tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17192971614377849592023-07-14T03:59:13.192-07:00Writings from the Banks of Mother GangaWritings of an American sanyasi on the banks of the Ganges river -- Reflections on a wide variety of aspects of life and spiritualitySadhvi Bhagawati Saraswatihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04720603185087768750noreply@blogger.comBlogger19125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1719297161437784959.post-5273201049493232902013-06-20T21:44:00.000-07:002013-06-20T21:57:49.140-07:00Bhaav (devotion) to Bhaya (fear): Living in the Shelter and at the Mercy of Mother Ganga<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">The rains
began as we sang the Hanuman Chalisa. Typically if it’s raining prior to the
aarti, we set up under the overhead awning. However, on the 16<sup>th</sup>
June, the skies were clear in the afternoon after morning showers, and the rain
resumed only once we had all gathered on Ganga’s banks to sing Her glories and meditate
next to Her waters. <i>“Jai Jai Jai Hanuman gosahin…kripa karaho gurudeva ki nyahin</i>”…The
rain came down in sheets as we clapped and sang euphorically. Pujya Swamiji’s
eyes were closed and He led the chanting in ecstasy. It was as though we were
being bathed from all sides by Mother Ganga.
She flowed below us and next to us, in Her riverbed, and rained upon us
as Akaash Ganga from Heaven. “<i>Gange Ma,
Gange Ma, Gange ma</i>,” we clapped and sang, moving in an out of a rapturous
trance. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Post Aarti
we returned to the ashram, soaked from the inside out with gratitude, love and
devotion. The monsoons had started, slightly early even, bringing the nectar of
rain to parched soil, parched mouths and parched spirits.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">All evening the
water rose and rose, and Akaash Ganga bestowed Her copious blessings upon us. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">The next
morning, we awoke to the unique and precious smell of Indian soil saturated by
rain. I remember from my first days in India, noticing that the rain smelled
here. There is an intoxicating fragrance of cool Himalayan showers upon hot
Himalayan earth, that is so rich it inevitably pulls me out of my chair or off
the floor to the nearest doorway where I can inhale its scent. I have found myself,
year after year, fixed in doorways, half in and half out of the rain, filling
my airways with this ambrosial nectar.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">On the
morning of the 17<sup>th</sup> June, the delicious fragrance filled the ashram;
yet upon catching a glimpse of Mother Ganga I realized this was not just any
rain storm. Within 24 hours the water level had risen more than fifteen feet and
showed no signs of ceasing. Excitement, exuberance and awe filled my heart as I
went out to offer my morning prayers to Ganga. Kneeling on wet marble as the
rain bathed me from above, I lay my forehead upon the ghat and offered my usual
prayer: “<i>Oh Ma Ganga, wash through me,
flow through me, cleanse me of anything and everything that is impure, that is
not conducive to a life lived on Your banks, in Your seva. Wash over me, under
me, around me and through me. Hold me in your waters forever.</i>” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Raising my
head from the wet marble, I turned and walked up the ashram steps and into my
office, as I’ve done every morning for nearly 2 decades. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">“<i>Ganga is rising, Ganga is rising</i>” was
the ubiquitous chant all day in the ashram, but it was still filled with joy,
reverence and awe. <i>“Mother Ganga is filling and filling.”</i> Our hearts pounded with excitement
and devotion. Her glories, Her grandeur,
Her divinity were filling more and more of the river bed, and more of and more
of our hearts, our minds and our beings. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Evening
aarti had to take place, for the first time ever, in the street next to the
ghat. Ganga’s waters had risen up onto the top of the ghat, and we’d locked the
gates to ensure no one wandered dangerously close. Hands folded in prayer, we
performed aarti to Her now raging glory as She paid no heed to anything that
thwarted Her flow -- trees, cars, buildings – the animate, the inanimate, the
large, the small. She carried it all in
Her waters, seizing the “aviral” flow environmentalists
had been demanding. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">No conference, no
meeting, no agreement, no <i>anshan</i>,
contract or commission could now deprive Her of Her right to flow, and overflow,
through Her natural river bed, tearing by the root and the foundation anything
that stood in Her way. All the signs and
symbols of our “progress,” of man’s triumph over nature – the highways, the
cars, the trucks, the buildings precariously defiant on mountain top ledges –
with one wave of Her hand, the illusion was shattered, and the Truth of Nature’s
power was laid bare, undeniable, non-negotiable, for all to behold and mourn. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">As the sun
set beyond Mother Ganga’s turbulent waters, Her waves crashing now like a storm
at sea, a moment arose in which the surge of <i>bhaav (devotion)</i> -- rising, rising, rising, <i>bhaav</i> -- reached its peak and was transformed, almost
imperceptibly, into a swell of <i>bhaya</i>
(fear). <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 1.0cm;">
<i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">“Oh Ma Ganga</span></i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">,” hearts now beating rapidly in
apprehension rather than awe, voices trembling with more fear than faith, we
prayed: “<i>Please calm Your tumultuous flow. Please return to your normal level
and normal path. Please allow us to hold on, for a brief time more, to our
illusion of living in control of nature. Permit us please, oh Mother Ganga, to
hold onto our delusion of invincibility, our megalomania, our blind race for
development. Please Mother Ganga, allow the curtain of illusion to once again
drop over our eyes so that we may not be forced to see, to realize and
recognize Your True nature as a river with rights, as a Goddess who will -- as a
last resort -- wrest those rights from the hands Her captors.”</i> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 1.0cm;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 1.0cm;">
<i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">“Mother Ganga, the
giver of life, the giver of liberation, whom we have abused, used, disregarded,
neglected and turned into a commodity in the name of progress and development, please
have mercy upon us, your children who have promised time and again to protect
you and preserve you, and yet who time and again have neglected to do so.” <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 1.0cm;">
<i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">But, our chances
had been used up. Year after year in different ways, Ganga had tried to warn us
– first Uttarakashi, then Rudra Prayag, year after year breaking bridges, overflowing
banks, demolishing buildings, roads and lives. Voiceless, She had used every means in Her
hands to warn us, to make us understand.
Yet, blinded by our own agenda, foolish in our wisdom-less knowledge, reckless and deluded,
we ignored Her message. We have deforested Her hillsides, blasted Her
fragile, young, soft mountains with dynamite, encroached further and further
upon Her banks, dammed and diverted Her flow, dragged Her helpless tributaries
out of their natural beds into steel tunnels, built non-porous structures in
the riverbed, impeding the natural flow of water, polluted the air, causing
excess heat and carbon dioxide to melt Her glaciers. We have pushed Her, pulled her, taunted Her
and tried to tame Her. We have used her, abused Her and then, as though
redemption were so simple, taken our token dupkis (baths/dips) in Her water during
auspicious positions of the planets and moon.
“<i>Jai Gange</i>” we chant as we bob
in and out of Her waters, feeling redeemed of our sins against She to whom we
turn for liberation, redemption, and purity. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Unfortunately
the laws of the <i>Shristi</i> (creation) are
not so simple. Yes, Ganga is a Goddess. Yes, Ganga is the Mother. But the divine
Creator has laid down laws of nature for the Creation – divine, mortal, tangible,
intangible, organic and inorganic – to follow. One may chant “He Bhagawan” or “Jai
Hanuman” or pray to “Vayu devta” as one jumps off the top of a tall building,
but one’s body will still plummet to the ground, for the law of gravity is non-negotiable. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Whatever name we use for the Divine, He/She
is, of course, omnipotent and infinite. Yet, God has created laws of nature
which do not bend. These laws were not
meant to punish us. Rather, in His infinite compassion and love, God created
these laws to nurture and nourish us. The
falling leaves of autumn, packed under the snow of winter create the fertile soil
for spring’s blossoms. Each aspect of nature has its purpose, its life-giving properties.
There is a reason we say “Mother Nature.” Nature provides for us, creates us and
sustains us as a divine mother….but, in accordance with her own laws. If we, defiantly
and with blatant disregard, disobey these laws, we will reap the consequences.
A good man, a well-intentioned man, a pious man, will plummet to earth as fast
as a villain if they jump together off the Empire State building. The laws of
nature apply equally to all –the pious and the profane. Singing Ganga’s glories or taking dupkis in
Her waters on auspicious occasions does not render us immune to the laws of
Mother Nature. That which we sow, so
shall we reap. If we sow unchecked and illegal construction, vision-less
development, deceptive politics and pockets lined with commissions….if we sow consumerism
as the highest good, we shall reap the fruits of destruction and devastation. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Fortunately,
Mother Ganga and Mother Nature are forgiving. Eventually, over the next several
months, the rains will dissipate, the flood waters will recede, the final rites
will be performed for those who have perished, the soaked soil which has rushed
hundreds or thousands of meters downstream will dry and some semblance of
normalcy will return to the Char Dham valleys. That is our chance. Perhaps our
last chance. When we make plans for the reconstruction, restoration and
rehabilitation of the Uttarakahand mountain villages, what vision of
development will we use? What natural laws will we obey? Which will we defy?
What seeds for the future will we sow?
Today we are eating the very bitter fruit of the seeds we’ve planted for
the last few decades. What seeds will we
plant today for the fruit of tomorrow?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
</div>
Sadhvi Bhagawati Saraswatihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04720603185087768750noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1719297161437784959.post-41793594623108600282013-05-04T02:41:00.000-07:002013-05-04T02:53:52.960-07:00The Call of the Sacred Snan – Kumbha Mela<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="text-align: left;">Kumbha Mela is, according to spiritual history and culture,
the celebration of the nectar of immortality.
Tens of millions of pilgrims flock from every corner of Earth to come
spend days or weeks or even nearly two months living in the sacred riverbed of
the Ganga, Yamuna and Saraswati.
Satsang, darshan and discourses with revered saints, naked naga babas,
renowned gurus of every sampradhaya are bonuses. That which reaches inside their hearts, grabs
hold of them across the globe and pulls them hundreds or thousands of miles
from their home to this makeshift tent city is the call of the snan, a bath in
the holy Sangam of the sacred triveni, a bath in the nectar of immortality.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
Spiritual history and literature tell us that if one is to
have a bath at the auspicious time of perfect planetary alignment, if the
planets, sun and moon are aligned as they were when drops of sacred amrit
spilled upon the Earth, then one may attain the boon of immortality. It was this boon for which the forces of
good and the forces of evil churned the ocean, and the resulting amrit is what
spilled upon the Earth in the four Kumbha locations – Allahabad, Haridwar,
Nasik and Ujjain. However, no one simply
believes that a bath in the confluence of rivers will keep the cells of their
body from dying and sloughing or will maintain their physical beings eternally
and exempt them from the laws of nature. <br />
<br />
Rather, that sacred gift, that boon of
immortality for which we long, seek and flock, is to connect – even momentarily
– with the true nature of the Self, to catch even a glimpse of the real, divine
and eternal nature of one’s own being.
In the holy land of the Kumbha, in the presence of enlightened masters
and devoted pilgrims, having walked away from our lives of comfort and
convenience, at the appointed hour, under a moon which is full or new or
somewhere in between, if we immerse not only our bodies but our very selves in
that rushing water, we receive a priceless gift. We are given an experience, an awareness and a
knowing of the truth of who we are. We
experience our own immortality. Our
scriptures, commentaries and inspirational literature tell us that we are not
our bodies; our gurus remind us; we may know on some level. However, to believe something and to
experience it are two different phenomena.
The Kumbha provides the true experience and deep awareness that stay
with us forever, changing the very nature of who we think we are, how we live
and how we relate in the world. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
This experience is what so many foreigners come to India in search
of, and which many find, even at times and places other than the Kumbha. In many ways, the Kumbha is the distillation
and crystallization of India. That
which you experience in India, you experience in a concentrated form at the
Kumbha! It is, in my opinion, simultaneously, the worst and the best of India.
Kumbha embodies and epitomizes the pervasive sense of the sacred which one
finds while traveling through traditional, spiritual India and which has
touched and transformed countless Indians and foreigners alike. And, the Kumbha is also the quintessence of
that which makes India difficult for so many foreigners. It is loud, incredibly so, with nearly
twenty-four-hour-a-day cacophony. Bhajans, kirtan, spiritual lectures and
public service announcements vie for airtime on the speakers hung every thirty
or forty feet. It is dirty and dusty,
because the entire Mela is erected on sand which is the sacred river bed of
Ganga and Yamuna throughout much of the year.
It is crowded. Estimates range from 80 million to 100 million pilgrims
flocking from every corner of the country and the world. To me as a foreigner having been blessed to
live the past sixteen years in India, that is the worst of India -- its noise,
its dirt and dust and its ubiquitous crowds.
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
However, these pale in comparison to the best of India,
which is also the best of Kumbha.
Imagine -- wave after wave of humanity, every color, every size,
speaking every language, pouring into the Mela out of every possible vehicle
ranging from a bullock cart to a private jet. And for what? There is no
sporting event here where one can root enthusiastically for one's home team and
then pop champagne bottles at the victory.
There is no rock concert where one might be able to touch the shirttails
of pop stars and sing along to one's favorite tunes. There is no lottery with a million-dollar (or
several crore) jackpot. There is no
theme park with slides and rides to make our hair stand on end and our children
shout with glee. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
No, it is not the normal attractions that draw more people
than any other event in the history of the world. It is, quite simply, the faith, the beautiful,
sacred, uniquely Indian faith that to have a bath in the holy waters of the
Ganga, Yamuna and Saraswati at this auspicious time might bring one closer to
that ultimate goal of deep spiritual union, awareness and bliss. It is the belief, the unassailable, ardent
belief that one will be free of sins from lifetimes past, that one will come
closer to the Divine, awaken spiritually and perhaps even attain enlightenment.
No, it is not sports stars or rock stars or dollars or rupees that lure people
to the Kumbha. It is not glamour or
prestige or the chance to rub elbows with celebrities. It is the call of the holy waters promising
divine union and liberation. It is the presence of the holy saints, the
possibility of their darshan, their blessings and their satsang. It is the
astrological significance of bathing, praying and meditating on certain days in
this sacred riverbed. It is the
readiness, nay the eagerness, with which -- by the tens of millions -- Indians
abandon the comfort, convenience and luxury of their own lives and lifestyles
to come and sleep in tents built on the dirt, their eyes brimming with tears of
devotion and gratitude. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
India is a land that feeds first and eats second, and the
Kumbha is the crystallization of this cultural tenet. Wherever you go, from one
end of the Kumbha to the other, regardless of sampradaya or parampara, there is
always food for all. Camp after camp feeds thousands each day, their own
devotees, pilgrims and sevaks frying batch after batch of puris before
sunrise. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
For us, this Kumbha was a special opportunity to launch a
Green Kumbha Initiative. Pujya Swamiji (Pujya Swami Chidanand Saraswatiji,
President of Parmarth Niketan Rishikesh and Founder of Ganga Action Parivar) has
been planning for a “Green Kumbha, Green Prayag” for many years, and therefore
the focus of the Kumbha was not only cleansing of our past sins and
purification of our minds, but a true cleansing of the banks and waters of the
Ganga and Yamuna. Whoever came through
our Ganga Action Parivar camp – including Bollywood celebrities, state and
central government politicians, billionaire industrialists, foreign professionals,
Harvard students and faculty, Western yoga students and more – took part not
only in yajna, aarti, satsang and meditation. They also took part in trash
cleanups. Led by Pujya Swamiji and devotees
costumed as trees, mountains and holy rivers, we picked up trash, shoveled dirt
over open defecation, installed water filtration systems, put up trash cans and
led huge parades in the name of “Green Kumbha, Green Prayag, Green India, Green
Century.” The initiative was not just
about cleaning the grounds of the Sangam. It was about initiating thought and
action toward a truly clean and green India.
(see <a href="http://www.gangaaction.org/">www.gangaaction.org</a> for
more details). </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
However, Green Kumbha did not mean facility-less Kumbha. In fact, we had some news channels come
through our camp requesting to video the rooms we built with eco-friendly
bamboo and jute, the attached bathrooms, the flush toilets, the running water
and electricity. <i>"Kumbha mein kya vyavastha hai,"</i> was their theme and they
were effusively impressed with the arrangements at our camp. However, despite
the impressiveness of bringing running water and electricity to dry riverbeds,
ultimately Kumbha is not about <i>vyavastha</i>. Kumbha is about <i>aastha</i>. It is not the flush
toilets or the running water or the carpeted floors that draw people from every
corner of the globe. It is not the smoothly running traffic or the
miracle of infrastructure that the state and local governments were
miraculously able to implement. These arrangements were merely a bonus, an extra added bit of unexpected
comfort. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
Yes, as people said, Kumbha was a miracle of <i>vyavastha</i>. To erect a city the size of New York, Paris
and London combined in under sixty days is, of course, a miracle and one whose
credit goes to the government machinery.
However, the true miracle is one not of <i>vyavastha</i> but of <i>aastha</i>.
You can set up makeshift roads, bring water and run electrical lines anywhere
in the world and that does not mean people will come. The miracle in Kumbh is the <i>aastha</i>, the faith, that reaches deep
within people's beings, grabs hold of their hearts and pulls them -- sometimes
thousands of miles -- from the material comfort of their home to the spiritual
comfort of the Mela. It is the miracle of <i>aastha</i>
that fills every tent, every plywood-room, every dirt or aluminum road with
people, people who have come to find the true meaning of their lives on Earth. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
Sadhvi Bhagawati Saraswati</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
Parmarth Niketan, Rishikesh<a href="http://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=1719297161437784959" name="_GoBack"></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
Ganga Action Parivar</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
</div>
Sadhvi Bhagawati Saraswatihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04720603185087768750noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1719297161437784959.post-68960794040854801302013-05-04T02:37:00.001-07:002013-05-04T02:39:02.775-07:00Swami Vivekananda - A Full Resurgence – The Value of Values<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;">Swami
Vivekananda cast India’s cultural heritage into international spotlight when he
began his speech at the Parliament of World Religions with the phrase, “My
sisters and brothers of America.”</span><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;"> </span><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;">As
commonplace as it seems to Indians to begin a talk with “bhaio aur beno,” the
idea of referring to an auditorium full of strangers as family was, for many
Americans, surprising and their first glimpse of traditional Indian culture. </span><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;"> </span><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;">Vasudhaiva Kutumbakam is one of the most basic
tenets of Indian spiritual and cultural heritage.</span><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;"> </span><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;">The world is a family.</span><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;"> </span><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;">This message is one that is needed as
critically today, perhaps even more critically, as when he spoke in Chicago 120
years ago.</span><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;"> </span><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;">Today, like never before, we
are faced with a critical divide between those who have and those who have-not,
those who are growing plumper each year and those who are helplessly watching
their children succumb to the perils of malnutrition, those with summer homes,
winter homes and weekend homes, and those who cower in doorways to escape the beating
rain and sleet.</span><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;"> </span><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;">We produce enough food
to feed 10 billion people a day, yet tens of thousands of children die each day
of starvation while others feast themselves to diabetes and heart disease.</span><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;"> </span><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;">Now, as never before, the world needs this
message that we are all family.</span><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;"> </span><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;">No one
in a family would even conceive of grabbing all the chapatis laid out for
dinner. Instinctively we understand that every family member is entitled to
his/her fair share. </span><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;"> </span><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;">Sacrifice for each
other’s wellbeing comes naturally.</span><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<b><i><u><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Vasudhaiva Kutumbakam<o:p></o:p></span></u></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> Swami
Vivekananda’s reference to the people of America as his “sisters and brothers” was
not merely profound at the time; rather it is a call that we must hear
today. But, of course, not only are the
Americans our sisters and brothers. <i>Vasudhaiva Kutumbakam</i> has no
discrimination, does not play favorites and has no hierarchy. Can we extend the feeling of family to the
impoverished and malnourished of India, Africa, Asia and the rest of the world?
Can we extend the arms of our family to the suicidal farmers killing themselves
over desiccated fields and yieldless harvests? Can we truly feel the same
Oneness, the same sense of family, for those of different religions, different
countries, different castes and different colors?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> Swami
Vivekananda emphasized that the reason for India’s downfall (as he saw it) lay
in India’s neglect of the masses. No
family can be truly successful on all levels if its members are hungry, or
cold, or homeless or ailing without means for treatment. If India is going to achieve a full
resurgence of greatness and prosperity on all fronts, it cannot do so while a
huge percentage of its own population lives without toilets, running water,
basic education and primary health care. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Resurgent
India is not only about a financial resurgence; it not only refers to a renewal
of India’s place as a leader of the developing and developed world. Rather, if India is going to be reborn into
Her true state of glory, it requires a rekindling of Her fundamental and
essential values and tenets. Resurgent
India requires not just that we connect on facebook and twitter, not just that
we count our global presence in the number of "friends" or
"followers" we have, but that we truly and deeply take the world into
our heart. Can their pain be our pain?
Can their hunger be our hunger? Can their anguish be our anguish? Can we truly,
selflessly, lovingly make choices and sacrifices for them as we would for our
own family members? Only when the values, ethics and sanskaras of <i>Bharitya sanskriti</i> are re-infused with
their cultural significance can India truly see a resurgence. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<b><i><u><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Women as Divine<o:p></o:p></span></u></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Additionally,
it is important to note that Swami Vivekananda did not say “My brothers and
sisters of America.” Rather he said, “My sisters and brothers of America.” The
distinction is minor and yet profound, particularly as India faces a time of
singular darkness and despair regarding women’s rights and protection. This emphasis, actually, on the feminine is
an inherent part of traditional Indian culture.
Our mantras chant, “Twameva Mata, Cha Pita Twameva….” First mother, then
father. Manu declared and our scriptures
remind us that “Where women are adored, there the Gods are pleased.” So neither is this tenet of women’s
empowerment, women’s rights and women’s significance new today, nor was it new
when Swami Vivekananda based his remarks according to this cultural <i>niyam</i>. So, women’s rights are not something
that need to be instituted in India, but rather something that has to be
re-instituted. That respect, reverence and love for women not as objects of
desire but as manifestations of the Divine Feminine is part and parcel of
India’s cultural and spiritual heritage. Without it, as we are seeing in the streets of
India today, no resurgence will be successful. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<b><i><u><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">India as Tirth<o:p></o:p></span></u></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">A story is
told of Swami Vivekananda’s trip to America and UK, spanning approximately four
years from 1893 – 1897. As he was readying to depart from London for India, one
of his British friends asked him, <i>“</i><i>Swamiji how do you like your motherland now after four years’ experience
of the luxurious, glorious, powerful West?”</i> Swamiji replied: “<i>India I loved before I came away. Now the very dust of India has become
holy to me, the very air is now to me holy; India is now the holy land, the place
of pilgrimage, the Tirtha!”</i> Today,
there is a clamouring among most Indians to go abroad – to travel, to study, to
work and to live. I cannot tell you the number of times someone
-- having acquired immeasurable <i>punya</i>
over lifetimes leading to a birth on the banks of Ganga -- asks me: “<i>Please aap mere liye Amreeka mein kooch kara
dijiye, meri naukri lagwa dijiye. Kooch bhi karo, muje Amreeka bhijwa do bus</i>.”
The request always brings tears to my
eyes and yet is indicative of much of what needs to “resurge” in India. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">There has
been, over the last several decades, a shift of focus and a shift in our
values. To Swami Vivekananda, sure the roads, the infrastructure and other
aspects of comfort, convenience, efficiency and even luxury were better and
more available in the West, just as they are today. However, to him, those were
not the important aspects of life, nor were they what determined his choice of
country in which to live. Hence he
longed to return to Mother India where he could bathe in Her culture, Her
people, Her very soil, in the wind that blows across Her land. There is a magic here in India, a divine
magic that makes even squalor sacred. That does not, of course, condone squalor
but it is simply to say that the feeling of sacredness is pervasive – in the
huts and in the mandirs. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">There are
many reasons for this of course, with the most important being India’s inherent
holiness. However, I believe that the divinity of Her very soil is enhanced by
a culture in which spirituality, <i>sanskaras</i>
and connection to God are the most important aspects of life. That is the <i>Bharatiya Sanskriti</i> we speak about. However, today the focus seems
to be much more on acquiring and attaining wealth, prestige, status and
possessions. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">When I first
came to India one of the most remarkable aspects to me of the culture and the
country was the peace on people's faces -- the rich, the poor, the old, the
young, the homeless, the hungry, the educated and the illiterate. It was as
though one's lot in life was simply part of the "package deal" of
human birth. It had very little connection to one's sense of self or self-worth. Even those who lived far below western
standards of abject poverty were eager to share. "<i>Please come home for dinner</i>," I heard countless times from
people who could not even afford to feed their own families let alone an extra
mouth. In the nearly two decades I’ve
lived here, much has changed. Perhaps bombarded by Western and Westernized
serials, movies, fashion magazines and cultural indoctrination, the values and
focus in India seem to have shifted. The
"new India" has started judging its self worth much like the West
does -- by the balance in their bank account, the number of shopping bags on
their arms, the brand of sunglasses upon their faces and the size of their
waists. There is a feverish clamoring for
more and more, better and better, newer and newer. India has become a country
where there are nearly twice as many mobile phones as toilets. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">How many
Indians today are just as eager to return home to India after a few years
abroad? If India is going to be resurgent we have to cultivate that same level
of discrimination that Swamiji had – sure he was able to recognize the comfort
and convenience of the West, and yet he was able to recognize that there is
something much more valuable than that.
Hence he longed to return home to the “Tirth” of India. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">A Resurgent
India needs a return to the values espoused by Swami Vivekananda. His call for greatness is a greatness deeper
than the distance our missiles can travel or the value of our GNP. It is a greatness that penetrates the core of
each Indian, that makes him/her grounded, anchored, centered and rooted in an
unbreakable, unshakeable connection to the Divine, to the country, to Her soil
and to each other. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Sadhvi
Bhagawati Saraswati<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><a href="" name="_GoBack"></a>Parmarth Niketan, Rishikesh<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
</div>
Sadhvi Bhagawati Saraswatihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04720603185087768750noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1719297161437784959.post-69146728504609450262012-08-12T07:49:00.000-07:002012-08-12T07:51:24.831-07:00What is Spirituality?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
The term “spirituality” is
used quite vaguely these days to refer to anything ranging from those who
subscribe to an eclectic mix of practices, traditions and beliefs, to those who
may agree with the foundational aspects of a religion while not adhering to all
the rituals, to those who believe in a divine power without necessarily
subscribing to a particular religion at all. The word is also used frequently
in contrast to religion. “I am not so religious,” we hear people say. “But I’m
very spiritual.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
Ultimately, spirituality
literally means pertaining to the spirit, of the spirit, in relation to spirit.
