper and Dave Matthews and I’d been prepping my chops along with attending as many concerts as possible. When we walked into the music store, my eyes leapt at the lines of finely crafted maple, rosewood and alder.

I carefully surveyed the racks, taking in each guitar before coming across a line of Takamine acoustics. I skipped past the simpler models until I gasped at a pure beauty. Like a Van Gogh hanging on the gallery wall, the guitar reflected the warmth of my eyes, radiating in the presence of something wonderful. I gripped it. The gorgeous cutaway, the deep brown neck, the pearl inlay, top-end pre-amp and smooth action. A pick and a few strums and I melted away in 17-year old dream of music.

In my own world, I can only assume that my father watched me with interest, more interested in my renewed passion for music than anything else in the store. After a few minutes, he broke my hypnosis.

“She’s a beauty.”
“Yeah,” I gushed. “This is my dream guitar.”
“How much is it?”
“A lot,” I replied with a sigh and hung the guitar back up, taking the time to look a the price tag. Way over budget. Alarmingly over budget. The kind of price you might attach to “dream guitar”. But I had known it already and I walked away from it knowing that I would have to be content with keeping it my dreams and strumming on my trustworthy Washburn.

We walked out of the store and cruised to Pennsylvania.

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Four months later I walked downstairs in early morning anticipation. Manheim Steamroller backing my steps. Turning the corner I collapsed, unable to draw the line between dream time and real time. I recovered to walk over and tough what I had seen. The guitar backed by pine and needles and basking in the gentle glow of Christmas tree lights.

Image of Quiet

In a session this morning, I was asked to find a photo that would help me to define my understanding of morning quiet -- a daily space prayer and reflection.

This is the photo I selected


At Davidson, Dr. Mahony once explained the Hindu concept of God as an ocean – one body of water made of many drops. The Christian faith often refers to God as light. For me, these images collided in college, as I moved to the beach and learned about Atman all the while listening to “No Doy” by moe. and often signing my emails using a quote from “St. Augustine”: God is Light. Light is Good. Yeah, God is Good.

Those images have stayed with me, providing an unending terrain to explore.

This summer I reached a new conclusion about the interplay of light and water. Together they create one of the most beautiful sights in the world. A gold-orange sun blazing down a lazy river. The mid-afternoon light blasting the sea. A lone streetlamp enlightening an Amsterdam canal in the evening. When light touches water, words cannot describe the million infinities therein.

I’ve grown to believe that God exists in the space where light and water mix.

The fisherman in the photo uses his net to catch fish. This one seeks to catch light on water. That light-water shines like the bright spirit of truth. If you look closely and in the right way, it even looks like he has some in his net.

A fishermen doesn’t always catch his inspiration. But, also like fishermen, practice increases the chances of catching a fish. The more one tries, the more likely one is to land a beaut.

The fish (the truth of light on water) itself can be taken as nourishment, shared with others or simply admired for its beauty and then released.

The fisherman inspires me this morning.

Note: After looking at the photo for some time I noticed, at last, that the boy wears a key around his neck. I’m looking to tie the metaphor together with that symbol. I don’t have it yet. Let me know if you do.