It is not the opposite or antithesis of religion, but rather it is the opposite
of materialism. To be spiritual, in essence, is to live one’s life focused on the
intangible, omnipresent, pervasive spirit rather than on tangible objects with
distinct borders and boundaries. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To be
spiritual, to be “of the spirit,” means to focus on that which connects us to
each other rather than that which separates us. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
A materialist would say, “I
end at the point where my skin ends and the air begins.” To the materialist
there is a distinct starting and ending point for the self.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For example: “Here is cushion. Here is self
sitting on cushion. Here is loved one sitting next to self.” <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There are distinct beginning and ending points
for each of these. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A materialist could
show you clearly where the cushion ends and the self begins, where the self
ends and the air begins, where the air ends and the loved one begins. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
A spiritualist, however, understands
that that which pervades the cushion, the self, the air and the loved one is
the same spirit. There is no distinct point of beginning or ending or boundary
or border.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sure, the vessels through
which the Spirit flows may vary, but the Spirit is one. So, spirituality is a
practice, a lifestyle, a commitment to the spirit, to that which unites us and
connects us.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
Once I realize that I am one
with Spirit, I realize that I am one with you, for that same Spirit flows
through you just as it flows through me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Theoretically, that is actually what religion should do as well –
connect us to the omnipresent, all-pervasive Divine and thereby connect us to
all of Creation. Tragically, however, in many cases the institution of religion
has gone awry.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yet, if religion could be
distilled back to its essence, to its ultimate purpose, it too would focus on
connecting people to God. God, of course, does not play favorites and does not
discriminate. So, to be connected with God is to be connected with each other. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
This concept of unity, of
oneness with the Divine and therefore with all of creation is an intrinsic part
of Indian culture and spiritual philosophy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The word “yoga” used so ubiquitously, literally means <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">union</i>. Today, unfortunately we seem to
have misinterpreted it to mean a union of my head to my knee or union of my
palms to the floor, but essentially it is a union of the self to the
Divine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Whichever of the numerous paths
of yoga one may choose, the ultimate goal is to deeply and experientially
realize that Union.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
In today’s world, our illusion
of separateness is killing us – as individuals and as nations.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Our individual feeling of disconnection from
God and from all of Creation leads us to feel alone, isolated, ungrounded and
uncentered. Rates of depression and anxiety are skyrocketing across the world
even though each year we invent more, accomplish more, eradicate more diseases ,and
more and more people have financial stability.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Internally, we long for deep connection.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Isolation – whether real or imagined – is one of the greatest sources of
misery.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Similarly, as nations and as
cultures, our illusion of separateness from each other permits us to wreak the
greatest pain and destruction upon each other. That violence which we could not
conceive of doing to a family member or neighbor, we sit back and watch as it
is done to people of other countries, cultures and races. We feel separate from
them. They are not us. They are outside the border and boundary we have drawn
of our own Self.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Further, our disconnection from Mother Earth
enables us to exploit her as a commodity, to ravage and pillage her forests, decimate
her oceans,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>turn her rivers into sewers
killing all life therein, and render her lush mountains bald with wanton
disregard.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
The Isha Upanishad tells us <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Isha vasyam idam sarvam</i>. Everything in
the universe is pervaded by the Divine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>There is no place He does not exist.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>There is no person, no living being and even no inanimate object from
which He is absent.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The Divine Presence
pervades every cell of my being just as it pervades every cell of you and every
cell of him, of her, and of everything in this universe. We are not separate.
We cannot possibly be separate. That spirit, that divine spirit that flows in
and through each of us, from which each of us is made, is One.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To live our lives with awareness of that
Oneness, with consciousness of that Oneness, that is spirituality. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
Then, when we become truly
“spiritual,” when we become focused on and connected to spirit, we realize that
we are not separate from anyone’s joy and we are not separate from anyone’s
pain.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am connected to the starving
child trying to sleep with pangs of anguish in his belly. I am connected to the
woman dying in childbirth due to lack of medical care.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am connected to every animal tortured and
slaughtered.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am connected to every
tree being felled, every river being polluted, and every fish suffocating in
the fisherman’s net. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
To be truly spiritual
requires one to live with an awareness of spirit, and that spirit is all-pervasive.
It leaves nothing and no one out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If I
am One with spirit, then by definition I am One with you. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
</div>Sadhvi Bhagawati Saraswatihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04720603185087768750noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1719297161437784959.post-40943488754274087772012-05-07T06:47:00.001-07:002012-05-27T06:21:53.729-07:00Development - In what direction?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<span style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: justify;">
As his belly rises with each deep, slow breath, his frayed undershirt
exposes the bare skin underneath – brown, of course, due to genetics, but
browned even more deeply from a life in the sun. The thin plastic chair upon
which he sits bends with his weight as he sinks deeper into afternoon slumber. His
feet rest upon a bare wooden bed-frame where his customers sit during his “open” hours. His head hangs loosely yet stably above his
broad shoulders and from his slightly open mouth escape snores I can hear in my
car, as I pass slowly through the village.
Around him, young children scamper about, free from the morning hours in
school, starched uniforms carefully removed to be ready for tomorrow, shoes
placed neatly by the door frame in which a door should exist but doesn’t. In
undershirts, short pants and bare feet they frolic about, entertained now by a
branch, now by an old tire, now by throwing rocks at the mango tree to coax
fresh mangoes to the ground. Soon they
will have to utilize the last hours of daylight to complete their homework, but
for now they exuberantly chase a frayed rubber tire down the dirt road, at the
end of which they will sit and suck mango juice out of freshly fallen
fruit. As the afternoon sun softens and
shadows begin to fall upon the road, women sweep the porches of the shops and
adjacent homes, getting ready for evening customers who will come to purchase a
handful of rice, a few cups of flour or some coconut oil for their hair.</div>
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
At the end of the dirt road, our car turns right and the
village disappears. Narrow, unpaved streets
lined with brick and mud homes, shops carrying basic necessities, stalls of
fresh fruit and vegetables, dozing men and scampering children give way to “Developed
India.” Now the roads are covered with
smooth black asphalt, reflecting the afternoon sun back into our eyes. There are different lanes for each direction,
separated by a wide divider, in which lush greenery and flowering plants in
hues of pink and purple stand out in sharp contrast to the black of the roads. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
Multi-storied modern buildings line the roads, each with its
own parking lot and separate, electronic entry gate. On a corner an enormous complex
is topped with a sign saying Shopping Mall and the names of foreign stores are
illuminated on the concrete wall -- myriad franchises of clothing, jewelry and
shoe companies from America, Italy and England. Next to the mall, the golden arches of
McDonalds shine brightly in the soot filled sky. Both
sides of the road are peppered with signs for sophisticated bars and
restaurants, reminiscent of those on the Champs Elysee, Sloane street or Sunset
Boulevard. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
The offices, bars, restaurants and shopping malls are
dwarfed, however, by the structures driving the rapid development. Factory after factory complex stretches out
toward the horizon in every direction except backwards. Backwards -- due West --
lie the villages, and beyond that the forest from which the village children
eat fresh mangos, the branches of trees serving as fuel for their evening meal.
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
Ahead -- to the
North, South and East -- are nothing but factories. Smokestack after smokestack
spews out hot black air. Soon, the newly painted cream colored walls of the
high rise buildings will be black. Soon, only the golden arches of McDonalds,
where they fry up the mother cow and serve her between slices of bread with a side
of tomatoes, will be visible in the thick black air.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
Skinny, darkly tanned young men, perhaps the sons of
snoozing villagers, ride bicycles in the road, on the back of which are tied
heavy air conditioning units and stacks of fashionable plastic chairs. They dart between cars, their backs wet with perspiration,
their loads twice the height of the bike and more than ten times the weight. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
Young men and women rush in and out of the cars parked in
the lots. They are dressed in Western business attire – suits and ties for the
men, long skirts and tops (or an occasional tailored salwar kameez) for the
women. They carry briefcases and
clipboards. Over the women’s shoulders hang heavy purses bearing designer
names. They buzz about, from the cars
into the doors of the offices, out of the office doors, into the cars, up to
the road to McDonalds or the bar, perhaps to the shopping mall, accidentally
bumping shoulders with each other on paved sidewalks. Conversations are frenetic; hands wave in
every direction illustrating points of great importance, toes tap in high heels
or designer loafers as they wait for each other to finish a sentence. As they cross the road, rushing from one
meeting to another, or from their parked car to an office, the afternoon sun
casts shadows in the wrinkles on their faces.
Their grimaces have become etched into the very fabric of their skin. Occasionally they cover their mouths with
silk handkerchiefs as they cough and wheeze in the unbridled pollution. They
smile, perhaps, in the evenings over a beer or bottle of wine. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
This, the row after row of factories, toxins gushing into
the air, multi-storied buildings with central air conditioning, drive-thru McDonalds,
restaurants where one can leisurely sip a beer or wine or whisky with dinner,
this is “Developed India.” Women in short
skirts and heels, men in black suits on a summer day, sky-high stacks of plastic chairs, take-away
Styrofoam containers, block-length shopping malls, product after product to quench people’s
thirst for happiness. Surely, at the end
of a particularly busy day or week or month, these women and men will rush into
the toy store to buy a new Sony Play-station for their children, assuaging
their ephemeral regret at not having time to spend at home. Their children will sit in front of a
computer screen, playstation controls in one hand, bag of potato chips in the
other and numb their longing for a hug. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
What is development? What is progress? By what specific
measures do we say that we have moved “forward” from the peacefully dozing
grocer? Are the children with the playstation, who will inevitably clamor for
newer and newer models, truly more “privileged” than those who spend the
afternoon happily chasing a car tire down the dirt road or knocking mangoes out
of trees? Has chopping down the forest
to build factories that produce not only commercial products but also toxic
waste, pollution, cancer and global warming really benefited our country? When we say “development,” what exactly is it
that we have “developed?” Immunity to thick black air pollution until it turns
cancerous in our lungs? Dependency upon goods
packaged in inordinate amounts of plastic?
Ignorance of the futility of trying to fill inner emptiness with material
possessions? Blindness to the violence inherent in the production of meat?
Distance between us and our families, between us and God, between us and our
true Selves? What, really, have we
developed? </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
When I first came to India one of the most remarkable aspects
to me of the culture and the country was the peace on people's faces -- the
rich, the poor, the old, the young, the homeless, the hungry, the educated and
the illiterate. It was as though one's lot in life was simply part of the
"package deal" of human birth. It had very little connection to one's
sense of self or self-worth. Even those
who lived far below western standards of abject poverty were eager to share.
"<i>Please come home for dinner</i>,"
I heard countless times from people who could not even afford to feed their own
families let alone an extra mouth. In
fifteen years, much has shifted. Perhaps bombarded by Western and Westernized
serials, movies, fashion magazines and cultural indoctrination, the "new
India" has started judging its self worth much like the West does -- by
the balance in their bank account, the number of shopping bags on their arms,
the brand of sunglasses upon their faces and the size of their waists. There is a feverish clamoring for more and
more, better and better, newer and newer. India has become a country where there
are nearly twice as many mobile phones as toilets. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
India's image of itself has also shifted significantly. Where emphasis previously had been on
development and production of intelligence, of knowledge, of science and
technology, now it has shifted to development and production of marketable
goods. Not goods that India is traditionally famous for -- not silk, woven
fabrics, artwork, Ayurvedic medicines, herbs and spices, but generic goods,
goods that are a symbol of the rapidly burgeoning middle class -- motorcycles,
tires, plastic containers, mobiles, leather handbags. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
An inevitable and inextricable part of production is
waste. There is a direct, linear
relationship between the volume of goods produced by a factory and the volume
of waste cast by that factory into local rivers, lakes and groundwater or
spewed into the air. As India rushes exuberantly
toward unbridled consumerism, she must be prepared for a rapid devastation of
her air and water quality. This tragic prophecy is already a fact. More than two-thirds of people living in the
eastern Ganga River Basin suffer from water borne illnesses. More than three million people die annually
as a direct result of the toxic, commercial, industrial and wastewater
pollutants that are dumped -- more than 1.3 billion liters PER DAY -- into Her
waters. As we clamor for more and more,
newer and newer, as we continue to associate our self worth with the
knick-knacks on our counters, as we employ TVs and computers as baby-sitters,
we are rendering our natural environment unliveable. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<i>“It’s the government’s
fault</i>,” people shout out of habit. “<i>The
administration has already allocated billions of rupees to the Clean Up Ganga
program. What has happened to it?</i>”
However, the problem is not nearly as simple as it may seem. Basic
infrastructural issues such as sewage, solid waste, and garbage collection
should certainly be taken care of by local and state municipalities. However,
we all have a serious role to play as well – both in the problem and the
solution. While untreated sewage cascades from drains and gutters into Ganga,
this is far from the only problem She faces.
The hundreds of factories lining Her banks produce 260 million liters of
toxic waste per day that fill Her waters, poisoning not only the fish and
dolphins that live in Her waters, but also the 450 million Indians who depend
upon these waters for their very lives – their water for drinking, bathing,
cooking and agriculture. The commercial
and industrial effluents are suffocating the sacred river, squeezing the life
out of Her waters and all species which inhabit them. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
Every new product we purchase, every gram of plastic
packaging, our leather car seats, purses and shoes produced in these factories
has a direct impact on the levels of toxins in Ganga and therefore upon the
health of our brothers and sisters who live downstream. The exorbitant amount of electricity required
to run the factories at warp-speed, at all hours of the day and night, necessitates
construction of dams on the river. These dams, functioning as
“Run-of-the-River” projects, diverting water out of the riverbed, further
diminish the volume of water available to dilute the toxins. It is a tragic
lose-lose situation, a cycle of violence --- violence to Ganga and violence to
those whose lives depend upon Her waters being clean and free-flowing. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="background: yellow; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-highlight: yellow;"></span> <o:p></o:p><span style="background: yellow; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-highlight: yellow;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="background: yellow; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-highlight: yellow;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
Development is necessary. One cannot move backwards in time.
Children raised on a Playstation should not be forced to try to amuse
themselves with a tire. Progress in the fields of education,
technology, science and manufacturing are fabulous boons for any society and
particularly Indian society which was oppressed for so many years prior to
Independence. However, freedom should
not be interpreted as a license for decadence or gluttony at the expense of
others. As tempting as it is to revel in
new wealth and newly available items, options and variety, we must strive to do
so with a long-term view in mind. A revered saint once said, “<i>Your freedom ends where my toes begin</i>.” If our freedom of purchase is turning the
water that hundreds of millions depend upon for life into toxic sludge, then
perhaps it is time to re-evaluate the expression of our freedom. If our freedom of extravagance threatens to
ravage the river revered as Mother Goddess by more than a billion people, and
upon whose banks millions perform daily ablutions, then are we not infringing
upon the freedom of others?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
The issue of balance and sacrifice is a sensitive one. No
one with the economic ability to spend wantonly would like their freedom to be
curtailed. However, today, we no longer can pretend that we live in a vacuum.
What I purchase here, is impacting the lives of those over there. I am not suggesting bans or even taxes or
disincentives for purchasing. I am simply
suggesting that perhaps as a society we
can re-evaluate our understanding of the idea of freedom, wealth and
development. Perhaps the man who can
sleep soundly in the middle of the day, with a village bustling around him is
wealthier in some meaningful way than those who need pills or a few glasses of
wine or even the lull of a TV to fall asleep in their posh bedroom at
midnight. Perhaps, in the rapid rush to
move forward, to break through the glass
ceilings of centuries of colonization, perhaps we have left something valuable
behind. And, perhaps, that which we’ve left behind may benefit not only
ourselves personally, but the very country we call Bharat Mata. Perhaps the
answer to some of what ails us, our environment, our sacred rivers and hundreds
of millions of our brothers and sisters can be found not by pushing further
forward, but by pausing and looking back to see if we didn’t lose something
along the way.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
</div>
</div>Sadhvi Bhagawati Saraswatihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04720603185087768750noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1719297161437784959.post-11423063862415738392012-02-11T20:24:00.000-08:002012-02-11T20:24:00.327-08:00New Vocabulary, Not New Values<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;">“</span><i style="text-align: left;">What this country really needs</i><span style="text-align: left;">,” the middle aged father from Delhi was saying in the evening satsang, “</span><i style="text-align: left;">is leaders like Pujya Swamiji and yourself to give new values to our youth. They are not interested in the values of our generation. They need new values and you can bring that to them</i><span style="text-align: left;">.”</span><span style="text-align: left;"> </span><span style="text-align: left;">While the compliment was flattering, and the truth of youth’s waning interest in their own culture certainly undeniable, something pierced me sharply about what he said. Some great error had been committed. Suddenly I responded, “</span><i style="text-align: left;">It is not new values they need. It is simply a new vocabulary</i><span style="text-align: left;">.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal">I have lived in Rishikesh for the past 15 years and have witnessed a great shift in Indians’ mindset, particularly the younger generation. While they are ardently patriotic, while they are prepared to fast with Anna Hazare, to march for kilometers waving political flags, while they join Facebook groups with names like “Yuva Bharat”, “Bharat Swabhiman” and “Bharat Nirmaan Sena” despite all of this tenacious and fervent commitment to India and her future, they are not, in most cases, convinced by the culture. In fact, night after night, in the evening satsangs and question-answer sessions in Pujya Swamiji’s jhopadi following Ganga Aarti, Indian youth ask questions that evidence their dissatisfaction or disinterest in what we call culture, or values or sanskaras. “<i>Why can’t we date before marriage? Why do we have to live in a joint family? I believe in God but I don’t believe in temples or puja. Why can’t my parents understand this?”</i> They are turning from vegetarians to non-vegetarians, from teetotalers to drinkers , from virgins to promiscuously “cool” young adults at alarming rates. “What’s wrong with our children?” many parents bemoan in the satsangs. “They have gone completely astray.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I have watched this carefully. My academic background is psychology from Stanford University, hence I have a predisposition to analysis. Further, I came to India at age 25, having grown up in Los Angeles, in the heart of American upper class, “modern” culture and was so enraptured by the grace, the truth, the divinity and the depth of traditional Indian culture that – despite protests from every single person I knew back home – I stayed. So I have seen both worlds, up close. I have seen hip American culture where acceptance is based on how you look in a black mini-skirt, with how many times a week you’re seen drinking coffee past 2 am in the local “hot spot”, with how many drug-filled dens of decadence you visit on a particular Saturday night. And I have seen the results. Fifteen year olds killed in drunk driving accidents, cocaine-induced pregnancies and abortions at seventeen, anorexia and bulimia stealing the minds and lives of Ivy-League students, third marriages by the age of twenty-five, a country where the most commonly prescribed medicines are anti-depressants, anti-anxiety medication, sleeping pills and Viagra. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">There is much to be emulated about Western culture. There is a commitment to excellence and perfection unmatched by most other countries. Punctuality, reliability, fulfillment of promises, adherence to contracts, integrity and honesty are all attributes which other countries, especially India, would benefit by adopting. However, tragically, these are not the values being adopted by many metropolitan Indian youth. Rather, it is the illusion of sophistication, the allure of glamour, the myth of material enjoyment that are seeping into Indian culture. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">It is not that India needs new values. Indian culture, values, ethics and traditions form, in my opinion, the very foundation of a successful, meaningful and fulfilling life. If you ask a random person in Los Angeles, stepping out of her Mercedes car, “<i>How are you</i>?” chances are you will get a litany of things that are wrong. My back is hurting, the housekeeper didn’t show up, the store ran out of my favorite cereal, there was too much traffic on the freeway, etc. If you ask the same question to an elderly village woman in the Himalayas carrying pounds of firewood on her head, back to cook the family’s one meal a day, chances are your question will be answered with “<i>Sab Bhagawan ki kripa</i>” or “<i>Ganga ki kripa</i>.” This is the fruit of culture: deep satisfaction despite the ups and downs of daily life. Objectively God’s kripa certainly seems to have showered significantly more upon the woman in the Mercedes. Yet, she needs a pill to go to sleep, a pill to wake up, a pill to make it through the day. The woman in the Himalayas sleeps and wakes with a smile on her face.</div><div class="MsoNormal">Indian culture is one that feeds first and eats second. I cannot count the number of times a family that doesn’t have the means to feed itself has begged me to come home for a meal. Or, if I continually refuse a meal, at least a cup of tea or “cold drink.” That I vehemently explain, over and over, that I don’t drink “cold drinks”, that even before coming to India I never drank Coke, is taken by them as mere social nicety. It is inconceivable that I, an American, don’t drink Coke. Hence, despite my protests they send the eldest child to the market to spend ten or twelve rupees on a cold drink. That those twelve rupees were the funds for dinner is irrelevant. They are as happy watching me try to graciously drink a Coke as if they were eating thalis full of food. This is Indian culture. Abundance is not measured by a bank balance. It is measured by whether one feels that one’s cup is overflowing. If my instinct is to share, to give, if I feel that I have more than enough and hence I want to feed others, I am rich, even if my feet are bare. If I feel that I don’t have enough and my instinct is to hold and to hoard, then I am poor, regardless of what the bank statements say. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">India does not need new values. The values are what have kept India strong and united despite thousands of years of invasions. The values are what have kept Indians’ minds and hearts independent even when their country was colonized and oppressed. However, today what is needed is a new vocabulary. The youth of today are being raised differently than any generation prior to them. Information is at their fingertips. Everything has an answer. If you don’t know it, Google it. Modern science and technology have rendered that which was inexplicable, enigmatic and impossible a decade ago child’s play today. So we cannot expect them to accept “<i>because I said so</i>” or “<i>because God made it that way</i>” or “<i>because it doesn’t look nice</i>” or “<i>just because</i>” as reasonable motivation for doing anything. Whether it’s lighting the diya on the family mandir, being a vegetarian, giving daan, abstaining from sex before marriage or meditating, we are going to have to provide them compelling reasons and answers. Fortunately there ARE compelling, scientific, rational reasons for all of these. However, most of us don’t know them. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Most middle-aged Indians today would never have dared question or disobey their parents. Therefore, their children’s rebuttals and incessant mantra of “<i>why</i>?” seem insolent and disrespectful. They assume their children are intractable, when really they are simply bringing the new culture of questioning from school to home. The youth of today are being raised and primed to ask, to wonder, to question, to investigate, to discover. They will not be appeased by the same answers that kept their parents’ generation in check. However, that doesn’t mean they’re off the track or in need of new values. Rather, what we need is to find the vocabulary with which to give them the same values, but in a way that makes sense to their inquiring minds. For example, I have heard innumerable parents exhort their children to believe that the cow is holy and therefore they must not eat hamburgers. “<i>But why is the cow holy</i>?” they ask, typically quite sincerely. “<i>Because it is</i>,” or “<i>Because our scriptures say so</i>,” or “<i>Don’t be insolent</i>” are the common answers. When there is an answer for everything today, the lack of an answer to this makes them naturally and understandably suspicious. <s><o:p></o:p></s></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">However, there ARE scientific, rational, pragmatic reasons to be vegetarian, regardless of whether one believes the cow is holy. The fact that the meat industry is the single greatest contributor to world hunger as well as environmental destruction is quite compelling. The wastage of grain, land, water and energy used in the production of meat is enough to convince most. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">This is just one example but it illustrates the fact that it’s not the values which need to be changed. The values are correct. It’s simply our method of explaining them, transmitting them that needs to be updated. This of course puts greater responsibility on parents. They need to find real answers and not rely on the age-old tactics of “<i>because I say so</i>.” They need to make sure that their spiritual and cultural practices are real and true and not simply ritual. A young child recently said to Pujya Swamiji, “<i>I don’t ever go in the temple. I don’t believe in temples.</i>” When questioned further the child explained, <i>“My mother and my father go into the temple every morning and every evening. They spend so much time in the temple, lighting this, doing that. But whenever they come out of the temple all they do is fight. I don’t want to spend my life fighting so I am avoiding temples.</i>” So, we need to make sure that the values we are trying to pass onto our children are ones that we have truly, not merely superficially, adopted in our own lives. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">India is, in my opinion, the richest country in the world. I am not referring to the GDP/GNP if all black money came back, but rather to the depth of culture, values, ethics and tradition. There is nothing in Indian culture that is not compatible with modern technology, science or industry. There is nothing backward or old fashioned or obsolete. The values and ethics of centuries ago are just as valid and just as applicable today as then. However, we have to put in a little effort to adapt the vocabulary and the method of transmission to today’s youth. Otherwise, if we hold tenaciously to the vocabulary of yesterday, which is unconvincing to today’s youth, they will continue to turn more and more to Western culture, depriving themselves, their families and future generations of one of the world’s richest treasure chests, a treasure chest of not only information but also inspiration. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>Author bio:<o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">American-born, Stanford graduate, Sadhvi Bhagawati Saraswati, PhD moved to India in 1996. She was officially ordained by Pujya Swami Chidanand Saraswatiji into the tradition of <i>sanyas</i> and lives at Parmarth Niketan Ashram in Rishikesh, where she serves Pujya Swamiji's humanitarian projects, provides seva for the ashram, teaches meditation, gives discourses and counsels individuals and families. </span><a href="mailto:sadhvibhagawati@parmarth.com"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">sadhvibhagawati@parmarth.com</span></a><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p></o:p></span></div></div>Sadhvi Bhagawati Saraswatihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04720603185087768750noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1719297161437784959.post-47624862970806239412011-11-22T18:44:00.000-08:002011-12-18T07:49:01.442-08:00Thanksgiving - An Opportunity to Give Life, Not Only Thanks<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: PalatinoLinotype-Roman; font-size: 12pt;">In America, one of the biggest holidays of the year is Thanksgiving. The feast is in honor of the first good harvest after the pilgrims came to the new land. In theory, this holiday is a beautiful one. The idea of gathering to give thanks, gathering on behalf of the bountiful harvest God has provided, gathering with family, is wonderful. It is one of the few times a year that Americans tend to ensure that the entire family is together. Thus, in this regard Thanksgiving is a great, wonderful tradition. However, unfortunately, the hallmark of this holiday is a large, roasted turkey sitting as the centerpiece on a </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: PalatinoLinotype-Roman; font-size: 16px;">beautifully decorated table, just waiting to be carved by the family members and relished with a side of potatoes and cranberries.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: PalatinoLinotype-Roman; font-size: 12pt;">When I was a child, my family would always fly from Los Angeles to New York for Thanksgiving. We would gather with my grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins and </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: PalatinoLinotype-Roman; font-size: 16px;">friends. Before we began eating the many-course feast that sat, steaming, on the table in front of us, we would go around, each of us saying one thing we were thankful for. “I’m thankful I’m not a turkey,” I used to say. Year after year my grandfather would admonish me as soon as we entered the New England home. He’d stare down at me and demand to know, “You’re not going to say it again this year are you? You’ve outgrown that stupid little trick, haven’t you?” And each year I would lovingly reassure him that, no, I would not say it again. I would soothe his concern and tell him that I would say something “appropriate” this year. And I meant it. I honestly each year planned to think of something else to say.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: PalatinoLinotype-Roman; font-size: 12pt;">Yet, as we sat – a family for whom expense was not an issue, a family who were not hunter/gatherers having to live only on that which they could pick or kill – around </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: PalatinoLinotype-Roman; font-size: 16px;">a huge, oval table, in a posh country home on the shore of the Atlantic ocean, I could think of nothing but the life lost by the large animal on the table in front of me.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: PalatinoLinotype-Roman; font-size: 12pt;">We gather each November in the name of thanks. We gather to appreciate the bountiful harvest, to savor the wealth of the land called America. Yet, how can we simultaneously </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: PalatinoLinotype-Roman; font-size: 16px;">sit – with bowed heads – thanking a land whose creatures we slaughter? How can we give thanks for life, while consuming the life of another? How can we thank God for freedom when the food on our plates has spent its entire life in captivity, waiting to become a “roast”?</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: PalatinoLinotype-Roman; font-size: 12pt;">I realize these are harsh questions. I pray to God for the ability to ask them gently. Yet, it seems to me that the situation is severe enough, the suffering great enough, and </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: PalatinoLinotype-Roman; font-size: 16px;">our blindness complete enough that these questions must be asked. I feel that the meat industry in the West has all the propaganda weapons at its disposal: all the publicity, all the man-power, all the lobbyists. But, on the other side lies the truth; so, if it is all we have, we must not be afraid to face this truth.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: PalatinoLinotype-Roman; font-size: 12pt;">From the time I was a child – long before I became a vegetarian – eating meat never felt quite right to me. I would only eat boneless meat, hidden in sauce, or already cut up meat, put into sandwiches. I could never bear to cut my food from its bone. But, I lived in a society where to refuse meat (especially as a child) incurred such a barrage of questions and criticisms that I was reluctant to do so.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: PalatinoLinotype-Roman; font-size: 12pt;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: PalatinoLinotype-Roman; font-size: 12pt;">When I was fifteen however, something happened that changed not only my eating habits but my entire vision of the American diet. I read a book called </span><span style="font-family: PalatinoLinotype-Italic; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic;">Diet for a New</span><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: PalatinoLinotype-Roman;"> </span></span><i><span style="font-family: PalatinoLinotype-Italic; font-size: 12pt;">America</span></i><span style="font-family: PalatinoLinotype-Roman; font-size: 12pt;">, written by a man named John Robbins. Robbins was the eldest son of Mr. Robbins, from the Baskin-Robbins ice cream fortune, and had been slated to inherit this </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: PalatinoLinotype-Roman; font-size: 16px;">multi-million dollar corporation. But, he was a man of truth, and he decided that he could not in good conscience condone the way these dairy cows were treated. Ten years </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: PalatinoLinotype-Roman; font-size: 16px;">of seclusion and meditation later, he returned to America to make a thorough investigation of the meat and dairy industries and to unveil the travesties buried within.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: PalatinoLinotype-Roman; font-size: 12pt;">The book makes the most compelling case I have ever seen for vegetarianism. It is so filled with truth, love and wisdom that it gave me the courage to live by what my heart felt was right. The day I read the book was the last day I ate any form of meat or meat products. I became a young, stubborn vegetarian in a society that adamantly tried to convince me I was depriving myself of both nutrients and enjoyment. However, knowing that I was acting from my heart gave me a window of truth through which to look </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: PalatinoLinotype-Roman; font-size: 16px;">at the world.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: PalatinoLinotype-Roman; font-size: 12pt;">It feels to me that the way in which we Westerners celebrate, the way in which we give thanks does not have a lot of integrity. Perhaps we really are thankful; perhaps our hearts are honestly filled with joyous celebration. Nonetheless our actions – having a roast turkey as the star of this holiday – do not seem to me to be in concert with </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: PalatinoLinotype-Roman; font-size: 16px;">feelings of deep gratitude.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: PalatinoLinotype-Roman; font-size: 12pt;">I look at the way Indians give thanks, at what symbols and rituals pervade their </span><i><span style="font-family: PalatinoLinotype-Italic; font-size: 12pt;">puja</span></i><span style="font-family: PalatinoLinotype-Roman; font-size: 12pt;">. I look at a </span><i><span style="font-family: PalatinoLinotype-Italic; font-size: 12pt;">yagna</span></i><span style="font-family: PalatinoLinotype-Roman; font-size: 12pt;">. The spirit of </span><i><span style="font-family: PalatinoLinotype-Italic; font-size: 12pt;">yagna </span></i><span style="font-family: PalatinoLinotype-Roman; font-size: 12pt;">is sacrifice. These celebrations are not filled with </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: PalatinoLinotype-Roman; font-size: 16px;">sensual gratification at the expense of others. Rather, they are filled with a true spirit of thanks: God has given to us, so our heart says we should sacrifice for Him, give back </span><span style="font-family: PalatinoLinotype-Roman; font-size: 12pt;">to Him. The symbols of a </span><i><span style="font-family: PalatinoLinotype-Italic; font-size: 12pt;">yagna </span></i><span style="font-family: PalatinoLinotype-Roman; font-size: 12pt;">– the burning of our sins and desires, the offering of everything at the holy feet of the Lord, the reminder that "Nothing is mine, oh God, it is all Yours," – this is what feels to me like true thanks. Those who are full of blessings, and gratitude for those blessings, have a natural instinct to share with others, to give to others and to serve others. To them it seems their cup always runneth over. It seems, in contrast, that there is something reprehensible about the </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: PalatinoLinotype-Roman; font-size: 16px;">idea of sitting down to thank God through the consumption of His child smothered in gravy!</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: PalatinoLinotype-Roman; font-size: 12pt;">Let us, instead, pause and give thanks for something far more valuable than a bountiful harvest. Let us give thanks for our human ability to have compassion, to have empathy </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: PalatinoLinotype-Roman; font-size: 16px;">for the plight of another, to make choices that not only satisfy our bodies in the moment, but that satisfy our hearts and souls. Let us, rather than destroy our precious environment and the creatures who live within it, let us give thanks for the land that can feed us, feed our fellow creatures, convert carbon dioxide into oxygen, give us </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: PalatinoLinotype-Roman; font-size: 16px;">medicine to heal our sickness and provide shelter for all God’s creatures.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: PalatinoLinotype-Roman; font-size: 12pt;">Let us give thanks for our ability to think clearly, to discriminate between right and wrong, and to sacrifice a temporary pleasure for the benefit of another. Let us give </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: PalatinoLinotype-Roman; font-size: 16px;">thanks for our ability to choose right from wrong and our freedom to act accordingly.</span></div></div>Sadhvi Bhagawati Saraswatihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04720603185087768750noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1719297161437784959.post-39041859520118594742011-10-16T19:07:00.000-07:002011-12-18T07:50:48.827-08:00Diwali - Let the Divine Lamps Dispel the Darkness of Our Ignorance<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;"></span></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: black; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">Diwali is a glorious holiday. It is a holiday filled with continuous festivity, revelry and celebration. Even sworn enemies embrace, and hostilities melt as we share box after box of fresh sweets.</span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> </span><br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">At this sacred time, I reflect upon the words of my Guru, Pujya Swami Chidanand Saraswatiji: "<i>Don't only light the lamps in your temples, homes and offices. Also remember to light the lamp in your own heart.<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span> That divine lamp will dispel the darkness of ignorance; that is the true way of welcoming Bhagawan Rama into your life</i>."<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><u1:p></u1:p> </span><br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">The lamp in our hearts? What divine light is he referring to? What darkness of ignorance is there within us which should be dispelled on this holy day?<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><u1:p></u1:p> </span><br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><b><i><u><span style="color: black; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">Ignorance of the Nature of the True Self</span></u></i></b><span style="color: black; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><u1:p></u1:p> </span><br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">We are all ignorant about so many things. One cannot possibly be an expert or even properly informed about the majority of subjects in the world. The information available in the world today is too vast, its depth and breadth boundless and unfathomable. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>Yet ignorance of math, science, history or technology may make life slightly inconvenient but it does not shroud us in darkness. It does not keep the presence of the Divine an arm's length from our hearts.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><u1:p></u1:p> <div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">What is the ignorance which is so dark it must be dispelled in order for us to live peaceful, fulfilling, meaningful and divinely-connected lives? It is the ignorance of the true nature of the Self.<o:p></o:p></span></div><u1:p></u1:p> <div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">To me, one of the most beautiful aspects of Hinduism is the belief that at the core of our being we are divine. In contrast to other major world religions, Hinduism teaches that at the essence of our being there is pure divinity, there is light, there is perfection. It is merely ignorance, the false identification with the body and its urges, which leads us to "sin". <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>Of course the karmic consequences for our actions must be paid, even when we realize that they were committed due to the darkness of ignorance rather than the darkness of evil. <o:p></o:p></span></div><u1:p></u1:p> <div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;"><b><i><u><span style="color: black; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">That Divine Light Within</span></u></i></b><span style="color: black; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><u1:p></u1:p> <div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">When the saints and spiritual masters of India exhort us to remove the darkness, to light the lamp within, they are referring not to a transformation of inherent darkness into newly created light, but rather to a shedding of that ignorance, that false identification, that illusion, which shrouds our innate light from our view. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>As Pujya Swamiji explains, "<i>The sun is always shining outside, but if your windows are covered with two inches of mud it will be dark in your home. The answer is not to go out in search of the sun, to sign up for courses or workshops on invoking the power of the sun, or even to bemoan the darkness. The answer is simply to clean the windows so that the naturally occurring presence of light may flow into your home.</i>"<o:p></o:p></span></div><u1:p></u1:p> <div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">In the same way as the sun in Pujya Swamiji's example, the inner divine light is always there, always shining, always available. It is the core of our being. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>However, the "windows" of our consciousness have become muddied by our false-identifications, our expectations, our grudges, our jealousies. Hence, that light is obscured from our view. <o:p></o:p></span></div><u1:p></u1:p> <div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;"><b><i><u><span style="color: black; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">Who AM I?</span></u></i></b><span style="color: black; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><u1:p></u1:p> <div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">From the time of the war of Kurukshetra, when Bhagawan Krishna urged Arjuna to realize his true Self, to realize not only the universal dharma but his personal dharma as a kshetriya, as the son of Pandu, as one whose task was to restore dharma to adharma, saints and rishis and sages have enjoined us to recognize our true nature.<o:p></o:p></span></div><u1:p></u1:p> <div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">When we are not aware of who we really are, we inevitably try -- consciously or unconsciously -- to become something else. We then live our lives falsely identified with roles, masks and personalities that are not truly us. However, unlike the actor in a drama who remembers to remove his costume and make-up at the end of the day, we have become so internally united with our false self, that we have begun to think it is who we are. We have come to believe the mask is our true face, the script is our true life and the costume is our true Self.<o:p></o:p></span></div><u1:p></u1:p> <div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">We get a degree and we say, "I AM a PhD, or I AM a doctor." We put on make-up and expensive clothes or we get cosmetic surgery and we say "I AM beautiful." We earn a lot of money and we say, "I AM rich. I AM successful." We get married and have children and we say, "I AM a wife and mother" or "I AM a husband and father." We make many friends and we say "I AM popular. I AM well liked and respected."<o:p></o:p></span></div><u1:p></u1:p> <div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">However, these are merely things we DO, ways we spend our time, choices we make, personalities we don because it suits the culture in which we live. They are not who we ARE. We are not our degrees, our beauty, our bank accounts, our popularity or our relations. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">The problem with this false identification is that these roles are all fleeting.<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span> They are based merely on what we have done and achieved today. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>So, when they get shattered, as falsehood is inevitably shattered and as anything of the flesh is inevitably limited, we lose not merely a title or a job or money or beauty, but we lose the very connection to our Self. We have wrapped our sense of Self so tightly around these roles that when the curtain falls and the drama ends, we feel that our life is being torn out from within us. If I AM beautiful, what happens when I age or my skin breaks out or I have an accident that scars my face? Then who AM I? If I AM a mother or <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>wife then when my children grow up and don't need me or my husband divorces me or dies, who AM I? If I AM rich and successful, if I lose my money or retire from my profession, who AM I?<o:p></o:p></span></div><u1:p></u1:p> <div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">We also say, "I AM angry. I AM sad. I AM frustrated. I AM depressed." Yet, our scriptures, philosophy and gurus tell us we are none of these things. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>Our brain may be experiencing emotional patterns of chemical and electric energy that correlate to what psychologists term anger or depression. However, I, the true Self is pure, perfect, untouched and unafflicted by patterns of energy corresponding to emotional states. I am the one who is aware, who is watching, who is witnessing, who is able to name the states of sadness and depression, but not the one who is afflicted by them.<o:p></o:p></span></div><u1:p></u1:p> <div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;"><b><i><u><span style="color: black; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">Ignorance of the Self Leads to Misery</span></u></i></b><span style="color: black; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><u1:p></u1:p> <div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">The lack of awareness of who we truly are, the lack of ability to distinguish between what I DO and who I AM, this ignorance is the darkness which leads to suffering and misery in life. It is also this ignorance of the Self's true nature that leads us to act in ways for which we have to reap the fruits of negative karma. Greed, lust, dishonesty, jealousy, anger and <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>arrogance are products of our blindness toward the true light within and toward the true nature of the Self. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>If I am already full and complete then there is nothing to covet.<o:p></o:p></span></div><u1:p></u1:p> <div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;"><b><i><u><span style="color: black; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">The True Self's Cup is Always Overflowing</span></u></i></b><span style="color: black; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><u1:p></u1:p> <div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">These days in the new-age "spiritual" circles there is talk about "enlightened abundance," which typically refers to the concept of becoming so enlightened that one can manifest piles of money! There are books, films, courses and workshops on manifesting abundance as though if one is simply in touch enough with the Source, that Source will provide whatever one asks. However, what the lives and teachings of the true saints and rishis teach us is that the moment one has even a taste of awakening, a taste of Divine Connection, a taste of being One with the Source, one immediately experiences not a genie who will grant three wishes, but rather an immediate and overwhelming sense of completeness. Those who are truly enlightened live with the experience that their cup is overflowing. They are One with all of creation; thus there is no need to possess the wealth of the universe. It is already theirs. This is why in the stories of our scriptures, whether it's Kunti (mother of the Pandavas) or Dhruv or Prahlad, when God Himself stands in front of them instructing them to ask for any boon, there is nothing they want. They are complete merely due to His presence.<o:p></o:p></span></div><u1:p></u1:p> <div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">When I first came to Rishikesh, during one of my early satsangs with Pujya Swamiji He held up a pen in front of me and He said to me, "You are not this pen." I laughed. Of course I am not a pen, I thought. How obvious. He then said, "There will come a time when I will tell you that you are not that body and you will laugh in the same way you just laughed when I said you're not a pen. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>A time will come when it will be as ridiculous to assume you are the body as it is ridiculous to assume you are a pen."<o:p></o:p></span></div><u1:p></u1:p> <div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">At this sacred time of Diwali, when we line our homes and offices and streets with brightly burning lamps, let us <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>pray for that light within our own hearts that illumines the nature of our Self, showing us who we really are.<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span> When that light is there, then we know that Bhagawan Rama has truly returned, not merely to Ayodhya but also into our hearts and our lives.<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span> <o:p></o:p></span></div><u1:p></u1:p> <div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div></span></div>Sadhvi Bhagawati Saraswatihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04720603185087768750noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1719297161437784959.post-5926758520727791892011-10-07T20:54:00.000-07:002011-12-18T07:51:50.581-08:00Rosh Hashanah<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span"></span><br />
<div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><br />
</span></div><span class="Apple-style-span"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 13pt; line-height: 115%;">Green, crisp, tart granny-smith apples smothered in dripping, sticky honey. These are my memories of Rosh Hashanah as a child. I remember the anticipation with which I awaited the round plate that our counselor at the Jewish day-care center would place in front of us, apples sliced ever so delicately, with what seemed to be a vat of honey next to it. We were permitted one piece at time, and wooden popsicle sticks served as knives for spreading. Grasping a crescent-moon shaped piece of apple with one hand, I would lather on as much honey as a popsicle stick could hold; then the race began to get the apple into my mouth before the precious honey dripped off and onto the table. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 13pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 13pt; line-height: 115%;">Memories of fruit and honey. Crunchy and smooth. Sour and sweet. Cool and warm. A perfect blending of tastes and textures. A moment of Heaven for a small child. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 13pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 13pt; line-height: 115%;">These are, of course, memories that seem to be purely culinary. They are not memories of God, nor even of culture or history. I am sure that prior to the much-anticipated placement of the apples and honey on our tables, the teachers must've shared with us -- perhaps for many preceding days -- the meaning, the stories, the significance and the history of this most sacred day. I am sure that we were not permitted to dive into our treats without demonstrating some understanding of the holiday upon us. Yet, those memories have not stood the test of time. As vividly as I can see the tray of apples, as clearly as I can feel the cool crunch of the apple between my teeth, as much saliva as the mere memory generates more than thirty years later, I have no recollection of any kind of the religious training that most certainly accompanied this. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 13pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 13pt; line-height: 115%;">A tragedy of sorts, yes. But this tragedy of modern, reformed Jewish education in America may point also to a precious and compelling awareness of the "felt-sense" of religion. For, while I cannot conjure up the faintest recollection of any words spoken by the teachers (or even the rabbis) regarding this holiday, the mere thought of apples and honey brings a flood of tears to my eyes and deep warmth to my heart. It is this "felt-sense", this inexplicable, un-nameable, undefineable yet unbreakable connection to Judaism that -- even after having lived for 15 years in a Hindu ashram where I have devoted my life to the service of a Hindu saint, even after having taken vows of renunciation in the Hindu tradition, even after becoming a speaker/teacher/leader to Hindus around the world -- causes tears to flow spontaneously from my eyes every time I hear chanting of the Torah or every time I light the candles of the menorah on Hanukkah. It is this absolutely indissoluble link between a Jew to Judaism -- regardless of whether that Jew could tell you anything about the most sacred of days other than that one eats apples and honey -- which has kept the religion alive, strong and flourishing for thousands of years despite invasions of every possible kind from every possible corner. It is that link that causes me to cry, neither tears of joy nor tears of sadness, but merely tears of truth, as I say <i>L'shana tova</i> to myself, as the waters of a river I sacrilegiously yet profoundly worship as the Goddess flow outside my window. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 13pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 13pt; line-height: 115%;">What is religion then? It is not the teachings I cannot remember that link me inextricably to the sound of the Torah chanting. It is not the sermons in the temple I missed while my friends and I gathered in the bathrooms to gossip. It is not the prayers I no longer know nor the holidays I no longer observe. It is certainly not the identification, externally, with world Jewry that connects me, for a tiny number of people in my life today even know I'm Jewish. In fact, in the land in which I live being white means Christian. There isn't even awareness of another religion. So, if religion is neither in the teachings nor the services nor the prayers nor the community identification, what is it? What, after having become fully absorbed into an Indian Hindu spiritual culture, causes my heart to race in delighted anticipation at every inter-faith gathering as the Jewish Rabbi takes the podium? <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 13pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 13pt; line-height: 115%;">What is this bond? What is this link that defies and surpasses practice and lifestyle? <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 13pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 13pt; line-height: 115%;">In the peacekeeping and inter-religious harmony community there is much talk about the artificial lines of religion, about unnecessary borders and boundaries between faiths, about the necessity of realizing that all is One. Yes, all is One in the way that all drops of water are of the ocean. The molecules are all H2O. They all came from the ocean and ultimately will return to the ocean. But surely on some level, even if not detectable by microscope, water which has sat in a pool of the Himalayas, surrounded by mineral rich rocks and foliage, unknown to pollution, in a world of silence and serenity must be different than water which flows through the gutter of an impoverished, polluted, crime-ridden city. There must be something, on some molecular or energetic level, different about these 2 drops of water. That, of course, does not deem one better than the other or justified in oppressing or killing the other, but there must be some qualitative difference in these molecules. Even if you take the drop from the gutter and put it in the Himalayas, wouldn't it, on some level, retain any bit of its "gutterness?" Similarly, if you take the drop from the Himalayas and put it in the gutter, despite the sewage and trash with which it is now associated, wouldn't that molecule remain, forever, somewhat different than the others?<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 13pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 13pt; line-height: 115%;">The Chief Rabbi of Israel once lovingly said to Swamiji, as I tried unsuccessfully to serve him another plate of fruit during the Hindu-Jewish Summit in Jerusalem, "<i>You can take her to India, you can make her a Hindu, but you can never take the Jewish mother out of her." </i> Perhaps in this lifetime being a mother, or at least a biological mother, was not part of my destiny, but being a Jew certainly was. <o:p></o:p></span></div></div>Sadhvi Bhagawati Saraswatihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04720603185087768750noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1719297161437784959.post-32854947781524541972011-09-11T00:54:00.000-07:002011-12-18T07:52:44.944-08:00Reflections on 9/11 and our response to tragedy<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><br />
<div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">A few years ago I was traveling from Lisbon, Portugal to Tenerife (in the Canary Islands) via Madrid. Tragically on that day a Span Air plane had crashed in the Madrid airport, killing nearly all on board. Approximately 150 people had died and the Madrid airport was closed for many hours. Our flight was, of course, cancelled and we reached Tenerife nearly 24 hours after the original scheduled time. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Upon arrival in Tenerife we found that there was a pervasive state of bereavement amongst all of the people due to the plane crash. Wherever we went, people would request Pujya Swamiji to say prayers for the departed souls, to have moments of silence before and after each program. Questions in the satsangs inevitably revolved around issues of karma, death, destiny and tragedy. The plane which had crashed was destined for Gran Canaria, the largest of the Canary islands. No one we spoke with or who was present in any of the functions had actually known anyone on the flight; yet the state of anxiety, numbness and despair were textbook responses to great loss, even verging on PTSD in several circumstances. "<i>I haven't slept in 3 nights. I can't eat. I can't get pictures of the plane crash out of my mind."</i><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><i><br />
</i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">The crash was a tragedy. One hundred fifty families lost a mother, father, child, spouse or sibling. Countless thousands lost a loved one. The mirage of safety and invincibility we feel upon a major airliner flying to a vacation destination had faded. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Yet, after two days of prayer upon prayer, puja upon puja, explanation upon explanation of death and karma and the afterlife, I found a small volcano of despair within myself begin to grow and threaten to rupture. My volcano of anguish, though, was not for the 150 who had died in the plane crash, although I certainly shed tears as I watched the news stories of the wreckage from the Lisbon airport lounge with interviews of those whose loved ones had died. No, my deep anguish, separate from the sadness at the loss of life in the crash, was due to a divide, a dichotomy, a chasm I could not bridge. Finally, able to contain it no longer, on the 3rd day I found myself at Pujya Swamiji's feet exclaiming, "<i>How is it possible that these people can cry day after day for 150 people who died whom they didn't know and whose deaths they couldn't possibly have prevented, and still go out and eat meat, the practice of which causes the death of tens of thousands of children of starvation EVERY DAY</i>?" "<i>Why is it</i>," I wailed, "<i>That the death of 150 well-to-do vacationers is worthy of silence, prayer, puja and tears, while the death of impoverished, starving children in third world countries is not</i>?" <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">On a spiritual path that teaches non-judgment, I struggled rather unsuccessfully within myself with the judgment I felt for those who cried for the dead vacationers and then went out and caused the death of impoverished children without giving it a second thought. I understood intuitively that it was compassion, empathy and love inspiring their grief at the loss of life. Clearly they are compassionate and loving people. Here they are mourning the death of people they didn't even know. So, how could that compassion and love vanish the moment they held a menu or shopping cart in their hands? Was it merely ignorance? If they knew the devastation wrought upon our world by the meat industry, would they become vegetarian? I am not sure about them, as in the midst of the aftermath of the plane crash I did not raise this issue; however, as I have traveled the world and spoken to innumerable audiences on vegetarianism I have found a great divide. it seems that those who are like us, who possibly could have been us or our loved ones, elicit our compassion and empathy. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Those who are not like us, who couldn't possibly be us or our loved one, tend not to elicit such feelings. They may elicit sympathy - such as when we see news stories of famines in African nations or AIDS orphans. We may send a check to Save the Children or Oxfam or Amnesty International. But, derail our lives, consume our thoughts, render us insomniacs? It seems that only tragedies which hit at the core of the safety we personally feel have the power to effect such powerful responses. A fatal crash of a plane they took last week or were planning to take next week or take regularly, a bomb that rocks through our favorite coffee shop or hotel or our local airport -- these are the events that shake us to our core despite statistics telling us we have a MUCH greater chance of being struck by lightning than dying in a terrorist attack. The tens of thousands of children who died yesterday, and the day before, and who will die again today, and tomorrow and the day after - they don't have a chance at all of seeing another lightening storm, let alone being struck by one. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">And their deaths are preventable. Preventable by us, by our choices, by our decisions. Their deaths are, rather, caused by us, by our choices and decisions. As we mourn the deaths of those we could not prevent, we cause the deaths of others. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">One pound of grain can be turned into one pound of bread, or one pound of pasta or one pound of rice or corn. However, in order to produce one pound of meat, sixteen pounds of grain are required. The reason is that the grain is fed daily to the animals who live, several miserable years, until they are slaughtered to become hamburgers or hotdogs. By the time the animal is killed and the flesh is turned into packaged meals, 16 pounds of grain have gone into the production of each pound of meat. That means, every time we eat a meal of meat, we are eating the grain of 15 other people. We are eating for 16. If my one pound of meat requires 16 pounds of grain, rather than my pound of pasta requiring only a pound of grain, then every time I choose meat I am consuming the grain of 15 others. The food supply on planet Earth is tragically limited. Food shortages and famines are prevalent and pervasive across the world. Can we really afford to make choices that take the food out of the mouths of starving children with nearly every meal? The United States alone produces enough grain every day to give each and every person on Earth two loaves of bread a day. No one would go hungry, let alone starve, on two loaves of bread. The problem is they are not getting the bread, for the grain is not being used for humans. Rather the grain is used as feed for the cows, pigs and chickens who become our breakfast sausage, our lunchtime turkey sandwich or hamburger and our evening roast chicken or steak. So we get fatter, our cholesterol rises, and they die. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">The production of a pound of meat takes approximately 2600 gallons (approximately 10,000 liters) of water. This is due to the exorbitant amount of water used to grow the food for the livestock, the water they drink and are bathed in and then the water used to try to wash the blood, urine and feces out of the flesh to be sold in grocery stores. Tens of thousands of farmers across the "developing" world are collapsing on their desiccated fields. There is no water for their parched mouths or withered crops. Many commit suicide, unable to face the prospect of a tomorrow with no means to feed themselves and their families. Many others are taken, unwillingly, by sickness and death. Others abandon the fields of their ancestors and flood the already overpopulated cities to wreak out a meager existence in a slum on the muddy outskirts of a third-world metropolis. And a typical family consumes the equivalent of 2600 gallons of water during one meal of hamburgers. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">The world of the 21st century cannot live in a vacuum. We don't have to be quantum physicists to understand the way that our personal choices and actions directly impact the rest of the planet. What I purchase, use and eat today in Rishikesh or Delhi or London or Paris or Los Angeles is having a direct effect on the lives of my brothers and sisters in other countries. Every pound of meat that I don't eat frees up sixteen pounds of grain and 2500 gallons of water for other purposes. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">If a loved one needed an expensive operation, we all, immediately and instinctively, would make whatever financial sacrifices were required to ensure that he/she could get that treatment. We would easily and effortlessly forsake regular pleasures, whether movies or massages or bottles of fine wine. These sacrifices would not even feel like sacrifices and we certainly wouldn't pat ourselves on the back as martyrs. We would simply be making choices based on our priorities and values -- keeping the loved one alive is obviously of more value than a massage or movie or bottle of expensive wine. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Every religion of the world exhorts us to view the world as our family. Can we? Can we do more than shake our heads in disbelief as we watch the news? Can we realize that the "sacrifice" of giving up meat so that our starving brothers and sisters may be fed, so that farmers' lands may be irrigated, so that trees may continue to grow in the Amazon, so that the rate of global warming and environmental devastation may be checked, so that Mother Earth may continue to have fertile land for growing crops, may we realize that this is a natural choice to be made and not an excruciating sacrifice? Can we truly feel the same Oneness, the same sense of family, for those who are not "us" as we do for those living under our own roofs or within our circle of friends? Can the deaths of the tens of thousands of children who are not like us each day affect us even a tiny bit as much as the deaths of those with whom we can more easily identify?<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">The world today requires not just that we connect on facebook and twitter, not just that we count our global presence in the number of "friends" or "followers" we have, but that we truly and deeply take the world into our heart. It is not easy. The suffering is vast and seemingly infinite. We naturally feel helpless and overwhelmed; hence the reaction is to shut ourselves down, to once again narrow that circle so that we may not be face to face with such pain. However, we can't do that anymore. Politically, environmentally, socially - the world of today requires us to be present and aware even with that which seems out of our control and beyond our reach. We will find that so much more than we thought is within our power to change. Perhaps we can't change entire industries, or entire government systems, but every choice we make of where to shop, what to wear, what to purchase and what to eat has an absolutely direct and powerful impact upon life situations for children dying of starvation, pre-pubescent girls and boys working 18 or 20 hour days in toxic sweatshops, cotton pickers suffering from pesticide induced cancers, suicidal farmers, and upon the health and balance of Mother Earth. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Some tragedies are unpreventable -- an act of terror for which, of course, hindsight is 20/20 but foresight was minimal. Some tragedies are preventable or mitigate-able on various levels (death by lifestyle diseases, for example). And then some tragedies are 100% preventable - caused, created and perpetuated simply by the conscious, deliberate choices of those who have the freedom to make choices. These tragedies are happening minute by minute, moment by moment; if we fail to prevent it today, we can work harder tomorrow. If we fail tomorrow, we have the day after. We cannot turn back the clock and undo horrific acts of unspeakable violence and terror which have already been perpetrated. All we can do is honor their memories with love and respect, and refuse to be part of the violence in the present and future.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><br />
</div></div>Sadhvi Bhagawati Saraswatihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04720603185087768750noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1719297161437784959.post-26416762929228396562011-09-11T00:53:00.000-07:002011-12-18T07:54:06.793-08:00India - Let it Inside You<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span"></span><br />
<div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><br />
</span></div><span class="Apple-style-span"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><i><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">"If one more person pushes and squeezes me in the aarti again I'm going to scream!" </span></i><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">The tears in her eyes are testimony to the very real and sincere pain this young woman from London is experiencing. To an Indian this pain is unfathomable. Pushing and squeezing are part and parcel of the Indian way of life and the spiritual sector isn't an exception. </span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Overcrowding is not, in these cases, the reason, for there is plenty of room if one is only prepared to be a little further from the center of the action. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">The reason touches upon something much deeper and more profound about the culture of India, and explains one of the reasons that visits to India, particularly spiritual pilgrimages, are so emotionally difficult for people from other countries. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">After living in India for nearly 15 years I have realized that there is absolutely no concept of social space the way we understand it in the West. This is neither a good thing nor a bad thing. It just is. In the West, there is an unspoken but universally understood "buffer zone" around each of us, physically and emotionally, which can be trespassed upon only by intimate friends and relations. If two people who are standing and speaking with each other start to get too physically close (unless of course there is romance brewing) an invisible yet almost tangible magnet will pull them backwards until the comfortable social distance is re-established. In India this is not the case. If two people are sitting next to each other, with a socially comfortable 5 or 6 inches of space between them, that space counts as a "seat" and an Indian could very easily come and squeeze him/herself into that spot with absolutely no sense of having committed a social faux-pas. I cannot say the number of times someone has come and sat down basically on my lap in a variety of religious functions in halls, temples and elsewhere. <i>"But how in the world did a voluptuous, well-endowed woman think there was room to sit down in six inches of space?"</i> I used to wonder. "<i>Didn't she realize she'd be sitting on my legs?</i>" Of course she realized. The difference is that to her there's nothing wrong with that, if she's Indian. My legs, my lap, my personal space are absolutely viable options for places to sit. Of course, there is no accompanying sense of embarrassment or apology, for -- by Indian cultural standards -- there is no such thing as social space, and if it doesn't exist then it certainly can't be violated. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">The same is true emotionally. "<i>Are you married? Why aren't you married? How come your parents let you come to India? Don't they want you to get married? How much money do you make? Are your brothers and sisters married? How much money do they make?</i>" The questions flow out in a fast stream, like a waterfall upon an unsuspecting bather who went into a pond for a relaxing dip, not realizing what was about to rain down upon his head. The look of bewilderment, of insult, of embarrassment on the face of the questionee doesn't seem to deter the questions either. For, again, there is no personal/social space they have invaded. It just doesn't exist. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">This is where the choice comes for Westerners visiting India or living in India. We have two options. Either we can try to turn India into America or Europe and attempt to impose our standards and cultural norms upon India or we can let India be India and open ourselves to the transformation which is possible. The former is what we normally do, but it is an exercise in futility and frustration. The latter is where the real possibility of India manifests. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">India is not a country which can be seen at an arm's distance. It is not a country which can be seen from behind the lens of a camera. It is a country which can ONLY be seen when it has entered and affected every single cell of our being. To try to hold India at an arm's distance is about as effective as holding up a stop-sign at an approaching tsunami. You're going to get wet, stop-sign in hand or no stop-sign in hand. And that's the beauty of India. India does not show us India from the outside. It's not about the buildings or the sights. Yes, of course these are beautiful and interesting, but they're not India in terms of what India has to give. They can just as easily be seen in postcards. India shows us India not in bricks, not in cement, not even in mud or thatch, but India shows us India only from the inside. Once it has entered our being, whether we invited it or not, once it has held up the mirror of ourselves to ourselves, once it has brought out both the very worst and also the very best in us (sometimes alternating almost comically in a period of merely minutes or hours), once it has turned us upside down and inside out, then and only then has India showed us India. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Europe can be held at a distance. One can visit Europe, enjoy Europe and "see" Europe by visiting the various cities and country-sides, by visiting the cathedrals and ancient ruins, by sipping coffee in a road side cafe and eating baguettes and brie on park benches in the shade. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">But India wants to get inside. And it will, for our own benefit. If medicine were unable to penetrate the cell wall, if it were unable to get deep within our cells and spill its contents there, it would be unable to help us. Merely floating around in our bloodstream, helpless in the face of an impermeable cell wall, medicine would be futile. Our flus and fevers and blood pressure and cholesterol and blood sugar would remain unchecked and untreated. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">In the same way, India is meant to heal us. But only from the inside. Only if it can penetrate the walls. Only if we let it in. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">When I first came to India I decided almost immediately that I would wear sarees. Many people tried to dissuade me by telling me how difficult it is to tie a saree, but I decided that if half a billion people (approximately 50% of the population of India is women), most of whom were uneducated, could figure it out, it couldn't be so complex. Hence, I started wearing sarees, and I wore them poorly at first. So poorly in fact, that every time I wandered around outside of the ashram, random women would come up to me, stick their hands into my saree, grab the place where the pleats get tucked into the petti-coat, and --with a few sharp tugs -- pull my saree into proper place. The first time it happened, I remember thinking, "<i>Oh my God. That woman just stuck her hands into my underwear.</i>" And I didn't even know her. But then I stopped and I realized there was another way of looking at this. Rather than thinking that a random, unknown woman had just violated my personal space in a very significant way, I could also think, "<i>Wow. That woman just did for me exactly what she would have done for her own daughter. That woman on the street just adopted me."</i> Suddenly, rather than being violated, I had been adopted. Day after day after day by woman after woman, until I finally learned to tie my sarees correctly. The number of Indian women who adopted me in that way is uncountable. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">India is a country where everyone is a family relation. Uncle, Aunty, Bhai and Behen are ubiquitous suffixes to everyone's name. So a new woman we meet, older than ourselves, is not just Vinita or Vinitaji, but rather she is Vinita Aunty. A new man we meet of a similar age to ourselves is not just Vinod, but rather he is Vinod bhai. The concept of Vasudheva Kutumbhakam (the World is One Family) is not merely a trite platitude. It is truly the way that India operates. If she's my aunty and I'm her niece then there's nothing wrong with her sitting half-way into my lap. If she is Mataji and thus I am her daughter, then of course she can put her hands in my underwear to fix my saree. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">So, when someone sits down on top of our legs because he/she has decided that the 5 inches of space next to us is enough to squeeze into, or when someone places their bags, or their baby, on our lap as though we were a shelf, or when someone asks us questions more personal than we'd comfortably tell our own therapist, let us pause for a moment and realize we have a choice. We have either been violated or we've been adopted. The choice is up to us, and the outcome of our trip to India - whether it was heart opening and transformative in a beautiful and divine way, or whether it was frustrating, infuriating and nerve-wracking, bears direct correlation to which choice we make. Violated or adopted? What other country offers such a choice?<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div></div>Sadhvi Bhagawati Saraswatihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04720603185087768750noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1719297161437784959.post-82081558583751137142011-09-11T00:51:00.001-07:002011-09-11T00:51:39.636-07:00From West to East to West again - Seekers and Pilgrims in Haridwar and Rishikesh<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><b><br />
</b></div><div class="MsoNormal">“<i>So Parmarth seems to be more of a ‘city’ ashram, then, rather than a traditional ‘forest’ ashram, wouldn’t you agree?”</i> the interviewer queries.<span> </span>He is a young man from <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Bombay</st1:place></st1:city> doing a story on Rishikesh, gurus and the spiritual path in general. He’s come to Parmarth Niketan to take my interview regarding the ashram, its activities, the types of people who come and other topics.<span> </span>However, from this question I realize he has completely misunderstood not only Parmarth Niketan but the fundamental truth of the traditional ashrams of Rishikesh.<span> </span>“<i>No</i>,” I explain. “<i>It’s not a city ashram. It’s a traditional forest ashram, actually, based upon all the principles of traditional Indian spiritual practice. However, a city has grown up around it</i>.” </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The exodus of pilgrims and seekers to Rishikesh in the last two or three decades has turned this quiet village-like refuge of ashrams into a veritable city. But the city which has erected itself in front of, behind and around these ashrams does not change the nature of the ashrams themselves.<span> </span>The ashrams still are, in most cases, traditional Indian spiritual communities, places where sincere seekers can study yoga, meditation, the scriptures and the inner workings of their own minds.<span> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">This distinction, between the traditional and the modern, the forest and the city, the Western and the Eastern is one that must not be lost as the holy cities of Haridwar and Rishikesh quickly become refuges for seekers from every corner of the Earth.<span> </span>There is actually a tragic irony running through these cities, which I’ve watched spread, like an epidemic, in the twelve years I’ve lived in Rishikesh.<span> </span>Indians, in general and those living on the banks of Mother Ganga are no exception, long for everything non-Indian.<span> </span>Fairness creams are the fastest selling items in stores and items from <i>Amreeka</i> are inherently more valuable than their exactly equal Delhi-purchased counterparts.<span> </span>I cannot tell you the number of times someone -- having acquired God-knows how much punya for good karma over lifetimes and lifetimes thus having been born and raised on the banks of Ganga -- asks me: “<i>Please aap mere liye Amreeka mein kooch kara dijiye, matlab meri naukri lagwa dijiye please. Kooch bhi karo, muje Amreeka bhijwana do bus</i>.” <a href="file:///D:/writings1/ARTICLES/times-of-india-article.doc#_ftn1" name="_ftnref1" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">[1]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></a> </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The tragedy of this almost laughable paradox is far greater than simply Indians not appreciating that which they have. The tragedy is that the local people’s own yearning for the West is leading to a situation where the very richness, the very treasure chest of ancient wisdom, insights and spiritual secrets which draws Westerners here, is being deliberately diluted.<span> </span>Westerners do not come to <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">India</st1:place></st1:country-region> to sit in cyber cafés drinking cappuccinos. They can do that on their own corners. They do not come here to hang out in the Indian mimicry of Starbucks or to eat peanut butter and nutella. They come here, whether they are consciously aware of it or not, called, drawn, compelled by an irresistible force toward the Truth. They come here because their souls are searching for that which cannot be found in the West. They come here to find that depth of spirit, that pulsating, dancing, singing, ecstatic existence which touches the very core of our being. They come here to find their true Selves. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The problem is that Westerners, like everyone, are creatures of habit. If we’re used to sitting in coffee shops and cyber cafés, we will naturally gravitate toward these places if they are available. If we’re used to drinking lattes, we will choose them over lassis. If we’re used to eating pizza, and if it’s easily available, we will usually forsake the traditional fare for that which is habitual.<span> </span>Thus, it is becoming more and more likely that Westerners who come to the holy banks of Mother Ganga -- called by that indescribable, unknowable, yet irresistible universal force toward Truth, Depth and Divinity -- can now successfully idle away their entire time here gossiping over cappuccinos or emailing friends back home. <span> </span>This is a tragedy of universal proportions, for <st1:country-region w:st="on">India</st1:country-region>, for the West and for the entire world which is, I believe, relying upon <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">India</st1:place></st1:country-region> to guide it back to a properly balanced system of values, ethics and priorities. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I believe, fervently, that it is the responsibility of those purveyors of this ancient wisdom, those who have blessed beyond blessed to call Haridwar and Rishikesh home, those who are making decisions about what to offer and how to offer it, to do as much as they can to gift the ancient Indian wisdom and culture to those from the West, to satiate their hunger and to quench their thirst with Indianness. If one has traveled across the world, to the holy banks of Mother Ganga, dying of spiritual thirst, the answer is not to be handed a coca-cola upon arrival.<span> </span>The answer is to dip one’s hands into the flowing waters of <st1:place w:st="on">Ganga</st1:place>, to be taught to take archana, to drink and drink of that sacred nectar.<span> </span>But, if upon arrival, one is greeted only with soda pop, one could tragically depart from this holy land never having tasted the nectar of <st1:place w:st="on">Ganga</st1:place> jal. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">What is the answer then? Clearly Uttarakhand needs development. Clearly, we must move forward and not backwards. Clearly we must not thwart progress. Yet, we must ask ourselves: “<i>Development at what cost and for whom</i>?” We must ask ourselves: “<i>What is really forward and what is really backwards?</i>” Are shop after shop after shop selling trinket after trinket after trinket really development? Are stall after stall after stall selling pizza and coke really a step in the “forward” direction?<span> </span>Are coffee shops and cyber cafes which obscure the banks of Mother Ganga from our view, and dump their waste into Her waters, really progress?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Yes, Rishikesh and Haridwar are starting to look more Western and more modern, but we must not forget that all those who travel here from across the world have left “Western” and “modern” at home. They have consciously and deliberately traveled across the world to the East, and once arriving in <st1:country-region w:st="on">India</st1:country-region> they have consciously and deliberately chosen these holy teerth<a href="file:///D:/writings1/ARTICLES/times-of-india-article.doc#_ftn2" name="_ftnref2" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">[2]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></a> areas over cosmopolitan Mumbai or <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Hyderabad</st1:place></st1:city>. <span> </span>Clearly, they didn’t come for a coca-cola, a slice of pizza, a cappuccino, or an internet connection.<span> </span>They came seeking that ancient, true, priceless “experience” of <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">India</st1:place></st1:country-region> through which one can experience the Divine. <span> </span>They came, not for the same conveniences they have at home, but for something they DON’T have at home.<span> </span>My fear is that in the rush toward modernization for the sake of the foreign traveler, we must not ruin that for which they are coming in the first place.<span> </span>In our rush to put up more and more ATMs, more and more coffee shops, more and more cyber-cafes, we must not obliterate that which has compelled the travelers to come here. <span> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The first and most crucial step lies in the awareness and consciousness of those who call this area home.<span> </span>When we awake each morning and think not about how we can get to America, but how extraordinarily blessed we are to be on the banks of Ganga…..when first thing in the morning we rush, not for the newspaper or the TV to see the latest celebrity gossip, but rather to the banks of Ganga to offer our prayers and our pranams at Her holy waters…..when we fill our homes and our children’s minds not with Western sitcoms and soap operas, but with traditional Indian music and stories……when we stop spending our disposable income on fairness creams and spend it on traditional rose water or kumkum<a href="file:///D:/writings1/ARTICLES/times-of-india-article.doc#_ftn3" name="_ftnref3" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">[3]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></a> instead…..when we realize how very, very precious and matchless <span> </span>the priceless wisdom, insight and answers of Indian culture are, and how very blessed we are to have access to them. <span> </span>Only when that full, deep appreciation and awareness saturates our own beings can we share that with the visitors. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Rishikesh and Haridwar need development, but they need development of that which makes this area sacred – traditional yoga and meditation, pious and pure puja, a clean and pristine <st1:place w:st="on">Ganga</st1:place> in which to bathe and ashrams which maintain traditional standards of purity and devotion. <span> </span>People come here looking for the birthplace of yoga and meditation. They come looking for purity, sanctity and divine, spiritual truth. Let us focus more on giving them that. They won’t even notice the lack of cappuccinos. I promise. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><br clear="all" /> <hr align="left" size="1" width="33%" /> <!--[endif]--> <div id="ftn1"> <div class="MsoFootnoteText"><a href="file:///D:/writings1/ARTICLES/times-of-india-article.doc#_ftnref1" name="_ftn1" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">[1]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></a> “Please get me a job, any job, in America. I’m prepared to do anything, please just arrange something for me in America.”</div></div><div id="ftn2"> <div class="MsoFootnoteText"><a href="file:///D:/writings1/ARTICLES/times-of-india-article.doc#_ftnref2" name="_ftn2" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">[2]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></a> Sacred pilgrimage spots</div></div><div id="ftn3"> <div class="MsoFootnoteText"><a href="file:///D:/writings1/ARTICLES/times-of-india-article.doc#_ftnref3" name="_ftn3" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">[3]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></a> The traditional powder made from turmeric used to apply tilak</div></div></div></div>Sadhvi Bhagawati Saraswatihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04720603185087768750noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1719297161437784959.post-23388185786360411862011-09-11T00:50:00.001-07:002011-09-11T00:50:29.824-07:00Uttarakhand as a Hotspot for Yoga and Ayurveda<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><b><u><br />
</u></b></div><div class="MsoNormal">The telephone poles, windows of cyber cafes and restaurants, and walls of the ashrams are plastered with signs advertising every form of yoga imaginable -- from the traditional, standardized and internationally renowned Iyengar tradition to obscure, mysterious offerings for "Tantra, Yantra and Mantra."<span> </span>The yoga courses and classes at our own ashram are full to capacity 12 months a year. Students of every religion, every culture and every language flock from every corner of the Earth to come and study asanas, pranayama, meditation and Indian philosophy. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">When I first moved to Rishikesh nearly fifteen years ago I was an anomaly. I could feel the stares upon me as I walked down the street, in the market, as I sat on the banks of Ganga. Everywhere I went the questions rained down upon me, "Your country, Madam? Where do you belong? Where is your family?" The curiosity of the locals was insatiable. Why had I come? How long was I staying? How did I feel about India?<span> </span>It seemed truly inconceivable to them that someone from America, the "Land of Plenty" could actually leave that and find true abundance -- of mind, heart and spirit -- here in India, and not even in the fast-paced metropolitan cities of Delhi, Bombay or Calcutta, but here in quiet, sleepy Rishikesh.<span> </span>Now, in the evening satsang given by Pujya Swamiji (Swami Chidanand Saraswatiji, the President and Spiritual<span> </span>Head of Parmarth Niketan), <span> </span>the crowd is nearly 50% foreigners, sitting with their eyes closed, legs folded into perfect padmasana or siddhanasa, palms upward on knees in jnana mudra, soaking up the divine vibrations and wisdom of the satsang.<span> </span>Now, wandering from Rama Jhula to Lakshman Jhula, one sees signs not only in English, but also in French, Spanish, German and even Hebrew.<span> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal">What is happening? What is it that's drawing these foreigners by not the handful but by the thousands? It's been nearly fifty years since the Beatles were here and the Maharishi ashram has been abandoned for decades, so it's not Beatles-mania.<span> </span>Further, the type of foreigner who comes here these days is not a wandering hippie, looking to stay as long as possible on the smallest imaginable budget, one who has little left behind, one who is walking away from something back home.<span> </span>No. Today, the flock of foreigners are well-to-do, established, successful in a wide variety of fields, in India for a fixed period -- whether it's weeks or months -- as they have families and careers waiting for them back home.<span> </span>Today, those who come here seem not to be running from anything; rather are running toward something. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">What is it they are running toward and what is that exists here to pull them, almost magnetically, here. They have traveled across the world to the East, and once arriving in <st1:country-region w:st="on">India</st1:country-region> they have chosen this holy area over cosmopolitan Mumbai or <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Hyderabad</st1:place></st1:city>.<span> </span>They have come seeking that ancient, true, priceless “experience” of <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">India</st1:place></st1:country-region> through which one can experience the Divine.<span> </span>These days one can learn asana and pranayama on nearly every corner of nearly every city in the world.<span> </span>So, although they may be here enrolled in yoga, pranayama or meditation classes, it's not merely the teaching for which they have come.<span> </span>Rather, it is the "<i>touch</i>." They come here, whether they are consciously aware of it or not, called, drawn, compelled by an irresistible force toward the Divine, toward the true, deep and complete meaning of "Yoga" which is Union. But it is not union of the hands to the toes, or the head to the knee. It is union of the self with the Divine. The foreigners are rushing here because their souls are searching for that which cannot be found in the West, regardless of the excellence being obtained in Western yoga studios and certification programs. They come here to find that depth of spirit, that pulsating, dancing, singing, ecstatic existence which touches the very core of our being. They come here to find their true Selves. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Interestingly, the root of the world health is related not to the opposite of sickness, but actually to the word wholeness. To be healthy is not simply remaining off of antibiotics. To be healthy is to be whole, to be balanced, to feel complete. The Western vision and concept of both health and yoga is one dimensional. It is about the body. If the body is limber and strong and the yogasana matches the one in the book, then the practitioner is seen as a "yogi." If symptoms of a disease abate due to the ingestion of chemical medicines, the patient is seen as "cured." But, yoga and health go much deeper. There are components and layers to each that far transcend the physical.<span> </span>Hence, while the West has miraculously been able to "cure" so many of the infectious diseases that plagued humanity a century ago, we are now seeing a burgeoning of idiopathic diseases (diseases of unknown origin) auto-immune diseases in which the body attacks itself, cancerous growths in which cells inexplicably return to an undifferentiated state and multiply frenetically.<span> </span>These are diseases of a system out of balance, diseases of a system gone awry.<span> </span>More and more people abroad are realizing the inefficacy of Western medicine in treating these chronic, systemic illnesses. Western medicine cannot restore balance to an imbalanced system. It may be able to treat the disease but it cannot bring true health and wholeness to the being. Hence, people are turning to ayurveda, turning to practices like yoga, pranayama, meditation which restore balance and true health & wholeness to the individual. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The land of Uttarakhand is one of the few places on Earth where one can receive not only the teachings of asana or pranayama, but where one can actually receive that divine <i>touch</i> that makes true transformation possible. The sacred energies lingering in the atmosphere from thousands of years of enlightened masters performing yoga and meditation, the waters of Mother Ganga that sweep across your face on the breeze, the winds that blow through the Himalayas and into your lungs....The motto of Uttarakhand is "Simply Heaven" and it is only in Heaven that one can find that true depth and completeness of divine union which the word "yoga" actually implies. It is only in Heaven that one can find the true balance of body, mind and spirit that brings not only freedom from disease but true health and wholeness.<span> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div></div>Sadhvi Bhagawati Saraswatihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04720603185087768750noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1719297161437784959.post-55712335522896066432011-09-11T00:49:00.000-07:002011-12-18T07:56:04.616-08:00Facebook -- A useful tool for the present, but not a doorway to the past<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><o:p> </o:p>“<i>Don’t look at the name, look at the face. You won’t recognize the name, but look deeply into the eyes. You will recognize them</i>,” I am about to write to my first love, a boy from <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:country-region w:st="on">Panama</st1:country-region></st1:place> who broke my heart more than twenty years ago. I was fifteen years old, intellectually forty but street-wise only about ten. The extent of worldliness I could call my own was that I had been taking the city bus by myself down the main boulevard to my karate class since I was eight. I had been raised to believe that “strangers are friends we haven’t met yet” and had not yet developed even an ounce of suspicion, cynicism or street smarts. Roberto was seventeen going on thirty, part of the Central American elite where the youth aged at rapid speed. We met at an international summer camp in <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Switzerland</st1:place></st1:country-region>, a place to which if my parents had truly understood what went on they never would have sent me. He called me his “baby” and I was. But, that summer -- for eight precious, timeless weeks -- I was an adult. He took me on a boat, a fancy yacht that sailed from <st1:city w:st="on">Lausanne</st1:city> to Evian in <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">France</st1:place></st1:country-region>, just for dinner. Dressed up, we sat on the deck at a round table shared with couples twice our age, sipping champagne (there was no enforceable drinking age in <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Switzerland</st1:place></st1:country-region>) as though it were something we did every night. Yes, an evening cruise to <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:country-region w:st="on">France</st1:country-region></st1:place> for dinner, just the two of us.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">The summer of 1986 ended as quickly as they all do, but along with it my attachment did not. We were in love, and of course that meant forever. Shoeboxes in my closet quickly filled with letters from him, which he sealed with a spray of his signature cologne (I didn’t know ANY other boys who wore cologne). I would sit on the floor of my closet, pulling letter after letter out of the box, not so much to read his effusively devoted words as to clasp them to my nose, my heart, and my nose again until I was sure I could feel him sitting beside me, there on the carpeted floor, our heads lost in clothes hanging down from the racks. The song Hotel <st1:state w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">California</st1:place></st1:state>, to which we had danced over and over and over again all summer, played on constant repeat-mode from the stereo in my room. I was impervious to the objections raised by my Jewish grandfather to whom the idea of his 15-year old granddaughter falling in love with a Panamanian boy must have been the equivalent of death by hanging. After all, I was sure, true love could overcome all hurdles, break down all boundaries, and cross all lines of religion and race. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">A mere four months later, before the dawn of 1987, he had found himself a real woman, one whom he could take to bed, a place his fifteen year old “baby” could not even imagine going. And that was it. Over. I knew from the first few seconds of our phone conversation that something had changed. “I have a new girlfriend, from <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Panama</st1:place></st1:country-region>,” he told me. “A real woman.” There was no place or time for negotiation. That was it. I called him back a few days later, sobbing, when the reality finally sunk in and the shock wore off. He was drunk and pretended not to recognize my voice. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Fast forward twenty three years. The betrayal and anguish have become simply threads in the tapestry of my life, woven together with threads of great love, bliss, maturity and development, and have almost dissolved imperceptibly into the intricately woven canvass of who I am. Hindsight’s 20/20 vision has enabled me to see the obvious shallowness and immaturity, albeit very real intensity, of the love I felt at fifteen. Those four months have become one of thousands of brush strokes upon the painting of my thirty-eight years, barely noticeable amidst the solid background of peaceful contentment with flourishes of deep gratitude, understanding, wisdom and joy. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Enter facebook…..I join at the behest of a friend who has created a “cause” for our charitable organization. In order to be part of the cause, I need to have an account. As I begin to browse through its functions and options, I find how easy it is to search for people by simply name or country. The temptation is strong. After looking up a few old friends from Stanford, I type in “Roberto Silvo, <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Panama</st1:place></st1:country-region>.” There he is. The picture is too small to recognize, for it’s of a man standing in a mountainous panorama. I dare not invite him to be my “friend.” </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">I am fascinated, compelled, drawn inward into the world of this boy, now man, whom I certainly don’t know and probably never really did, regardless of how convinced I was that we were soul mates. I peek inward, into as much of his world as I can see without leaving any traces or disclosing my identity. I look at all of his 162 “friends” as though somewhere, somehow, in their random names and random faces with their random children and random pets I can catch a glimpse of a person who existed twenty-three years ago in my teenage heart. What relation his friend Maria Santos and her smiling photo with two beatific children has to the boy with whom I danced in an old Swiss stone building, up a narrow, cobblestone street in Chailly-sur-Lausanne, I have no idea. But then why am looking so closely at her picture? Why do I expect, somehow, that if I stare long enough it will reveal to me the answers I am looking for? One by one, I examine his “friends”, a role into which I know I never will, nor ever should, step, drawn by some nearly irrational yet ever so compelling tug of heart strings I thought had been left behind in the shoeboxes on my closet floor. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Disappointingly, not only do his 162 friends offer absolutely no window into the current life or soul or heart of Roberto, but I realize I have wasted nearly an hour. I who usually am so focused, so disciplined with my time and energy have just let it fizzle away like the bubbles on a glass of champagne we shared on the boat to <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">France</st1:place></st1:country-region>. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Despite the allure of this new internet toy, it is unfortunately not set up to allow me permission-less access to someone else’s life. I can see pictures of his “friends” but they bring me no closer to him. So I send a message. “<i>Are you the same Roberto Silvo who went to ITC in <st1:country-region w:st="on">Switzerland</st1:country-region> and the Hun <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placetype w:st="on">boarding school</st1:placetype> of <st1:placename w:st="on">New Jersey</st1:placename></st1:place>.</i>” The answer comes back in less than 24 hours. “<i>Yes, that’s me. But I’m a little fuzzy on you. Did you go to Hun?</i>” I have changed my name since he knew me. I have moved to <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">India</st1:place></st1:country-region>, and taken vows of renunciation. I have become a nun, living in an ashram in the <st1:place w:st="on">Himalayas</st1:place>. Of course he would not associate the Indian, Hindu name of a saffron-robed woman contacting him on facebook, with the fifteen year old girl whose heart he broke as a carefree teenager. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">The urge to respond is strong. Nearly irresistible. I want, for some inexplicable reason, to have him “face to face” again. Not to pick up where we left off twenty-three years ago. I am deeply sure about my decision for renunciation, and fully aware of the idiocy of taking up with someone I knew for four months a quarter of a century ago, whose life bears no relation to my own. What is the instinct then? I search deeply within. What am I looking for? An apology? Awareness of the pain he caused me? Not really. I realize that the urge is much more simply for the connection of the past, the urge to go backwards rather than forwards, the urge to be fifteen years old, dancing in a dark room in a quaint village of Switzerland, at a time when the greatest concerns were whether to choose badminton or tennis for the afternoon activity. The urge is to lift back up the heavy curtain which has dropped, the curtain between yesterday and today, between past and present, between then and now. The urge is to have one last look, nay looking is not enough, to actually go back to a time when, ironically, all one wanted to do was grow up. The urge is to hold everything in hand -- that which was and also that which is -- to somehow have ever expanding hands which are able to hold tightly to every moment, every person, every experience of the past while simultaneously having infinite room to be fully open in the present. The urge is, of course, impossible to fulfill. Life either moves forward or it stagnates in the past. One cannot simultaneously hold tenaciously to the past and be open to the present. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">This is why, according to the theory of rebirth and reincarnation, we do not remember our past lives. It is difficult enough to navigate the present without the past popping in as an uninvited guest. Information of past experiences (from either this life or previous lives) is extraordinarily useful as means of insight and understanding for our fears, desires, neuroses, obstacles. But it is the information and insight gleaned from past experiences rather than every aspect of the actual experience itself which should find a place in our current awareness. If we carry all the actual experiences with us, replete with their full casts of characters and set designs, our stage becomes too crowded to allow the divine drama of the present to unfold. Further, as we hold on to costumes of yesterday, to the script of last week, to the backdrop of last year, we prevent ourselves from donning the robes of today, from speaking the truth of this moment and from walking onto the set of now. There is room in my life for the experience, the lessons, the strength I gained from being heartbroken at fifteen, but there is no room in my life for the inevitable confusion and clamor which would come along with the actual presence of my teenage heartbreak. I stood up, off the carpeted floor of the closet in my parents’ home, and brushed myself off more than twenty years ago. It is senseless to try to squeeze my thirty-eight year old being back into a closet sized for a heartbroken teenager. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">I do not respond to his message which asks who I am. The curtain has dropped and life has moved forward. </div></div>Sadhvi Bhagawati Saraswatihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04720603185087768750noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1719297161437784959.post-11160346353441233492011-09-11T00:46:00.000-07:002011-09-11T00:46:29.876-07:00Blindness -- What is Sight?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 18px;">"<i>Before we leave, can I please have one photo with you</i>?" he asks while taking a camera out of his pocket and handing it to his friend.<span> </span>"<i>Of course</i>," I say and I start to move nearer to him.<span> </span>I am typically opposed to random people taking pictures with me and try to discourage it as sweetly yet sternly as possible. However, when the universe has already denied him so much, I cannot conscionably deny him anything more.<span> </span>With some eye that hasn't been blind for the last sixty years, with some faculty as yet unknown to modern science, he aligns himself exactly next to me, without laying a single hand on my body.<span> </span>"<i>Smile</i>" he commands with a laugh, as his mouth widens into a full toothed grin which spreads across his entire face.<span> </span>The camera flashes in our eyes. He doesn't blink, of course.<span> </span>"<i>Take one more</i>," he instructs his friend. "<i>Just in case</i>."</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">What will he do with this photo of me? He could neither see me sitting in front of him nor see the camera he removed from his pocket nor see the rushing Ganga river that flows outside the ashram. He can see nothing, as he lost all sight at the age of eight or nine. Yet he sees more than I do. He sees more than nearly anyone I know. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">At the age of 19 his mother had tried to kill herself when his father died. He had been four at the time, and his mother succeeded only in rendering herself completely deaf, not in actually ending her life.<span> </span>Due to cultural circumstances dictated by severe lack of education and other constraints in rural Southern India, his maternal grandparents decided that the best thing for his mother would be to live out her remaining years, however many they might be, sitting on a bed, eating, sleeping and chewing pan<a href="file:///D:/writings1/ARTICLES/blindness.doc#_ftn1" name="_ftnref1" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">[1]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></a>. "<i>She became a hunchback from bending over all day long to spit out the pan</i>," he describes.<span> </span>"<i>Sixty-six years she lived like that, a forced invalid due to the loss of her hearing.</i>"<span> </span>Upon his father's death and mother's deafness he had been sent to live with his paternal grandparents.<span> </span>"<i>I made a decision</i>," he explains, "<i>that I would become something, that I would serve the world, that I would see even without my eyes."</i> <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The list of organizations he has initiated and headed would put any successful philanthropist to shame.<span> </span>An active Rotarian, president of an NGO dedicated to women's welfare, a leader in the blind movement in USA and India.....He led India's first march for equal rights for the blind, only to be lathi-charged<a href="file:///D:/writings1/ARTICLES/blindness.doc#_ftn2" name="_ftnref2" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">[2]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></a> by the police who thought the peaceful marchers' canes were sticks.<span> </span>Grabbed from behind and tossed -- all fifty meager kilograms of him -- into a police van, attacked and beaten along with his fellow conspirators, before anyone in uniform realized the reason no-one's eyes squeezed shut before the lathi struck their heads. <span> </span>Yet he laughs as he describes it; there isn't a trace of bitterness or anger, just lessons well learned on the need for proper publicity and education prior to undertaking any further public processions. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">As he's getting ready to leave he asks me for literature, documents, on our organization, on Pujya Swamiji's<a href="file:///D:/writings1/ARTICLES/blindness.doc#_ftn3" name="_ftnref3" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">[3]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></a> work.<span> </span>I put a pile of brochures and books into his outstretched hands, touching his fingers to the spine of each as I explain what they all are.<span> </span>"<i>This is a brochure of our Foundation, this is Pujya Swamiji's book on Peace</i>," I tell him, as he gingerly fingers each book with the loving and eager attention of a child feeling his mother's face for the first time. <span> </span>"<i>Unfortunately</i>," I stammer, slightly embarrassed, "<i>we don't have any books on tape, although after meeting you I realize that maybe we should undertake that as well</i>."<span> </span>He smiles. "<i>Oh, don't worry. I will use these two eyes to read them. I will find a way.</i>"<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Later in the evening, he is due to leave the ashram but is determined to have darshan of Pujya Swamiji first. He waits, along with so many others, in the reception area until his name is called. How easy it would have been to leave on time without waiting for Pujya Swamiji's schedule to free up. For, he cannot see anyway. How easy to offer respects in his own mind, or through one of us. But he was adamant. He would wait for darshan despite the long journey ahead of him.<span> </span>I am reminded of the story of a great saint of Vrindavan, also blind, who would travel by foot each day to Banki Bihari mandir<a href="file:///D:/writings1/ARTICLES/blindness.doc#_ftn4" name="_ftnref4" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">[4]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></a>. One day in the midst of torrential monsoons, he alone braved the flooded alleyways to be present for evening aarti.<span> </span>The priest, looking upon the sole worshipper that day, asked him, "<i>Swamiji, you of all people, here in this weather? You could have stayed home and offered your prayers to the Lord at home, in your own mind. You cannot see the darshan anyway, so there was no reason for you to come out in this weather</i>."<span> </span>"<i>Oh, my child</i>," the Swami replied. "<i>I may not be able to see Him, but surely He can see me</i>."<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Later, seated in Pujya Swamiji's jyopri (bamboo hut) my new friend bows down low to that which is Light to us and yet couldn't have been anything other than continued darkness for his non-seeing eyes.<span> </span>How did he know, before Pujya Swamiji even spoke, where to bow? How did he know the exact perfect angle at which to lay his head so it was just in front of Pujya Swamiji's feet? How did his otherwise vacant eyes shine when he lifted his head? What had been perceived? <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">What is sight? Simply a series of neural impulses, connections and information sent electrically from the retina through the optic nerve and ultimately to the occipital lobe in the back of the brain? If that's all it were then everyone who saw the same scene would encode it and perceive it in the same way, barring of course any weakness or fault in the mechanisms of sensation or perception. Then court battles wouldn't be fought with one eye witness saying the getaway car was green and another swearing it was blue.<span> </span>Clearly our "sight" is so much more than the encoding of neural stimuli.<span> </span>What is it then? Much research has been done in the field of neuronal perception, regarding differing abilities of the blind with regard to light, shape, colors, etc. Some are able, even many years after losing all function of the retina or optic nerve to still "think" in form and imagery, while others seem to descend to a completely formless, colorless existence relatively shortly.<span> </span>Theories abound regarding the differences being related to damage in different areas of the brain, or due to different types of personalities or the way in which each patient "exercises" the abilities they still have. <span> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Yet, while science can study the way light is absorbed, or not absorbed, by the retina, or the way that form is perceived, or not perceived, in the occipital lobe, what about that sight which is so much deeper? What about my new friend's ability to know where to lay his head or to intuit exactly where I was standing and to stand perfectly next to me? What is he seeing through eyes with irises floating about aimlessly like lily-pads in a clear pond? Is there a mechanism of sight beyond that which we know?<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Hinduism talks about a third eye, an energy center (or chakra) located on the forehead between the eyebrows. It is said that this eye, when awakened, is the eye of clear vision, the eye which sees truth amidst untruth, which sees light amidst darkness, which sees the path amidst the forest, the eye which sees the divine in all. <span> </span>Perhaps through losing the functioning in his two "normal" eyes, my friend has actually been gifted with heightened functioning in the third. It is well documented that losing one sense leads to an increase in ability in the others. So, for example, blind people absolutely hear and smell better than seeing people. They are able to differentiate between sounds and smells that most seeing people cannot.<span> </span>However, is it possible that in addition to having enhanced functioning in their other four senses, blind people -- or at least those as spiritually inclined as my new friend -- also have an easier time seeing with their third eye? Do we, so heavily and habitually dependent upon waves and patterns of light and form to see, actually miss that which is before us? Do we, even those with peripheral vision intact, actually succumb to a different kind of tunnel-vision by assuming that that which we can "see" is limited to that which falls upon our retinas? Do we unconsciously filter out the other sight? <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Perhaps, in exchange for the picture and books I gave him, my new friend could teach me how to see....<o:p></o:p></span></div><div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--> <hr size="1" style="text-align: justify;" width="33%" /> <!--[endif]--> <div id="ftn1"> <div class="MsoFootnoteText" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;"><a href="file:///D:/writings1/ARTICLES/blindness.doc#_ftnref1" name="_ftn1" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">[1]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></a> A betel nut concoction chewed and spit, like tobacco, by many Indians </div></div><div id="ftn2"> <div class="MsoFootnoteText" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;"><a href="file:///D:/writings1/ARTICLES/blindness.doc#_ftnref2" name="_ftn2" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">[2]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></a> A technique of rushing a crowd with long sticks, employed frequently by Indian police to disperse riots and crowds. The sticks typically get used not just to instill fear, but actually to beat the rioters or protesters.</div></div><div id="ftn3"> <div class="MsoFootnoteText" style="text-align: justify;"><a href="file:///D:/writings1/ARTICLES/blindness.doc#_ftnref3" name="_ftn3" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">[3]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></a> His Holiness Swami Chidanand Saraswati, the spiritual head of Parmarth Niketan Ashram in Rishikesh, India, where I live. In Hindi, "Pujya" means "worthy of reverence" and it is the typical title placed prior to Swamiji</div></div><div id="ftn4"> <div class="MsoFootnoteText" style="text-align: justify;"><a href="file:///D:/writings1/ARTICLES/blindness.doc#_ftnref4" name="_ftn4" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">[4]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></a> A famous temple in Vrindavan, dedicated to Lord Krishna</div></div></div></div>Sadhvi Bhagawati Saraswatihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04720603185087768750noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1719297161437784959.post-82721178884505964672011-09-11T00:43:00.001-07:002011-09-11T00:43:37.704-07:00A summer evening on the banks of Ganga in Rishikesh....<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><b><u><br />
</u></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">A sadhu<a href="file:///D:/writings1/ARTICLES/A%20sadhu%20sits.doc#_ftn1" name="_ftnref1" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">[1]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></a> sits, his lean body draped in a single, worn scrap of orange-ish brown cloth, swaying every so gently in the rapture of his meditation. His head tilts barely perceptibly to the right. Otherwise his posture is perfect, his legs folded neatly and easily into lotus, palms up on his knees. His body ever so gently sways to a music only he can hear, a music which brings a faint smile to his lips. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">An elderly woman gently unfolds her cloth asana and lays it on the red tile a few feet from the sadhu. Raising her saree, she bends her knees and leans forward, placing both palms on the ground, then ever so gently first squats then lowers herself to the ground. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">A family splashes in Ganga<a href="file:///D:/writings1/ARTICLES/A%20sadhu%20sits.doc#_ftn2" name="_ftnref2" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">[2]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></a>, at least 10 or 15 of them, ranging in age from quite young to at least 60. The men are in their underwear, bright blue on the young boys and faded white on the older men. The women and girls are fully clothed in modest salwar kameeses. They shriek and run, splash and swim in the shallow water near the ghat. “Jai Gange,” “Jai Gange”, “Jai Gange”<a href="file:///D:/writings1/ARTICLES/A%20sadhu%20sits.doc#_ftn3" name="_ftnref3" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">[3]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></a> one of the men yells as he flails his overweight self through the air landing back in the water next to his brothers, sisters, cousins and children causing waves of water to engulf them all.<span> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">It is sunset on the banks of <st1:place w:st="on">Ganga</st1:place>, summertime in Rishikesh<a href="file:///D:/writings1/ARTICLES/A%20sadhu%20sits.doc#_ftn4" name="_ftnref4" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">[4]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></a>, and I have come for my evening walk – a time of solitude and quiet (if not externally, at least internally).<span> </span>I am walking on one of the numerous ghats – the marble and tile pier-like platforms built on the banks of the river – on which people pray, meditate, stroll or simply watch the river.<span> </span>As I walk to the North end of the ghat the sounds of the Ganga Aarti<a href="file:///D:/writings1/ARTICLES/A%20sadhu%20sits.doc#_ftn5" name="_ftnref5" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">[5]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></a> coming from our own ashram – 3 ghats northward -- fill my ears. A crowd of several hundred to several thousand gathers each evening to sing the praises of Mother Ganga as Pujya Swamiji leads in divine, ecstatic chanting.<span> </span>At the northernmost end of the ghat I turn and begin walking back southward.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">A young, professional couple has come to the ghat for their evening walk.<span> </span>They are both in traditional Indian attire with bright white Nike running shoes on their feet. They walk side by side, quickly, at a pace that might be appropriate for the treadmill at a gym but seems markedly out of place on the serene river bank. No one seems to notice however. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">A small group has gathered down on the last step, where the water flows just a foot below. A simple brass oil lamp in hand, they perform the same aarti ceremony which is going on – on a grand scale – at our ashram just 200 feet away. “Om Jai Gange Maiya” they sing, acapella and completely out of tune, each clapping to a different rhythm, but without even a trace of self consciousness. After all, they are singing for God.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">I pass the sadhu again, his eyes still gently shut, the faint yet ever-so-present smile still on his lips, transported in to a far-off realm, ecstatically oblivious to the rowdy family splashing and shrieking gleefully in Ganga a mere ten feet away. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">The elderly woman has lit a stick of incense, the bottom end of which she puts into an apple to hold it up, and she has pulled a long rudraksh mala out of her purse. She takes the pallu (tail end) of her saree gracefully sweeping it up from behind her back to cover her head before she begins her prayers. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">As I reach the southern end of the ghat the sounds of a temple cassette playing the prayer “Swami Narayan, Swami Narayan, Swami Narayan” come blaring forth loudly from a temple across the river, sharing the sound waves with the chanting of “Hare Krishna, Hare Krishna, Krishna Krishna, Hare Hare” from the Hare Krishna temple next door.<span> </span>With each step that I take southward, the sounds of Hare Krishna become fainter and Swami Narayan become louder. Then, as I turn to walk back northward, Swami Narayan fades into the background, and Hare Krishna, Hare Krishna becomes louder.<span> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Two teenage girls come prancing down the ghat in their tight jeans and t-shirts, laughing as they take up their own place near the water, on the edge of the ghat.<span> </span>One of them pulls out her mobile phone and they begin to take pictures of each other, in various poses copied from the covers of fashion magazines, with the sun setting into <st1:place w:st="on">Ganga</st1:place> as the backdrop. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">The elderly woman signals to me by waving her hand once as I approach. It is an order, not a request.<span> </span>Had I not lived in <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">India</st1:place></st1:country-region> for thirteen years I might be taken aback by the presumptuousness of the beckoning. But I stop at her asana and bend down. She does not want to chat. She does not want to know “your country, ma’am.” She does not want one photo.<span> </span>Rather, she simply and sweetly motions for me to give her some water from the river. Although the ghat where she sits is a mere foot above the flowing water, she is unable to reach down to it. <span> </span>I step into the wet sand and bend down, cupping water in my hand.<span> </span>Prior to beginning her japa<a href="file:///D:/writings1/ARTICLES/A%20sadhu%20sits.doc#_ftn6" name="_ftnref6" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">[6]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></a>, she wants the mala<a href="file:///D:/writings1/ARTICLES/A%20sadhu%20sits.doc#_ftn7" name="_ftnref7" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">[7]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></a> to be blessed and purified by <st1:place w:st="on">Ganga</st1:place> yet she’s unable to dip it herself. <span> </span>As I pour the water from my hand into hers I am consciously aware of the fact that I am a foreigner. Indians somehow have an innate ability to hold holy water in their cupped palm for an indefinite period of time without spilling a drop, while the precious water slips freely through my fingers despite my best attempts at preserving it. <span> </span>She does not seem to notice this shortcoming and her eyes fill with tears of gratitude as I pour the water into her cupped palms. Not realizing that I speak Hindi, she says, “Thank you” in English. <span> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">The small group performing aarti sings louder and louder, their bodies now each swaying to an individual tune, the smoke rising high in the air, but the sounds of their aarti quickly dissipate as I near the north side of the ghat and the melodious, beyond professional sound of Pujya Swamiji singing fills the air – coming from nearly 200 feet away.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">The family is still shrieking and splashing in <st1:place w:st="on">Ganga</st1:place>, children diving into the water off the rocks…..</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">A mangy white dog chases a mangy black one, trying desperately to mount. The black female yelps as she runs across the ghat, her wet tail spraying water everywhere. Nearly knocking over the sadhu and the elderly woman (neither notices however), the dogs tear through the small crowd singing aarti. Devotees gently step aside to let the dogs pass; no one other than the children pays attention. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Across the river I notice a large fire burning, one of the numerous cremations that takes place each day. In the fading light of sunset I can barely make out a small crowd of mourners gathered around the burning body of their loved one.<span> </span>The fire is huge and its flames and smoke rise quickly into the air, mingling somewhere not so far off with the smoke and flames of the aarti being performed in groups large and small up and down the river banks.<span> </span>I try to imagine what it must be like, standing on the edge of a river watching your mother or father or spouse or child go up in flames against a backdrop of celebration.<span> </span>Personally, I do not think I could tolerate it. “How dare the world not come to a complete halt now that my loved one is no more? How dare the sun rise when my loved one is not here to greet it?”<span> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Yet here in India, birth and death, joy and sorrow, rich and poor, somber and rambunctious all seem to flow together as seamlessly as the waters of Ganga carry both the ashes of the deceased and the flowers of the devotee. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">In the West we seem to have compartmentalized our existence. This is a temple. This is a funeral parlor. This is a moment of celebration. This is a moment of despair. This is where the wealthy gather. This is where the poor gather. This is where teenagers hang out. This is where the pious pray and seekers meditate. This is where families spend their holidays.<span> </span>On the banks of <st1:place w:st="on">Ganga</st1:place> there is no such compartmentalizing.<span> </span>The drops of water from a young boy’s playful splash are no different from the drops I pour into the eager hands of a woman at prayer which are no different from the drops that rise up to embrace the burning embers of a body that used to house a soul. As the smoke of the cremation mingles with the smoke of the aarti, as the sounds of “Hare Krishna Hare Krishna” mingle with the sounds of “Om Jai Gange Maiya” which mingle with the sounds of “Swami Narayan” so the stages of the cycle of life and death mingle, seamlessly, one fading into the next with neither beginning nor end. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><br clear="all" /> <hr align="left" size="1" width="33%" /> <!--[endif]--> <div id="ftn1"> <div class="MsoFootnoteText"><a href="file:///D:/writings1/ARTICLES/A%20sadhu%20sits.doc#_ftnref1" name="_ftn1" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">[1]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></a> A Hindu renunciant, wandering monk</div></div><div id="ftn2"> <div class="MsoFootnoteText"><a href="file:///D:/writings1/ARTICLES/A%20sadhu%20sits.doc#_ftnref2" name="_ftn2" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">[2]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></a> Ganges River</div></div><div id="ftn3"> <div class="MsoFootnoteText"><a href="file:///D:/writings1/ARTICLES/A%20sadhu%20sits.doc#_ftnref3" name="_ftn3" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">[3]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></a> Term of reverence for the Ganges River - Jai means "glory to"</div></div><div id="ftn4"> <div class="MsoFootnoteText"><a href="file:///D:/writings1/ARTICLES/A%20sadhu%20sits.doc#_ftnref4" name="_ftn4" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">[4]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></a> town in the lap of the Himalayas, about 200 miles north of New Delhi</div></div><div id="ftn5"> <div class="MsoFootnoteText"><a href="file:///D:/writings1/ARTICLES/A%20sadhu%20sits.doc#_ftnref5" name="_ftn5" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">[5]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></a> the evening prayer ceremony on the banks of the river, which has become famous at our ashram, Parmarth Niketan</div></div><div id="ftn6"> <div class="MsoFootnoteText"><a href="file:///D:/writings1/ARTICLES/A%20sadhu%20sits.doc#_ftnref6" name="_ftn6" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">[6]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></a> sacred chanting on the beads of a rosary</div></div><div id="ftn7"> <div class="MsoFootnoteText"><a href="file:///D:/writings1/ARTICLES/A%20sadhu%20sits.doc#_ftnref7" name="_ftn7" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">[7]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></a> the rosary, typically made of beads either of the rudraksh tree or tulsi plant</div></div></div></div>Sadhvi Bhagawati Saraswatihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04720603185087768750noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1719297161437784959.post-44514235350024937112011-09-11T00:42:00.000-07:002011-09-11T00:42:18.008-07:00Mind Control and Cults: A Possible and Tragic Error in Logic<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><strong><em><span style="text-decoration: underline;">Mind Control and Cults: A Possible and Tragic Error in Logic </span></em></strong></div><strong><em><span style="text-decoration: underline;"><br />
</span></em></strong><br />
<strong><em><span style="text-decoration: underline;">Background</span></em></strong><br />
<ol><li>Milieu Control</li>
<li>Mystical Manipulation</li>
<li>Demand For Purity</li>
<li>Confession</li>
<li>Sacred Science</li>
<li>Loading the Language</li>
<li>Doctrine Over Person</li>
<li>Dispensing of Existence</li>
</ol>These are the 8 criteria to ascertain whether a situation or group is engaged in the insidious act of “brainwashing”, as outlined by Robert Jay Lifton, one of the most renowned voices in the psychology of mind control. The criteria are used to examine cults hiding behind the veils of religious, charitable or self-help organizations. They are used to examine groups, organizations and institutions to which people flock in our never-ending human quest for deeper meaning, higher purpose and connection in our lives. If the organization fulfills the majority of the criteria, closer examination, regulation, warning and even disbanding is required.<br />
<br />
<strong><em><span style="text-decoration: underline;">June 1993, Palo Alto California.</span></em></strong> Dr. Phil Zimbardo, Stanford University’s famous psychology professor, author of the renowned “Stanford Prison Study” — the most famous (or infamous) study of its kind, showing how normal, educated, healthy young adults can so completely adopt the norms of the milieu in which they are placed that they lose both their own sanity as well as their own long-cultivated sense of self and morality — and the undisputed academic expert in the field of mind-control, is standing with his fatherly hand on my shoulder. The hot June sun pierces through my black graduation gown, and I begin to perspire under the weight of the gown.<br />
<br />
Dr. Zimbardo keeps his hand gently and tenderly on my shoulder, occasionally giving it a slight squeeze, as he speaks proudly to my parents. “<em>In all my years of teaching this class, she is the first person who has ever gotten an A+. There are at least 200 students a semester in the Psychology of Mind Control, and I’ve given many A’s, but never an A+. You should be very proud of her. I am sure she will achieve great things in her life.” </em>Fortunately the warmth of the summer day coupled with the insulation of the heavy black gown had already made my face red, so the flush of pride turning my cheeks pink went unnoticed.<br />
<br />
<strong><em><span style="text-decoration: underline;">September, 1996: Rishikesh, India</span></em></strong>. The marble grows cold under my thin burgundy “salwar kameez” the Indian garment worn by young ladies, comprising a pair of loose fitting cotton drawstring pants and a flowing, long, matching blouse. After the rains end like clockwork on September 15, the coolness quickly begins to set in, bringing relief to a land which has baked for the last 4 months under first the dry, scorching heat of May and June and then under the wet, humid, heavy heat of the monsoon season. I sit on the marble steps leading down to the banks of the rushing waters of the Ganges, a river worshipped by over a billion people as the embodiment of the Mother Goddess, a river to whose banks millions of Indians flock from across the world, sometimes spending their last rupee to arrive here, full of faith that the touch of the waters will wash away not only the tiredness of the body but lifetimes of karma – that account which has built up due to positive and negative deposits we’ve made through good and bad actions, and whose returns we will surely have to reap at some point in this lifetime or next.<br />
<br />
The water rushes by, a thick layer of ethereal mist floating above it, blurring the entire landscape into an impressionist painting : a surreal image of lush, wet green mountains on a canvas of deep blue sky turning dark with night, the painting sprinkled with splashes of light, first yellow then saffron orange, as the sun completes its descent, dropping slowly into the waters of the deep river. The translucent layer of mist blows across the landscape, carried it seems by the waters of the river, obscuring the form and definition of objects, permitting only the bright rays of the setting sun to pass through.<br />
<br />
My vision blurred with the landscape, tears cascade from my eyes over my cheeks. Unable or unwilling to maintain focus on any one object, I let my visual field expand, filled with the neverending waters of the continually moving river. My eyes tear even more as the waters flow right to left, downstream, moving, moving, moving in a blur of blue and grey and yellow light across my visual field. Eyes open, yet not seeing, my retina simply a canvas upon which the paint of the landscape is thrown. I cannot process the visual information. Movement, colors, light – they merge together into what seems to be a hallucination, a temporary loss of consciousness, a loss of connection with the predictable world of form.<br />
<br />
My cheeks are wet, my lips salty. I am crying without realizing it. The formless, nameless, indescribable reality moving across the waters of the Ganges has pierced the thin wall surrounding the existence to which I am accustomed, and has entered my consciousness, changing it forever. The outside world, the previous world, the world of all the people, places, goals, ideas….it fades from reality, blurred out as if the painter had taken his thumb and smudged the neatly drawn lines, neatly defined reality. That which had been definite, that which had been real, that which was filled with form and meaning becomes, in one stroke of the unknown painter, a smudge, a blur, a distinct impression of some previous existence yet one which no longer has any definable quality, form or shape.<br />
<br />
Time? Time has no meaning. The rays of light bouncing, dancing on the rushing water, twinkle and shine, piercing the film of tears across my eyes, blinding my sight, forcing an attention. An attention to what?<br />
The suns last rays, as it dips into the river, continue to dance in the thin, clear, visible band across the top of the water, just below the layer of mist which obscures all from sight. The light pierces my eyes and my consciousness; tears stream down my cheeks. Tears due to the natural reaction to bright light? Tears of an awakened consciousness? Tears of that merging, melting Oneness? The part of my brain that would have wondered from whence the tears came has long ago been silenced, smudged and blurred into the age of my past. Thus, free to flow with no fear of being analyzed, the tears continue to drench my cheeks as I sit on the ever cooling marble steps. My awareness merges with the rushing waters of the current, with the flowing mist, with the blurred landscape. I swim, I bathe, I melt into that moment, into the streaming rays of light dancing on the waters.<br />
<br />
How long has it been since the aarti ended? How long ago did the sounds of His voice, singing from another world, fade away? When did the last oil lamp slowly burn out? Has it been minutes or hours or days or lifetimes? Any answer is both possible and plausible, as the ridiculous concept of time as we know it – as I had previously understood the seconds in a minute, the minutes in an hour, the hours in a day — loses all meaning. More tears gush as I laugh out-loud at the concept of linear time, just as an ever wise 10 year old laughs at the way his younger sister still believes in Santa Claus. “Yes, I also used to think that,” he realizes proudly. “Then I grew up.”<br />
<br />
The whole idea of linear time a mere joke, our legs pulled by a society that has got us in the palms of their hands….Time. Was it less than 3 weeks ago that I sat on the airplane to India, wondering if it’d really make it 3 ½ months without getting sick, or lost or intolerably fed up from the crowds and, the poverty and the dirt? Was it less than two weeks ago I had first stood on these marble steps, first heard the sounds of Him sing, first watched the flowing waters through the dancing flames of an oil lamp? I laugh again, causing another wave of tears to fall from my eyes. A cosmic joke this idea of time. I have been here forever. There has never been a time I was not listening to Him sing, not watching the river flow past, not dizzy from the blurring mist as it obscured all scenery from view. Or have I just arrived, this very moment? Just awakened, just touched for the very first time? Just born out of the womb, onto the warm, rushing, healing waters of the Ganges?<br />
<br />
<strong><em><span style="text-decoration: underline;">Lifton’s Checklist. A checklist of what?</span></em></strong><br />
<ol><li>Milieu Control</li>
<li>Mystical Manipulation</li>
<li>Demand For Purity</li>
<li>Confession</li>
<li>Sacred Science</li>
<li>Loading the Language</li>
<li>Doctrine Over Person</li>
<li>Dispensing of Existence</li>
</ol>I walk up and down, barefoot on the marble pathway, the sun long since set, the mist cleared, the mountains obscured now simply by the darkness. The moon has begun its ascent over the Himalayas and soon would shine brightly overhead.<br />
<br />
Was I being brainwashed? Was this a cult? What had happened to me? I recited Lifton’s criteria over and over in my mind.<br />
<br />
<strong><em>Milieu Control</em></strong><em>.</em> <em>This refers to creating an isolated physical environment, one in which the members are not in touch with the “outside” world, including friends, family or society.</em><br />
<em><br />
</em><br />
<em></em><br />
I was, of course, isolated in that I was in India and my family and friends were back in USA. But, it went even deeper than that. The ashram has no TV; they are, in fact, forbidden. There was no internet. Phones were available in the marketplace outside, but the difficulty of placing an oversees call ensured that one would rarely invest this much time. There is a small marketplace where one can buy all necessities ranging from toilet paper to shampoo to cashew nuts. Yet, the shopkeepers themselves are isolated, also living in this small village, across the river from the city of Rishikesh, the city itself tiny by Indian standards and itself based on the same principles as the ashram.<br />
<strong><br />
<em>Mystical Manipulation</em></strong><em>. This has to do with the creation of experiences that seem divinely orchestrated, demonstrating the divine/higher power of the Leader. Events take place, actually planned insidiously by the group and/or Leader which appear spontaneous in order to convince others of the special powers held by the Leader. </em><br />
<em><br />
</em><br />
<em></em><br />
In my mere two weeks in this unimaginable land, I had been witness to countless moments where Swamiji’s connection with the Divine was clear. His powers of knowledge, of insight, of vision, of understanding were clearly far beyond that of a human. His power over himself, over others and over the natural world around him was obvious. Yet, had it been manipulated? Was I a pawn in someone’s hands? Was the whole thing a trick?<br />
<strong><br />
<em>Demand for Purity</em></strong><em>. According to Lifton, the members of a cult are exhorted to be “pure” compared to the outside world. Actions, thoughts and tendencies of others are condemned, and great emphasis is put on purification of one’s own thoughts and habits. Members typically learn to feel guilt and/or shame when they do not live up to these demands for purity. </em><br />
<em><br />
</em><br />
<em></em><br />
Yes, this too was part of my new existence. Aspects of my previous world which had seemed perfectly normal and natural were now impulses to be quelled. Alcohol – even a small glass of wine with dinner or champagne to celebrate an occasion – was forbidden and seen as poisonous as heavy drugs. Sex, romance, passion – all were impulses that must be checked and overcome if one was to live a truly spiritual, pure and holy life. Idle harmless gossip, meaningless chatter, entertaining games of cards or evenings at the movies – while not considered “evil” or “sinful” these were all activities which must not be engaged in, for they distract one’s attention and waste one’s precious time, preventing the true attainment of spiritual illumination and divine purity.<br />
<br />
Yes, we learned quickly that one’s thoughts, actions and words all must be pure. That which was not pure must be given, sacrificed, surrendered, and prayers should be said for the strength to remain pure, holy and divine.<br />
<strong><br />
<em>Confession</em></strong><em>. In a brainwashing situation, Lifton and others explain, the concept of confession is of prime importance. When a member of the cult commits mistakes, when one does not live up to the ideal of purity, it is imperative to confess, either privately to the Leader or publically. </em><br />
<em><br />
</em><br />
<em></em><br />
Here, yes, I can see how people come to Swamiji, bow down at His feet, and – with tears pouring from their eyes – admit the mistakes they’ve made, praying for Him to somehow absolve them of both the guilt as well as the impending negative karma they know they will face.<br />
<br />
He is infinitely compassionate, forgiving all, yet warning them that confession, itself, is not the ultimate answer. They must truly change themselves, vow to be different and pray for strength not to continue their erroneous ways.<br />
<strong><em><br />
Sacred Science</em></strong><em>. As defined by Lifton Sacred science refers to the idea that “the group’s doctrine or ideology is considered to be the ultimate Truth, beyond all questioning or dispute. Truth is not to be found outside the group. The leader, as the spokesperson for God or for all humanity, is likewise above criticism.”</em><br />
<em><br />
</em><br />
<em></em><br />
Yes, I realize as I begin to pace back and forth on the cold marble platform overlooking the rushing current of Ganga, the moon now high overhead, casting its glistening light upon the dark waters, this too, rings true for the ashram. The ideology, though not unique to this particular ashram yet shared by millions of people across the country of India, certainly is considered to be the ultimate Truth. The practices, the theories, the concepts, the ideas – these are definitely considered to be the best way, the Truest way, the purest way. Pujya Swamiji is seen not merely as a spokesperson for God, but actually as a divine incarnation, as a manifestation of the Divine on Earth. I, too, in His presence, have had the indisputable, undeniable awareness of being in the presence of Divine Love, Divine Light and Divine Truth, the closest experience to God that I have ever had or heard of.<br />
<strong><em><br />
Loading the Language</em></strong><em>. This includes ways of thought-stopping, so that negative, critical thoughts do not arise, as well as particular jargon and language which are used to make the new members’ thought processes conform to that of the group/cult. </em><br />
<em><br />
</em><br />
<em></em><br />
Here, in order to rid ourselves of the endless chattering of the mind (yet, also, one could argue, to put an end to negativity and critical thinking) mantras are used – sacred phrases from the scriptures that one chants, over and over again, hundreds of times a day until the chanting becomes automatic and unconscious. As the mantra takes over the mind, and the mind becomes still, free of the ceaseless chattering, constant wandering and incessant commentary to which we have grown accustomed in our lives, a distinct and pervasive serenity takes over. The mind is no longer either the master or an annoying yet omnipresent guest in one’s home. Rather, slowly, the mind becomes the slave, no longer wandering of its own free will, but a tool in the hands of the Higher Intellect. This is a moment to be yearned for, worked for, prayed for – the moment at which one has achieved control over the mind, ridding it of its automated thoughts and bringing it into line with the Divine.<br />
Mantras are certainly, I concede as the pace of my steps quickens, thought stopping techniques; their very goal, as stated, implied and understood is to stop the thoughts, to, in fact, replace the thoughts with the mantra. The measure of success in one’s spiritual progress is how easily one is able to still the mind and stop the thoughts.<br />
<strong><br />
<em>Doctrine over person</em></strong><em>. The seventh item on Lifton’s checklist refers to members’ individual and personal experiences being subordinated to the group ideology. Experiences that run contrary to the ideology are reinterpreted in order to fit the schema of thought. </em><br />
<em><br />
</em><br />
<em></em><br />
Yes, I have occasionally heard Swamiji and others dismiss criticism of the ideology as ego or fear or ignorance. Experiences which vary from the ideology are not denied completely; yet they are certainly re-stated in such a way as to be understandable to other members and to better fit in with the belief system.<br />
<strong><br />
<em>Dispensing of existence</em></strong><em>. This last criterion means that the group/cult typically claims that only they are saved, enlightened, awake, conscious, etc. and that others are not. Further, the members must try to convert others to the ideology, to make them a part of the group, for their own well being. Those who are not part of the group/cult must be rejected. </em><br />
<em><br />
</em><br />
<em></em><br />
This last criterion is the only one I could not fit my experience into. Yet, according to Lifton and others, not all 8 criteria are essential for an experience to be one of brainwashing and a group to be a cult. Seven out of eight is certainly more than enough to safely put the ashram in which I was staying, the place to which my heart had pulled me more strongly than anything before, the place which I was sure was to be my home, into the box of “cult”, my Guru into the box of “Cult Leader” and the opening, awakening, illuminating, transforming experiences into the box of “brainwashing.”<br />
<br />
<strong><span style="text-decoration: underline;">Awareness</span></strong><br />
<strong><span style="text-decoration: underline;"></span></strong><br />
I pace back and forth, first quickly with that familiar sense of anxiety that arises whenever I fear I am making a mistake. What if this is a cult? What if I’ve been brainwashed? What if I will need to be de-programmed when I go home? The experience fits Lifton’s criteria which are surely well-researched, well-authenticated, replicated and widely agreed upon by the experts.<br />
<br />
Yet, in the midst of that moment of inner panic, that moment of doubting myself completely, that moment of suspecting that my own intuition and feelings may actually have been mystically co-opted by another, I stop walking. Wait. Here I am. Sane. Aware. Awake. Conscious. Still able to let my mind wander. I silently sing all the lyrics to Fire and Rain, my favorite James Taylor song. I still remember them. I sing commercial jingles – for soap, for car dealerships, for fast food joints. Still remember them all. I complete the multiplication tables, first of 3, then 4 then 8. As quick as ever. I begin to subtract by 3’s from 100. 97, 94, 91, 88, 85….no problem. Brain still works. I name the capitals of the 50 states of America. I can still do it. Brain is still there.<br />
<br />
Wait. I am here. I am me. I know and remember and can do all that I ever knew, remembered and could do. I am here. I am me. I am conscious and awake and aware.<br />
<br />
My steps become slow and calm. I am comforted, oddly enough, by my own ability to still go back into the senseless world that God has taken me from. I am comforted by my ability to repeat and remember things I would never actually want to repeat or remember! But it is more than that. I am comforted by an awareness, a deep awareness from a place in my being that did not take Dr. Phil Zimbardo’s mind control class, a place in my being that has not been completely indoctrinated by the Western, psychological, scientific community, a place in my being that is still free to feel, to sense, to intuit, to know. A place in my being that does not need to be told by another – yes, this is right, or no, this is wrong. A place that knows.<br />
<br />
The awareness begins to wash over my consciousness, welling up from this place deep within and then overflowing, almost volcanic in the strength and speed of its eruption. This is right. This is true. This is not an insidious cult, but a divine intervention in that which was sure to be an otherwise very mediocre life. My brain may certainly be getting cleaned, but it is far from being washed!<br />
<br />
<strong><em><span style="text-decoration: underline;">A possible error in logic and assumption</span></em></strong><br />
As the awareness of the Truth, the realness, the rightness of this place and this experience washes over me, I wonder about Lifton and his checklist. He is not wrong. These criteria are certainly indicative of cults and brainwashing. One could, as we had done in Zimbardo’s class, apply them to Jonestown, to the Moonies, to a dozen other organizations stealing the minds, freedom and funds of their members for their own benefit. Yet, does that mean that this place, this sanctuary of peace, meaning and divine connection for tens of thousands of people, is also a cult engaged in mind control?<br />
<br />
I thought about the “logic” questions on the GRE exam. Numerous questions are some variation of the following theme: “<em>If all zingbats are zoonies and all zoonies are zoftings, are all zingbats zoftings?” </em>Or, <em>“If all patseys are palsies and some palsies are platsies, are all platsies patseys?”</em> In order to answer these questions, if one is not familiar with the common errors in logic the exam is testing, one merely has to substitute common words. So, if the question reads “<em>If all zingbats are zoonies and all zoonies are zoftings, are all zingbats zoftings?”</em> one simply has to say “Okay let zingbats be tangerines, let zoonies be oranges, and let zoftings be fruit.” The question now reads: <em>“If all tangerines are oranges and all oranges are fruit, are all tangerines fruit?”</em> One can easily answer yes.<br />
<br />
However, a tiny sleight of hand renders the answer negative. All zingbats may be zoonies (tangerines are oranges) and all zoonies may be zoftings (oranges are fruit) but even though all zingbats are zoftings (tangerines are fruit) that does NOT mean that all zoftings are zingbats (fruit is tangerines). There are many types of fruit which are not tangerines. The makers of the GRE exam catch innumerable unsuspecting graduate school applicants in this way. If the answer to “<em>Are all zingbats zoftings?”</em> is yes, then we assume that the answer to “<em>Are all zoftings zingbats</em>?” must also be yes. But this is an error in logic. All tangerines are fruit, but not all fruit is tangerines.<br />
<br />
Might we be making the same mistake in society as students make on their exams? Might we be just as easy to catch in our judgments as graduate school applicants? If all cults fulfill Lifton’s criteria, does that mean that simply fulfilling the criteria makes an organization a cult? If all instances of brainwashing abide by these criteria, does abiding by these criteria automatically mean that one is engaged in brainwashing?<br />
<br />
If we assume that just because all tangerines are fruit, that all fruit is also tangerines, we will miss out on the infinite joy of experiencing apples, berries, melons, banana. Similarly, if we assume that just because all cults fulfill these criteria, that fulfillment of the criteria is, in and of itself, enough to define an organization as a cult, might we miss out on the possibility of organizations and groups that challenge us, teach us, touch us and transform us in a way far beyond that which we are used to? Might we, in our insatiable effort to name, define, list and categorize all experiences according to that which we have studied, make a tragic mistake of sticking a potentially beautiful, beneficial, positive and progressive experience into the box of “cult” simply because we don’t yet have any other way to define it?<br />
<br />
If we tell society that just because all tangerines are fruit that all fruit is, therefore by definition tangerines, we are stealing from them the possibility of picking blackberries, of spreading raspberry jam on hot toast, of having mango juice run down their chin. We have limited their entire fruit experience to simply tangerines. Similarly, if we tell society that to control your environment, master your mind, strive for purity, confess your mistakes, chant mantras to tame the wandering thoughts, and live in the presence of one who is a manifestation of the Divine, is to join a cult might we be depriving them of an environment that could help them, heal them and bring them peace?<br />
<br />
<strong><em><span style="text-decoration: underline;">Our responsibility as psychotherapists</span></em></strong><br />
People join cults as well as valid spiritual organizations because they are searching for something – either consciously or unconsciously. Someone who is completely content and satisfied with his life is unlikely to reach out to an organization promising greater peace, meaning and fulfillment. There just isn’t enough time in life. If we are thoroughly fulfilled by that which is already on our plate, we are unlikely to want to heap something else on there as well. The fact that people who are educated, intelligent and prosperous and whose lives are full of potential still get trapped by cults and brainwashers should be a message to society. What is it that the cult, charismatic leader or brainwashing organization is offering them that is so appealing they are prepared to leave their discerning minds at the doorstep? The answer, of course, varies from person to person and situation to situation. However, nearly all answers will fall within a few categories: love, acceptance, defined and definable rules, a commonality and community with others, a sense of service and thus meaning in life, connection to a Higher Power either one within ourselves or one in the form of the Leader. If educated, intelligent people were not hungry for meaning and peace in their lives and love and acceptance in their relationships, and some kind of understanding of the greater purpose of our lives on Earth, there would be no need for Lifton’s checklist because so few people would join cults as to render them virtually irrelevant in the bigger picture of society. If people were not so fed up with their own inability to understand and master their minds perhaps they would not be so ready to give up these minds into someone else’s hands.<br />
<br />
If we are going to study the methods of mind control and the criteria by which something qualifies as such, it is important I believe to also study the underlying causes in society which may be leading otherwise intelligent, capable and discerning people into the clutches. Their needs are valid. Their yearnings are valid. Their emptiness and lack of meaning is valid. Therefore, if – as professionals in the field of psychotherapy – our goal is to not merely classify and categorize organizations as “cult” or “not cult”, “brainwashing” or “not brainwashing” but rather to actually help people, we must be prepared to allow organizations which DO provide what people are looking for to flourish. To simply name the need for connection, meaning or purpose is not enough. We have not served the people if we simply say, “Oh it is the need for connection, meaning, purpose and understanding in life that leads people into the open arms of a cult.” Rather, we must be prepared to a) accept that typically our society and culture does NOT provide what people need on an inner, deeper level for true peace, serenity and joy in life, and b) that generally spiritual organizations DO provide this.<br />
<br />
Yes, some doctors rape their patients on the operating table. That does not mean that one should go into an operation exceedingly wary of the doctor or suspect all doctors of being potential rapists. Similarly, some clergymen rape young members of their congregation. Yet, in general, clergymen provide an invaluable and irreplaceable service in our society, bringing understanding, solace and a meaningful framework of existence to countless people.<br />
<br />
Some spiritual leaders or charismatic leaders of organizations are megalomaniacs and narcissists, concerned only with their own power, image, fame or other motive. The organizations they run use a variety of sinister methods to mask their true motivations and to trap members. However, the methods they use are mostly just mischievously co-opted forms of legitimate techniques employed by legitimate organizations working to help people live better lives.<br />
<br />
While we work to ensure that all members of society retain control over their own lives, their own minds and their own bank accounts and that the power hungry, dysfunctional leaders and members of cults do not rob fellow citizens of their inalienable rights, we must not lose sight of the reality that spirituality and both ancient and modern spiritual traditions may share many characteristics with the cults to be avoided, yet they actually hold within them crucial and irreplaceable keys to helping people live lives that are satisfying, meaningful and deeply connected. We must not, as the old saying goes, throw out the baby with the bathwater.<br />
<br />
<strong><span style="text-decoration: underline;">Booklist:</span></strong><br />
<strong><span style="text-decoration: underline;"><br />
</span></strong><br />
<ol><li>Thought Reform and the Psychology of Totalism: A Study of “Brainwashing” in China, Norton (New York City), 1961</li>
<li>Layton, Debrorah. Seductive Poison: Seductive Poison: A Jonestown Survivor’s Story of Life and Death in the Peoples Temple, Anchor, 1999</li>
<li>“The Psychology of Mind Control” senior year psychology course taught at Stanford by Dr. Phil Zimbardo, including innmerable articles, lectures, movies etc.</li>
</ol></div>Sadhvi Bhagawati Saraswatihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04720603185087768750noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1719297161437784959.post-73873516654189241622011-09-11T00:38:00.000-07:002011-12-18T07:55:08.975-08:00Happiness - Where Does it Come From?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br />
<i>As the warm air flowed into the car through the heating vents, I felt the muscles of my arms and legs slowly release their death grip on my bones. I began to settle comfortably into the soft seat, a flannel blanket wrapped around my legs, still a necessity despite the heat in the car and the layers of thermals separating my body from the frigid, early morning cold.</i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
<i>Monkeys scampering in the woods dashed along the sides of the roads, in and out of the street, seemingly unaware of the danger the SUV could wreak upon their small bodies. Peacocks – much more aware of the danger or perhaps inherently more skitterish than the monkeys – immediately flew to safety, gracing us with views of their magnificent tails as the car rounded each bend.</i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
<i>I wiped the condensation from my window only to behold a scene that appeared to be out of some Disney fairy tale, a scene that could have been accompanied by the Mary Poppins soundtrack. A young girl, perhaps six or seven, clothed merely in a cotton frock with a thin cardigan sweater was skipping, prancing, dancing up and down the side of the road as though it were a beautiful summer afternoon rather than an icy winter dawn. She wore pink ankle socks which caused her feet to continuously slip out of her plastic sandals as she whirled and twirled, hopped and skipped, along the edge of the road. Her skeletal legs stuck out bare under her dress, but I knew instinctively they were not covered in goosebumps as mine were, despite my thermal underwear, thick blanket and artificial heat being pumped through the car vents.</i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
<i>Her father walked behind her, the weight of their belongings, as well as, it seemed, of the entire world, slung in a sack upon his shoulder. His feet were bare in his plastic sandals and he was wrapped in a woolen shawl from head to knee, his bare knobby knees visible beneath his thin cotton dhoti.</i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
<i>The young girl danced up and down, back and forth, skipping ahead of her father by about 20 or 30 feet, then dancing back in his direction, then away again, then back toward him, up and down the windy mountainous road, angelic serenity painted upon her face. As she approached her father a wide smile would push its way out through her lips and her eyes would twinkle so visibly that I could see it even through the car window.</i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
<i>Where they were going, when they’d arrive, the numerous kilometers of jungle road which separated them from the nearest shelter, the emptiness of her belly, the frigidity of the morning, the ambiguity of what the future might hold – none of this held any relevance for my dancing jungle nymph. She was, undeniably, in ecstasy.</i><br />
* * * * * *<br />
<br />
Happiness. Contentment. Satisfaction. Joy. Longing. Envy. Bitterness. What creates these emotions within us? How is it that, in a situation so undeniably bleak, one could be filled with such undeniable joy? While on the faces of most homeless people in the West is etched painful awareness of their difficult situation, the young Indian girl’s face bore witness to nothing other than a life of abundance. What is it that has created the difference? These thoughts filled my mind during the next five hour drive to Delhi and in the months which have followed.<br />
<br />
* * * * * *<br />
<strong><em><span style="text-decoration: underline;"><br />
</span></em></strong><br />
<strong><em><span style="text-decoration: underline;">A Life of Abundance in the Midst of Indigence</span></em></strong><br />
When I first moved to India one of the things which struck me immediately and poignantly was the light which shone in the eyes of the children, the rich and the poor, the privileged and underprivileged, the educated and illiterate, the haves and have-nots. Compared to the anger and bitterness which I had become accustomed to seeing in the eyes of poor children in California and South America, it was an amazing, unmistakable and awe-inspiring difference.<br />
<br />
And these were not infants, oblivious to their squalid surroundings, but rather school aged children and older, ranging from five or six up through their teens. “What would you like from America?” I’d ask prior to any of my bi-annual trips. “Oh, nothing” they’d giggle. If they ever did think of something to ask for it was simple and small like balloons. Once someone had brought American balloons which expanded much wider and fuller than the ones manufactured in India. Since then, balloons from “Amreeka” have been a hot commodity. However, despite the poverty in which they live, despite the lack of possessions, comfort or convenience, they are truly and deeply happy, yearning for nothing, craving nothing, filled predominantly with a sense of what they DO have rather than a sense of what they don’t have.<br />
<br />
On my first trip back to my parents’ home in Los Angeles after moving to India, I rummaged casually through my closets, closets filled with items that seemed to belong to another being in another lifetime, a being whom I had encountered deeply and meaningfully perhaps in a dream, perhaps in a movie, a being I understood, loved and even pitied, but certainly not a being who WAS me. On one of those rummagings I happened upon photo albums of myself and some friends of mine when we were young, eight or nine years old, standing around a swimming pool at what must have been a birthday party or some other festive gathering. We had ice cream cones in our hands and the smoke from a bar-b-que in the distance filled the blue sky over our heads. We smiled and our smiles showed white teeth, many already with braces, and soft, pink lips. Our cheeks were rosy and full. But in not one eye was there the glimmer, the light, the evanescence which shone in the eyes of every child I had met in India. It is a light that makes you laugh through your tears of helplessness, a light that makes you forget you are looking at someone who could be Feed the Children’s poster child, a light that belies the undeniable desperateness of their situation, a light that points the way to something unmistakably higher, bigger and more important than financial prosperity and external comfort in determining happiness.<br />
<br />
<strong><em><span style="text-decoration: underline;">From Whence Does our Happiness Come?</span></em></strong><br />
I have pondered quite a bit since coming to India and even more so since my encounter with the young girl on the jungle road a few months ago, about the nature of human happiness. What is it that brings us happiness? What is the key? The myth that prosperity breeds joy has been proved to be just that, a myth. Literature by Martin Seligman, Ph.D, Tal Ben-Shahra, Ph.D. and numerous others have shown repeatedly that even significant increases in salary or financial status (including winning the lottery) are not reliable determinants of increases in satisfaction, happiness or contentment. Nor, in converse, is being struck with a debilitating handicap a sure sign of lasting despair and misery. An unbelievable 84% of people with quadriplegia (paralysis of all four limbs) consider their lives to be at least average or above average! Given that, mathematically, only 50% of people can possibly have lives that are “above average”, one can infer that even these people who have been struck with permanent physical tragedy, still err significantly in favor of a positive view of their own circumstances.<br />
<br />
What are the determinants of happiness then? Clearly eating nice food, enjoying a sunset, and sitting in a hot bath are pleasurable in the moment and cause a temporary but quite remarkable increase in the amount of “pleasure” hormones and neurotransmitters flowing through our brains and bloodstreams. However, within moments of ending the meal, the onset of dark and stepping out of the tub we are back to our baseline level. What is it, then, that determines our “base” level of joy in life?<br />
<br />
<strong><span style="text-decoration: underline;">The Genetic Component – Nature versus Nurture</span></strong><br />
According to research by Martin Seligman and others, happiness is both genetic and teachable. Numerous studies of identical twins raised apart and other adoption studies have shown that happiness, contentment, joy and optimism all have a huge genetic component. Identical twins, put up for adoption and raised separately, are significantly more likely to exhibit similar traits of depression, optimism and overall happiness than non-genetic adopted siblings living in the same house. Seligman is ardent in his debunking of the “faulty parents” myth. It is not, he emphasizes, the early home environment which plays such a crucial role in our lifelong levels of happiness, optimism and satisfaction. “It has turned out to be difficult to find even small effects of childhood events on adult personality and there is no evidence at all of large – to say nothing of determining – effects.”<a href="http://sadhvibhagawati.wordpress.com/writings1/phd/my%20final%20work/essay3-happiness.doc#_ftn1">[1]</a> Short of severe childhood trauma, the events of our day to day life as children and the particular idiosyncrasies of the home environment in which we are raised do not seem to be major determinants of our enduring state of happiness.<br />
<br />
<strong><span style="text-decoration: underline;">Hedonic Treadmill</span></strong><br />
Although Freud’s compelling theories of personality formation due to early childhood fixations and neuroses gripped most of Western psychological thinking, research and practice in the twentieth century, hard science of the twenty-first has been unable to validate these claims. Rather, the science seems to be showing that our thought patterns, styles and habits coupled with a genetically influenced “base” level of happiness are stronger determinants of our lifelong levels of joy, contentment and satisfaction than specific events of our childhood (short of very unusual, severe trauma).<br />
<br />
Further, current research has shown that both positive and negative spikes in our happiness levels (for example: winning the lottery, getting a promotion, getting fired, getting divorced) are mostly only temporary, and that after a relatively short period of time we are back to our “base” level. This research runs contrary to much of Western indoctrination which tells us – explicitly as well as insidiously subtly – that in order to be happy we should work harder and harder to earn more and more money so we can purchase more and more, better and better possessions. Numerous researchers found that the effects on base happiness levels of purchases, inheritances, financial set-backs, childbirth, endings of relationships, promotions, etc. are fleeting. Within a matter of days, weeks or months, we are just as happy, satisfied and optimistic (or unhappy, dissatisfied and pessimistic) as we were previously.<br />
<br />
This research led to the development of the Hedonic Treadmill theory by Michael Eysenck, which posits that we develop “tolerance” to emotions just as to any addictive substance. One glass of wine may be enough to make us gleefully intoxicated the first time we drink, yet slowly – with repeated evenings spent drinking wine – we will need three or four (or even more) glasses to obtain the same giddy effect. Similarly, Eysenck claims, having extra disposable income, buying a brand new car, moving to a new house, or taking a nice holiday may create ephemeral yet significantly positive spikes in our emotional level; however, over time the effect wears off, and we will need more income, a newer car and a nicer house to achieve the same level of contentment.<br />
<br />
<strong><span style="text-decoration: underline;">Connection Between Happiness and Health</span></strong><br />
Martin Seligman notes several longitudinal studies which show that happiness exhibited in early and mid-twenties is indicative and even predictive of health, strength and happiness into one’s eighties and nineties and is even predictive of life expectancy. Those with bigger, more honest smiles or those who expressed more gratitude and joy in their twenties were significantly more likely to be alive, healthy and happy well into their nineties. The numbers are profound. One study, which assessed nuns entering a convent in their twenties found that 90% of those who were judged, based on their entry essays, to have the most cheerful disposition were still alive at eighty-five compared to only 34% percent of those judged to be the least cheerful. Additionally, 54% of the most cheerful group were still alive at age ninety-four, compared to 11% of the least cheerful.<br />
<br />
The Mayo Clinic in Minneapolis ran a similar study and found that, out of 839 patients, those who were optimists had a 19% greater longevity over the forty years of the study.<br />
<br />
Another large study was conducted of subjects aged 65 or older. The subjects were assessed for happiness levels as well as a variety of other variables. Holding everything – including income and health constant – it was found that those who were “happy” at the time of the study were only half as likely to die or to become disabled during a two year time period as those who scored lower on the happiness scale!! It means those whose happiness scores were low were twice as likely to die or become disabled during the two year duration of the study.<br />
<br />
<strong><span style="text-decoration: underline;">Neti Neti</span></strong><br />
I read several books and journal articles on the study of happiness and yet I did not feel significantly closer to the answer of my initial question – what is it that enabled that young, impoverished girl to dance so gleefully and joyfully on that frigid morning? The research showed me what most likely did NOT cause it, but short of simply saying “it’s her nature” I was not any closer to knowing what DID cause it. There is a form of Hindu meditation called Neti Neti. The technique aims to give seekers a true experience and awareness of being one with the Divine, of having no separate, limited, finite existence, but rather through discarding layer after layer of what is NOT me, I come to the realization that I am Divine. The technique is to begin on the outermost level and say something like, “I am not the clothes I am wearing.” This is obvious to and understandable by even the densest spiritual aspirant. Then, one goes a step deeper. “I am not the skin that covers my bones.” And further, “I am not the mind which is aware of the fact that skin is covering my bones.” And on and on until there is nothing left with which one can identify as I. The negations vary from person to person, but the end result is the experience of the great Void. I clearly exist for I have the irrefutable experience of existing, and yet I am none of the things with which I have always identified. In that realization of what I am NOT comes the realization of what I AM.<br />
<br />
My search for the root of the dancing jungle nymph’s happiness felt much to me like the practice of neti neti. She’s not happy because of this. She’s not happy because of that. I assumed, due to my own witnessing of her palpable ecstasy and also for the sake of argument, that her happiness was not due to a hot donut some passerby had given her an hour before, but rather was her permanent and pervasive state of being. But what allowed for such joy in the face of such hardship? Why was it that scores of children growing up in privileged societies, children whose rooms overflowed with toys, games and books, children whose cheeks were round and rosy, children who had all that Western society says we need to be happy still were not? Not that they are miserable, by any means. Complacent, yes. Content, yes. Laughing and smiling, yes. But able to maintain that contentment, laughter and smile when their desires are unfulfilled, when a friend or sibling takes their toy, when their soccer team loses a match? Usually not.<br />
<br />
There are, of course, exceptions to every rule, but it was the general trend in which I was fascinated, sparked first by the beaming faces of the poor children on the ashram and then reignited by the unmistakable bliss of the dancing girl. In general, the Indian children I met, even those who lived substantially below the Western standards of poverty were happy. Not temporarily content in front of a Game-Boy but deeply and constitutionally filled with joie-de-vivre. Comparatively, the people I knew growing up –privileged in every conceivable way – lacked that pervasive, non-situation-dependent joy. Further it has been shown that approximately one-third of American teenagers are clinically depressed,<a href="http://sadhvibhagawati.wordpress.com/writings1/phd/my%20final%20work/essay3-happiness.doc#_ftn2">[2]</a> despite living in the “land of plenty” and the “land of opportunity.” Why?<br />
<br />
<strong><span style="text-decoration: underline;">Calcutta</span></strong><strong><span style="text-decoration: underline;"> Slum Dwellers</span></strong><br />
I began to get somewhat closer to my answer when I read the study conducted by Robert Biswas-Diener and Ed Diener in which they assessed the level of overall happiness and contentment of homeless people in Calcutta, India compared to Fresno, California and a housing society in Portland, Oregon.<a href="http://sadhvibhagawati.wordpress.com/writings1/phd/my%20final%20work/essay3-happiness.doc#_ftn3">[3]</a> Their premise was to investigate the relevance of Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs — which states that until and unless man’s basic needs are met, he can neither attain happiness nor aspire to greater states of spiritual awareness and awakening — to the most impoverished. They were also interested in the cross cultural aspects of homelessness.<br />
<br />
The subjects from Fresno, while they possessed only a few clothes, a jacket, a bed roll and blankets, generally had good access to numerous services including food, medical care and dental care. The subjects living in “Dignity Village” a housing complex for homeless people in Portland had numerous possessions and facilities including their own bedding, cooking supplies, musical instruments and bicycles. Further, the community provides residents with access to an organic garden, basketball, bathing facilities as well as internet facilities. Those on the streets of Calcutta had, by far, the fewest personal possessions as well as the fewest facilities. Further, the average monthly income of the homeless in Calcutta was $24 per month, for those in Dignity Village it was $270, and for those in Fresno it was $358.<br />
<br />
The subjects in all three conditions were given a variety of scales to measure their personal, overall happiness and contentment as well as their satisfaction with various aspects of their lives (income, food, facilities, relationships, etc.). Amazingly, the subjects from Calcutta scored significantly higher both on general, overall happiness as well as on satisfaction in individual areas than either those living on the streets of Fresno or in Dignity Village. The table on the next page shows the scores. A score of 20 is neutral – neither overly satisfied and happy nor overly dissatisfied and unhappy. Those in Calcutta scored an average of 22, compared to 17.27 of those in Dignity Village and 14.12 in Fresno.<br />
<br />
Consistent with common sense which says that those living on the street have lives that fall on the negative side of neutral, the subjects both in Fresno and in Portland scored significantly below neutral on the overall happiness scale. However, those in Calcutta scored significantly above neutral! Even living on the streets, with nothing and no possibilities, they judged their lives as not only not negative but as actively positive. Further, although their income was by far the lowest (both in actual amount as well as amount scaled to local cost of living) the homeless of Calcutta were far more satisfied with their income than those living in Fresno and Portland.<br />
<br />
The researchers remarked: “Perhaps the most counter-intuitive finding is the relatively high subjective well-being of our sample in India. Despite poorer access to food, clean water, medical care, opportunities for employment, and adequate shelter than their counterparts in the United States, the pavement dwellers in Calcutta reported higher levels of life satisfaction. Not only was the general life satisfaction among the Calcutta sample higher than that of the two American samples, but it was in the positive range! This is consistent with our past research, in which impoverished groups in Calcutta reported surprisingly high life satisfaction, given their environmental conditions (Biswas-Diener and Diener, 2001).”<br />
<br />
<strong><span style="text-decoration: underline;">Possible Explanations for Happiness in Calcutta Street People Compared with Those in Ameria</span></strong><br />
Biswas-Diener and Diener offer two hypothetical explanations for the seemingly counter-intuitive findings: first the communist leanings of West Bengal (the state of which Calcutta is the capital) and second, the widespread prevalence of poverty in India which is indicative of a macro-socio-economic problem rather than individual pathology or dire circumstances. However, these are both simply musings on the part of the researchers, and I would like to offer both a reply and an alternative hypothesis.<br />
<br />
First of all, communism in the former Soviet Union was certainly no indicator of increased happiness in the citizens nor is Communism in China an indicator of increased happiness. On the recent cross-cultural, international study of life satisfaction, despite China’s burgeoning economy and emergence as a world leader, its citizens are significantly less happy than those in many countries of Europe, South America and also USA.<br />
Neither do I believe that widespread poverty leads to an increase in happiness amongst the poor. I do not believe similar results would be found of the poor living on the streets of Johannesburg. It is only my hypothesis, but having spent time in Africa as well as India, I have enough of a base to state the hypothesis with a small degree of confidence.<br />
<br />
<strong><em><span style="text-decoration: underline;">My Personal Theory</span></em></strong><br />
My theory is completely different and falls well out of the realm of mainstream science or psychology. I believe that there is something about the inherent, innate and pervasive spirituality in India that leads its citizens – even those living on the street – to be happier than their counterparts in other countries. In fact, from what I have seen, it is the Indians living in the main metropolitan hubs where they are bombarded daily with western television, western movies, western magazines, western culture and values, who are the least happy. These “modern” and “well educated” Indians have, in large numbers, tragically taken it to heart that everything white and foreign is better than everything dark and Indian. This is perhaps due to the truly brilliant and devastatingly insidious methods of the British of infiltrating the education system, changing the text books and distorting the very history of India’s own country. Thus, those with the convent education, perfect English and familiarity with all Western movies, serials and stars, are the ones most likely to feel less than satisfied with their lives, no doubt due to the constant barrage of propaganda feeding them the same feelings of inferiority and dissatisfaction that so many Westerners have. Conversely, traditional Indians, living the traditional Indian life – whether wealthy, middle classed or impoverished – have a serenity, a joy and depth of acceptance that far surpasses anything I’ve ever encountered abroad.<br />
<br />
Ask a young woman carrying pounds of forest wood on her head back to her village, in order to cook the evening meal, “How are you?” She will reply, “It’s all God’s blessings.” Ask the sweeper in the street of Rishikesh how he is and he will reply, “It’s all the grace of Mother Ganga [the Ganges river which is worshipped as the Mother Goddess].” These are not trite sayings that fall, habitually, out of people’s mouths devoid of meaning. Rather, these statements are accompanied by a shine in the eyes and a smile which is not merely of the lips and teeth but rather a smile in which it seems their entire being is smiling.<br />
<br />
<strong><span style="text-decoration: underline;">Generosity of Hand and of Spirit</span></strong><br />
I cannot tell you the number of times people who barely have enough money to put rice and lentils on the table at night have begged me to come home for a meal. They don’t even have enough to feed their families and yet they want nothing more than to feed others. “At least come for a cup of tea or a cold drink,” they urge insistently. A bottle of coke costs 10 rupees which is more than she spends on the daily quota of vegetables for the family of five. Yet, even in spite of my adamant refusals that I don’t drink coke, she will send the eldest child out to fetch a bottle from the market, convinced that there cannot be any foreigner who doesn’t drink coke and that my refusals must simply be good manners. Fresh cow’s milk is a luxury, affordable by a very few yet seen as the quintessential nectar of the gods. Should one succumb to the demands to come over for a cup of tea, half of the day’s wages will immediately and joyfully be sent out to the market to buy “pure cow’s milk” for the tea.<br />
<br />
There is no sense of martyrdom or manipulation in India. I have, in ten years, never once seen or heard someone implicitly or explicitly insinuate that he/she was being generous only due societal norms. I have never once seen anyone give anything – from a cup of tea to the shawl off their back to their own bed — grudgingly or disdainfully. Rather, it is from giving and serving that their joy comes. When a mother bakes a batch of sweets, the broken, misshaped ones will be eaten by the family and the nice ones saved in case any guest should suddenly come to visit. Even if no guests are expected, the possibility that one might come is enough to warrant saving all of the best pieces of sweet. “Don’t eat those ones,” mothers teach their children from infancy. “Those could be given to someone else. Eat these broken ones instead. They taste just as good.”<br />
Seligman conducted a study with his class students in which they had to perform two types of activities on two different days and then record their feelings on a variety of happiness scales. One activity was something that the student viewed as “fun.” This could include everything ranging from going to the movies with friends, going to a party, going shopping, watching a favorite TV serial, etc. The second activity was something altruistic. They had to go out and do something nice for someone else. The students all recorded significantly more and deeper positive feelings after performing the altruistic act than after engaging in the “fun” act.<br />
<br />
<strong><span style="text-decoration: underline;">Religion/Spirituality component</span></strong><br />
Further, it has been shown in numerous studies that people who are religious are also generally happier and also healthier than people who are not. Seligman explains: “Religions instill hope for the future and create meaning in life.”<br />
<br />
<strong><span style="text-decoration: underline;">An Attitude of Gratitude</span></strong><br />
The third aspect worth addressing is gratitude. Seligman lists a variety of things one can do to increase one’s enduring (compared to temporary) level of deep happiness. One of these is to practice gratitude. He suggests keeping a gratitude diary and writing down all of the things for which one is grateful, every evening before sleep. Indians, by nature and by nurture, are filled with gratitude. As I mentioned earlier, the typical answer to “How are you?” is some variation of “It’s all due to God’s grace and blessings.” Whatever they have – whether it’s minimal or abundant – is due to God’s generosity. I have never seen people bitter or disgruntled, regardless of the hardship that has befallen them. Sad, yes. Pained, yes. Of course. But, sad and pained with an awareness that ultimately it is all for the best and all part of God’s Divine Plan.<br />
<br />
We were on a high altitude spiritual pilgrimage several years ago when one of the travelers (a heart patient who had not disclosed his illness due to fear of being prohibited from joining the trip) had a heart attack and passed away. His wife was, of course, sad at the loss of her life-long love. Yet, her tears of sadness flowed together with tears of joy and gratitude. Over and over again she thanked Swamiji for bringing her husband to such a holy and sacred place in order to leave his body. “Without you, he never would have had this divine opportunity,” she kept saying, despite the fact that this “divine opportunity” had brought about his death. She was not, for even a moment, debilitated by her grief. There was no tantrum, no screaming, no loss of control that one has become accustomed to seeing by the loved ones of a recently deceased in the West. Tears silently streamed from her eyes as she phoned the children to inform them that “Father has gone home to God and he was so lucky and blessed because he left his body in this holy place.”<br />
<br />
Gratitude is part and parcel of traditional Indian culture and I believe that it plays a huge role in Indians’ ability to withstand even the severest hardships. I have marveled frequently at people who are so poor that they would fall into the bottom percentile of welfare recipients yet who adamantly deny they are poor. “We are not poor at all. Those people over there, perhaps they are poor. But we are not poor.” At the beginning I interpreted this as a half-hearted effort at maintaining their dignity. Yet, I quickly realized that the intentions and words were much purer. These people honestly do not believe themselves to be poor. Yes, they have less than others, but they also have more than others. This is taken as an unchangeable aspect of life and not one which gets much regard.<br />
<br />
These three aspects – a deep sense of spirituality and religion, gratitude and a culture which focuses on giving rather than receiving – are, in my theory, what leads those living on the streets of Calcutta to be so substantially happier than those on the streets of America.<br />
<br />
<strong><span style="text-decoration: underline;">It’s in the Air</span></strong><br />
And what about my dancing jungle nymph? Probably she does not practice conscious gratitude. Probably she doesn’t have much she’s been able to give to anyone else. Probably she wouldn’t even tell you she is religious. She is far too young for any of these. Yet, these aspects are not individual in India. They are not limited to certain people who engage in certain practices and subscribe to certain philosophies. Rather, they are truly in the air. One breathes them whether one is conscious of it or not. One becomes, simply by living in this land, grateful, spiritual and generous of spirit.<br />
<br />
My jungle nymph is probably no different than millions of other children, living in other villages across the country, eating white rice cooked on a gasoline stove, bathing from a rusty hand pump, sleeping on a straw mat on the cold ground, together with all members of the family and perhaps a goat or two.<br />
In the early days of my time in India I visited a school we were going to sponsor. I wrote the following in my journal when we returned in the evening, through my steady stream of tears……<br />
<br />
<em></em><br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><em>The laundry lines are low, and clothes hang down to a few feet above the dirt. Goats, mangy and not much more than skin and bones, sleep piled on top of one another. A dog barks in the background, although the cry sounds more like that of a child. Occasionally, a cow will lazily wander over to the laundry lines and attempt to make lunch out of the drying clothes. Children run and chase each other, just like children around the world. However, these children are half naked although it is December, infections cover their bodies, and they are hungry.</em></div><div style="text-align: center;"><em></em></div><div style="text-align: center;"><em>Here, in this midst, a room has been built out of scraps of wood, sheets of metal, and clothes that have finally been discarded. The room has no light, other than the rays of sun which trickle in from the narrow doorway or from the holes in the imperfect walls. The floor is damp, for it has recently rained, but none of the children seems to mind, even though many are without pants. </em></div><div style="text-align: center;"><em></em></div><div style="text-align: center;"><em>Outside the doorway of this ramshackle room, the shoes of all those fortunate enough to own some lay neatly in rows. In India, one always removes one’s shoes before entering a holy place, and to these children, this shack that serves as a school is a temple. </em></div><div style="text-align: center;"><em>At the front of this room — a maximum of 10 feet X 10 feet, stands a young girl, perhaps six years old. Her eyes are closed, her hands are in prayer. She says a verse and the rows of children at her feet repeat back to her. Those on the floor sit in three rows, nine or ten children per row. All are crossed legged, arms stretched out on their knees, thumbs touching the first two fingers — the classic meditation posture. </em></div><div style="text-align: center;"><em></em></div><div style="text-align: center;"><em>As the morning prayer ends, the young girl’s voice breaks into an exhilarated cry, “Bharat Mata Ki![Mother India!]” The children shout, “Jai! [Glory to Her!]” eyes opening and filling the room with their innocent sweetness.</em></div><div style="text-align: center;"><em></em></div><div style="text-align: center;"><em>Then, she calls, “Daish ki seva, quon karega? [who will selflessly serve the people?]“ “Hum karengay! Hum karengay![we will! we will!]” comes the exuberant response from the children, each filled with angelic optimism and faith. “Hum karengay!” Here are children with nothing, vowing to give to others, children the world has forgotten pledging to serve that very world.</em></div><div style="text-align: center;"><em><br />
</em></div>I believe it is this – this spirit – which blows through the country in the wind, which flows through the people in their blood, which can – I hope – be given and taught to others, so that we all may learn to dance and skip and prance and frolic along on the path of life, no matter how cold the morning or how far our destination.<br />
<br />
<strong><span style="text-decoration: underline;">Booklist:</span></strong><br />
<ol><li>Ben-Shahar, Tal, Ph.D; The Question of Happiness; Writers Club Press – 2002</li>
<li>Biswas-Diener, Robert & Diener, Ed; The Subjective Well-Being of the Homeless and Lessons for Happiness; Social Indicators Research (2006) 76: 185-205</li>
<li>Seligman, Martin E.P., Authentic Happiness, Free Press, New York, 2002;</li>
</ol><hr size="1" /><a href="http://sadhvibhagawati.wordpress.com/writings1/phd/my%20final%20work/essay3-happiness.doc#_ftnref1">[1]</a> Seligman, Martin E.P., Authentic Happiness, Free Press, New York, 2002; page 67 <br />
<a href="http://sadhvibhagawati.wordpress.com/writings1/phd/my%20final%20work/essay3-happiness.doc#_ftnref2">[2]</a> Ben-Shahar, Tal, Ph.D; The Question of Happiness; Writers Club Press – 2002<br />
<a href="http://sadhvibhagawati.wordpress.com/writings1/phd/my%20final%20work/essay3-happiness.doc#_ftnref3">[3]</a> Biswas-Diener, Robert & Diener, Ed; <span style="text-decoration: underline;">The Subjective Well-Being of the Homeless and Lessons for</span> <span style="text-decoration: underline;">Happiness</span>; Social Indicators Research (2006) 76: 185-205</div>Sadhvi Bhagawati Saraswatihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04720603185087768750noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1719297161437784959.post-22239338705657361972011-09-11T00:35:00.000-07:002011-09-11T00:35:15.319-07:00Healing in Spiritual India<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br />
<div class="hfeed" id="wrapper" sizcache="0" sizset="0"> <div id="main" sizcache="0" sizset="0"><div id="container" sizcache="0" sizset="0"><div id="content" role="main" sizcache="0" sizset="0"><div class="post-13 post type-post status-publish format-standard hentry category-uncategorized tag-ashram-psychology-india-rishikesh-ganges-hinduism-sadhvi-bhagawati-swami-chidanand-saraswati-aarti-orphans-trauma-healing-therapy-spirituality" id="post-13" sizcache="0" sizset="0"><div class="entry-content"><div style="text-align: center;"><strong><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Suraj and Sagar –</span></strong></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><strong></strong><strong>Pawns in the Hands of Nature or Clay to be Molded by Nurture?</strong></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><strong><br />
</strong></div><img alt="" height="225" src="http://sadhvibhagawati.files.wordpress.com/2010/09/dsc00413.jpg?w=300&h=225" title="on arrival day - Suraj and Sagar" width="300" />Suraj and Sagar. Sun and Ocean. The orphan sons of a gardener from Nepal who came to India to find work to feed his family. Their mother died in the village a few years ago. No one remembers the date. No one knows the cause. She was sick and she died. Another grain of sand that slipped, unnoticed, through the fingers of time. Their father, Maali [Hindi for gardener] continued to live in the slum village outside of Delhi, barely eking out a living for his children. Until last month when he didn’t wake up one morning.<br />
<br />
Suraj and Sagar. Sun and Ocean. Their ages? Perhaps six and eight. Perhaps eight and ten. Perhaps nine and eleven. No one knows. Their papers? Their documents? Just a receipt for the cremation of their father, torn and taped back together by their closest family relative, a distant uncle who took them in temporarily following the death of their father. “<em>Do they have a birth certificate? Any papers from any school they’ve ever attended? Anything</em>?” I ask, trying to complete the necessary formalities. “<em>No, Ma’am</em>” their uncle answers. “<em>They’ve never been to school. The only paper we’ve got is the cremation certificate. I could give you my identity card if you need a copy of that</em>.”<br />
<br />
Suraj and Sagar. Nepali born, uprooted at a young age, slum raised, unschooled, illiterate, orphaned, voiceless. We spend hours together before I hear a word from either of them. Questions are unanswered or answered by nods of the head. And so hungry. The pile of rice that Sagar puts on his plate his second day here is more than I could eat in a week. He is less than a third my size.<br />
<br />
<strong><em></em></strong><br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><strong><em>Week One: Immersed in the new environment –</em></strong></div><div style="text-align: center;"><strong><em>Does Nurture Stand a Chance</em></strong></div><div style="text-align: center;"><strong><em>Against the Losing Hand that Nature has Already Dealt Them?</em></strong></div><div style="text-align: center;"><strong><em><br />
</em></strong></div><strong><em><span style="text-decoration: underline;"></span></em></strong><br />
Suraj, the younger of the two, is sitting in the aarti ceremony, high on the steps just above Swamiji, a drop in the ocean of yellow clad boys singing and clapping to the devotional music. It is his second day here, and his eyes are fixed on his dupatta (the small cotton scarf the rishikumars wear over their left shoulders) which he is folding and refolding in his lap. The yellow dupattas are lined on one side with red and on the other side with green. When folded properly, the yellow and green meet each other in the middle and form a pattern. Suraj’s has come unfolded and he folds and refolds it, oblivious to all else around him, fully focused on making that red meet green. I, too, lose awareness of my surroundings as I watch him. His single-mindedness engulfs me. Folding and refolding. Yellow, red, green, red, yellow, green, green….how does that accordion fold work? Suddenly he looks up. I cannot avert my gaze quickly enough, and he sees me watching him. Rather than the anxiety, shyness, shame or fear I had expected to see in his eyes, they flash with joy. A huge, tooth-filled smile washes across his small dark face. His eyes glisten and shine. Someone is watching him. Someone cares. He is not alone.<br />
<br />
Then, as I had expected, the veil of shyness wraps itself over his face and he lowers his eyes back down to the intractable dupatta. But the connection has been made and every few moments he carefully raises his gaze to see if my eyes are still upon him. Of course they are. Is it only my imagination, or do his movements now seem more measured, more thoughtful, less chaotic?<br />
<br />
Mary Ainsworth conducted a famous study of attachment in young children. Mothers would come into a room with their young children. The room was full of toys, and the mother was instructed to sit in a chair at one end of the room. The examiner then left the room. The healthier the attachment between mother and child, the more freely the child would wander the room, engage in play and busy himself with other tasks while occasionally glancing up to reassure himself that Mother was still there. Those with unhealthy attachments either refused to leave the comfort of Mother’s lap, denying themselves the opportunity to explore and play in the room full of toys, or they thrust themselves into play, oblivious and indifferent to Mother’s presence.<br />
Was it possible that Suraj and I, in this brief moment on the banks of Ganga, as the sound of Swamiji’s sacred chanting filled the air, was it possible we were establishing for him a “healthy attachment”? Was it possible that the trauma could be un-done? Could that exuberance become a permanent part of his nature? Or was he destined to a life of crime, unemployment and pathology?<br />
<br />
Suraj and Sagar. Sun and Ocean. Doomed and destined to be another statistic of the causal connection between poverty, abandonment and trauma with pathology, crime and violence? Lives pre-determined by the tragic events of their formative years? Was that sparkle, that shine I saw in Suraj’s eyes just a projection of my own happiness? Had my own attachment convinced me that a mutual one existed? Was my own desire to believe that we were providing a loving, caring, nurturing environment blinding me to the inevitability of his descent into some form of PTSD?<br />
<br />
Sagar giggles, saliva spitting from the empty space where his two front teeth used to be. His adult teeth will soon fill the gap. Can he really be ten and just getting his second set of teeth? He is sitting on the floor of my office with some of the other rishikumars as I show them the digital photos of their drama performance last month. The rishikumars had put on a performance in honor of Lord Krishna’s birthday, dressing up as Krishna, Radha and the other gopis (milkmaids who were devoted to Krishna). Suraj is on my lap, a place no self-respecting boy of his age would be in this country, but his classmates instinctively understand and spare him any ridicule. As photo after photo of young boys dressed as ladies flashes across my screen, I test Suraj “<em>Do you know Satish?</em>” I point at a picture of young boy wearing a wig of long hair and a lady’s gown. He nods and turns his head to point to Satish – now wigless and in his normal dhoti – standing next to my chair. “<em>Have you made friends with Puneet? And Basant</em>?” More pictures of the young boys dressed as milk-maids fill my screen. Suraj nods while Sagar giggles at the images of his new friends dressed up in such elaborate costumes.<br />
<br />
<em>“Would you like to play in the drama next year</em>?” I ask them, and they both smile affirmatively. “<em>It’s time for dinner</em>,” Satish reminds me as he leads them gently out of my office and toward the dining hall, his fourteen year old hand protectively on Sagar’s shoulder.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><strong><em>Statistics and Theories of Pathology</em></strong></div><div style="text-align: center;"><strong><em>Versus Experience at Parmarth Gurukul</em></strong></div><div style="text-align: center;"><strong><em>Are we Deluding Ourselves or Really Creating Something New?</em></strong></div><div style="text-align: center;"><strong><em><br />
</em></strong></div><strong><em></em></strong><br />
Suraj and Sagar. How much of their destiny is in our hands? Are we foolish, presumptuous, arrogant to think we can make a significant difference? Are the dice not already thrown by this age? What will become of them?<br />
<br />
According to statistics on orphans in Russia, seventy percent of orphaned boys will enter a life of crime.<a href="http://sadhvibhagawati.wordpress.com/writings1/phd/my%20final%20work/essay6-suraj%20and%20sagar.doc#_ftn1">[1]</a> I could not find the data, but I suspect the statistics are similar in most other countries. It is common knowledge that rates of poverty lead to higher rates of violence and crime. Volumes of psychological, sociological and demographic studies paint a clear picture of the relationship between abandonment, abuse, neglect and trauma in early childhood with extraordinarily high rates of pathology. The spectrum of symptoms runs from withdrawal to aggression, those who turn inward and those who act outward. Neither is healthy, and frequently the same patients spend their lives on a see-saw between the extremes.<br />
<br />
There is a consensus in Western psychoanalytic thought and theory that children who have been traumatized, abandoned, neglected and abused need therapy. Of course arguments abound regarding which is the best type of therapy. Art therapists say art. Music therapists say music. Touch therapists say touch.<br />
<br />
Psychodynamic therapists say talk or play. But the consensus is otherwise clear: without specific intervention these children are heading for a life of depression, substance abuse, crime, psychosis or worse.<br />
Are we at the ashram negligent in our duties to these 150 young boys, every one of whom has been abandoned, abused, neglected, rejected and/or traumatized? There is no counseling. There is no “therapy.” No one is encouraged to act out or draw or discuss any aspect of their lives prior to coming here. We do not take them in our arms and rock them to sleep or “re-parent” them in any conscious way (other than occasional rare cases such as my personal attachment to Suraj and Sagar). There is not a particularly high care-giver to child ratio. None of the teachers, warden or staff has any training in psychological counseling or trauma.<br />
<br />
As noble as the project of the orphanage may be, I have watched it from the beginning for pathology. Born, raised and schooled in the West, a student in a traditional doctoral program, I believed fervently that unless we instituted proper methods of treatment, these children would decompensate. One hundred fifty young boys from impoverished backgrounds, some actual orphans, some with one parent, the rest virtual orphans (those whose parents may be alive but cannot properly care for them). All have experienced what the West would categorize as trauma or neglect or abuse. As committed to the project as I’ve been since the beginning, I have felt many times like a scientist, staring into her crucible, waiting for the chemical mixture inside to explode. It could not be, I reasoned, that 150 out of 150 boys are exceptions to the rule.<br />
<br />
Our project has been running now for more than seven years and we have not had a single instance of any pathology or symptom of any form of PTSD. We’ve never had a black eye. We’ve never had a bloody nose. We’ve never had a temper tantrum. We’ve never had a suicide attempt.<br />
<br />
At 6:45 every morning the grounds of the ashram come alive with the sound of their full throated singing, as they walk — filed neatly but not militarily — down to the Ganges for their morning bath and then to the temple for prayers before breakfast; singing, singing the glories of God, different songs led by different boys each day, as the sun rises over the Himalayas.<br />
<br />
After a day of study and play, evening sees them back on the banks of the Ganges, the stars of the sunset prayer ceremony. They are Swamiji’s orchestra – each a personal tuba, piccolo, flute or saxophone. In tune, out of tune, in the correct sur (octave) or much too high or low they sing. Unabashedly. Eyes closed. Bodies swaying. Hands clapping louder than the amplified tablas. They lead the guests, visitors and local people in an hour of ecstasy.<br />
<br />
<strong><em><span style="text-decoration: underline;"></span></em></strong><br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><strong><em><span style="text-decoration: underline;">An Objective Measure, Perhaps, Of Health</span></em></strong></div><div style="text-align: center;"><strong><em><span style="text-decoration: underline;"><br />
</span></em></strong></div>“<em>One hundred percent passed,”</em> the head acharya (teacher) tells me excitedly. “<em>No one failed.</em>” The government of India annual exam results have come back and he was anxious about the results of the boys. One hundred percent passed. Boys whose parents are illiterate. Boys from mountain villages unreachable by motorable road. Boys who had never held a book in their hands. Passed? All of them? The behavior problems, the slow learners, those whose parents had dismissed them as useless. They all passed. Tiny seeds of potentiality, previously buried deep within an infertile ground, who now seem to have received the exact right amount of sun, water and nutrients to blossom. Will Suraj and Sagar also blossom? Will they pass next year also? As of now they cannot even write their own names. Will eight months be enough to bring them up to some level of par?<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><strong><em>Aspects of the Parmarth Gurukul that May Be “Therapy”, </em></strong></div><div style="text-align: center;"><strong><em>Leading to Health, Joy and Stability </em></strong></div><div style="text-align: center;"><strong><em>Rather than Pathology and Despair</em></strong></div><div style="text-align: center;"><strong><em><br />
</em></strong></div><strong><em></em></strong><br />
In further writings I will talk, in depth, about the numerous spiritual aspects which, I believe, play a crucial and enormous healing role for these boys, supplanting the need for therapy and achieving even longer lasting and more widespread results.<br />
<br />
However, in this essay I would like to examine just a few aspects, with regard to a recent book written by Dr. Phil Zimbardo titled The Lucifer Effect, which testifies to the role of the situation in determining an individual’s behavior and self-perception. It presents profound and compelling evidence for the role of nurture in the ubiquitous nature/nurture debate.<br />
<br />
In detailed examinations of a wide range of situations from the Holocaust to the Abu Ghraib prison scandal to aggression in children, Zimbardo explains the crucial factors inherent in a situation which significantly increase or decrease the chance of certain behaviors on the part of the people involved. For example, by-standers are much less likely to intervene in an emergency if they are only one of a crowd. Same person, same situation, same emergency. But the likelihood of heroic intervention decreases sharply as the size of the crowd increases. “<em>Someone else will take care of it,”</em> we seem to assume. Further, a simple factor such as being in a rush can turn an otherwise good Samaritan into an unwitting yet callous conspirator to crime.<br />
<br />
There are several topics that Dr. Zimbardo raises which speak directly to my lingering concern about a potential eruption of pathology in our gurukul. Although in the majority of his cases the subjects engage in mal-adaptive behavior, I believe the same principles may be applicable in increasing the likelihood of adaptive behavior.<br />
<br />
Before beginning to talk about a few of the specific situational principles, there is a study to which Dr. Zimbardo refers that sets the stage for analyzing our presumptions of what is healthy and pathological.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><strong><em>Who Is Sick, Anyway?</em></strong></div><div style="text-align: center;"><strong><em><br />
</em></strong></div>A Stanford researcher and seven of his colleagues wanted to test the basis for diagnosis of pathology in mental hospitals. They each went to a different hospital with a single complaint: hearing of noises, thuds or voices. No other complaints. No other symptoms. Just an occasional hearing of unexplained noises, thuds or voices. Every single of one of them was immediately admitted with a diagnosis of schizophrenia. From the moment of admission, they acted completely normal. No more noises. No more thuds. No more voices. Their actions, words and interactions with staff were all sane, professional, congenial and exactly as they would have behaved outside of the hospital. The researchers were testing to see how long it would take the hospital staff to realize that the new patient did not really belong in a mental hospital. The answer was never! Despite numerous explanations to the staff, no one at any of the hospitals believed that these patients had merely conducted an experiment. It actually took several weeks and the involvement of lawyers to get them out. Amazingly, even after the lawyers’ involvement, each of the eight discharge slips read, “<em>Schizophrenia in remission</em>.”<br />
<br />
A single symptom, reported once, not even manifest before the doctor’s eyes but simply self-reported and then rescinded is enough to put us in the box of pathological. Even when we suddenly recover no one is prepared to accept that perhaps we were not sick in the first place, but rather misunderstood. If concepts of sickness and health, functional and dys-functional, normal and pathological are as murky as this, then perhaps – I tell myself – there may not actually be a volcanic eruption brewing. Perhaps the pathology I cannot see is not actually lurking in their subconscious, but really nonexistent.<br />
<br />
How then (turning our attention to the principles Zimbardo raises) might it be that these children are escaping the grips of anxiety, tension, violence, detachment which are the hallmarks of orphaned, abandoned and abused children in other parts of the world?<br />
<br />
<strong><em><span style="text-decoration: underline;"></span></em></strong><br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><strong><em><span style="text-decoration: underline;">Uniform:</span></em></strong></div><div style="text-align: center;"><strong><em><span style="text-decoration: underline;"><br />
</span></em></strong></div>In his detailed examination of the Stanford Prison Experiment, Zimbardo discussed the impact of uniform. The experiment took a random sampling of normal, non-pathological, stable, ordinary young men and – in a period of less than a week – turned most of them into either cruel “guards” or self-protective, complacent, withdrawn, submissive “prisoners.” The dark glasses and billy clubs given to the guards provided them anonymity as well as a symbol of power which, coupled with their appointed role as “guard” and virtually free reign to rule as they saw fit, led them to engage in abuses that mirrored those wrought upon the Iraqi prisoners by the Abu Grahib soldiers.<br />
<br />
Humiliation, starvation, sleep deprivation and physical punishment – all became the status quo in a few short days at the Stanford Prison in picturesque Palo Alto. The “prisoners”, stripped of their rights and individuality, also quickly adapted to the role. Half – naked, dressed in a short prison gown and ladies’ stocking over their hair, known by a number rather than a name, at the mercy of the guards, these vibrant, robust young men became so withdrawn, submissive, depressed and “helpless” that the experiment had to be cut short by less than half its duration.<br />
<br />
That simple shift in uniform and identity, as incredible as it sounds, seems to have had an enormous impact on their self-perception. The young college men in the Stanford Prison Experiment “became” brutal guards or withdrawn prisoners by donning the clothes and internalizing the roles. These shifts in personality – even when they knew it was an experiment – have had, in several cases, lasting effects decades later.<br />
<br />
The importance of uniform and assigned role in personal self-identity is a crucial theme of Zimbardo’s book and of innumerable earlier psychological studies. The power of identities and labels may be much greater than we realize. They seem to serve as molds into which our personality flows like wet clay. Every teacher and parent knows that if you tell a child, “<em>you are stupid</em>” enough times, that child, regardless of the innate genius with which he may have come into this world, sure enough, will become “stupid.” Numerous studies have shown that students whom teachers believe to be smart (whether they are really smart or whether a clever experimenter has simply led the teacher to believe they are so) actually outperform their peers on exams. We become, it seems, the roles which are handed to us.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><strong><em>Uniform of Rishikumar at Parmarth Gurukul</em></strong></div><div style="text-align: center;"><strong><em><br />
</em></strong></div>The majority of the research has been done on the negative effects of uniforms and titles, but could the flip side also hold true? Just as Dr. Zimbardo turned nice, ordinary college students into heartless brutes by giving them dark glasses and calling them “guards”, could we turn abandoned, impoverished, traumatized young boys into healthy, adaptive, self-confident, caring young men by giving them yellow dhotis and calling them “rishikumars”?<br />
<br />
Zimbardo says, “<em>Some roles are insidious, are not just scripts that we enact only from time to time; they can become who we are most of the time. They are internalized even as we initially acknowledge them as artificial, temporary and situationally bound. We become father, mother, son, daughter, neighbor, boss, worker, helper, healer, whore, soldier, beggar man, thief and many more</em>.” (p. 214) Is it possible that these boys, by playing the role and wearing the costume of “rishikumar” for long enough actually become that rishikumar?<br />
<br />
Upon entering the Parmarth gurukul, the boys remove their dirty, torn, street clothes and don brand new bright yellow dhotis and kurtas, the traditional dress of spiritual seekers, priests and religious leaders. They immediately become a “rishikumar”. Rishis are the sages and saints who live in the Himalayas engaged in sadhana and meditation. A kumar is a young boy. So the rishikumars are the young boys who lived with and studied under the rishis. They are no longer orphans. They are no longer poor. They are no longer pitiable and worthless. They are no longer the unwanted, extra child whom the parents have deemed not worth feeding. They are now rishikumars.<br />
<br />
I believe the uniform – not just that it is different from torn pants but that it is symbolic of spiritual beings – and the positive title are important parts of the molds of health and happiness into which these young boys’ personalities flow. But, there must be more. A yellow dhoti and new title are not enough to undo the defining pain of abuse and abandonment. Simply turning Suraj and Sagar into Rishisuraj and Rishisagar cannot possibly cause more than a dent in the suffering their small bodies, impressionable minds and tender hearts have had to endure.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><strong><em><span style="text-decoration: underline;">Social Modeling and the Importance of Association</span></em></strong></div><div style="text-align: center;"><strong><em><span style="text-decoration: underline;"><br />
</span></em></strong></div>In Dr. Zimbardo’s book, another important aspect of the power of the situation lies in what he calls social modeling. We fashion our own behavior as well as our perception of proper behavior on those around us. This is particularly true in new and unfamiliar situations. What is even more fascinating, however, is that not only do we model our behavior on those around us, but we actually conform in thought as well. Muzafer Sherif and Solomon Asch are two of the earliest and most famous names in the literature on social conformity in thought and action. Through a variety of experiments they showed the overwhelming propensity of participants to not only behave/answer according to how others have behaved/answered but actually to change their own perceptions accordingly.<br />
<br />
If, for example, we are shown a flash of blue light and asked what color it is, we will say blue. But, if prior to our answer, we hear 10 other “participants” (really confederates) say the light was green, chances are we will also say it is green. However, not only will we SAY it was green but we will change our perception of the color to actually believe it was green.<br />
<br />
It appears that going along with the norm is one of the most powerful and compelling social forces. C.S. Lewis has said it beautifully, “<em>I believe that in all men’s lives at certain periods, and in many men’s lives at all periods…one of the most dominant elements is the desire to be inside the local Ring and the terror of being left outside….Of all the passions the passion for the inner Ring is most skillful in making a man who is not yet a very bad man do very bad things.”</em><br />
<em><br />
</em><br />
Zimbardo goes on to give numerous examples of ways in which people conform to the group’s ideology, in studies ranging from those as innocuous as determining the size of a line to studies as foreboding as Milgrim’s famous studies on delivering electrical shocks.<br />
<br />
We know, in everyday life, the power of association. Previously obedient and studious children who get mixed up with the wrong company are very likely to become rebellious and belligerent. Every recovering alcoholic is warned against hanging out with his old, drinking buddies; the implicit pressure to conform is too great.<br />
<br />
In Indian culture there is great emphasis put on the concept of “satsang.” It translates loosely as “good association.” Parents bring their children to holy places not just for their children to receive blessings but mainly for them to be in the company of holy, spiritual people, even temporarily. It seems that being in an environment of piety actually makes us feel that we are pious people. The longer we spend in a particular environment, surrounded by like-minded people, the more our own self-identity changes to reflect the norms of the group.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><strong><em>Social Modeling at the Parmarth Gurukul</em></strong></div><div style="text-align: center;"><strong><em><br />
</em></strong></div>Can these concepts be extended to our young boys? If Suraj and Sagar had been put into an orphanage filled with bitter, desperate, depressed children in an atmosphere that fostered disengagement and indifference, would they too become disengaged, indifferent and depressed? Will the atmosphere of joy, togetherness, spirituality, celebration, song and piety here at our gurukul seep into their cells? Will it change not only their behavior but also their very sense of Self? Sure they will clap their hands and sing in aarti. Everyone claps and sings in aarti. Older children will tell them to. The pressure to conform will be great. But will their hearts clap or only their hands? Will their hearts sing or only their tongues? Will the song — the joy, the love, the devotion of the song – be able to affect the very cells of their being? Will they become joyful by singing joyfully?<br />
<br />
In America we are taught the song, “If you’re happy and you know it clap your hands.” There must be a reason, other than the easy lyrics, that generations of camps and schools have taught this song to groups of children. Could it be that by clapping our hands along with our classmates we actually become happy? Could it work in both directions? I am happy so I clap my hands. I clap my hands so I become happy.<br />
Can Suraj and Sagar clap joy back into their hearts? Can they sing hope back into their hearts? Can they smile meaning back into their lives?<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><strong><em>Week Two – </em></strong></div><div style="text-align: center;"><strong><em>Nurture Outshines Nature: They Have “Become” Rishikumars</em></strong></div><div style="text-align: center;"><strong><em><br />
</em></strong></div><strong><em></em></strong><br />
It is Ganesh Chatturthi, the day where statues of Lord Ganesh,<a href="http://sadhvibhagawati.wordpress.com/writings1/phd/my%20final%20work/essay6-suraj%20and%20sagar.doc#_ftn2">[2]</a> beautifully sculpted in clay are immersed in the Ganges, after 10 days of being joyfully worshipped. It is pouring rain and the sound of “<em>Ganapati Bappa Moriya</em>” becomes the music to which the rain falls as accompaniment. “<em>Ganapati Bappa Moriya</em>,” the children chant, at the top of their lungs, wet hands clapping, as they follow the procession down to the banks of the Ganges for the sunset immersion. “<em>Ganapati Bappa Moriya</em>.” It is a lively, joyful chant in praise of Lord Ganesh. They are carrying their steel dinner plates as they’re coming from their living quarters, and directly from the ceremony they will go straight to the dining hall for dinner. As they march past the dining hall, they rush inside, drop off their plates and then run back out to catch up with the procession.<br />
<br />
I am standing in the doorway of our reception area overlooking the pathway the children take from the dining hall to the river banks. Lured by the heavenly smell of the rain and the sound of the chanting children, I have come to stand and witness the beauty. One by one the children run past my doorway, empty handed after dropping off their plates, as they rush to catch up with the others. I’m standing, quietly watching these beautiful children. They are drenched already but don’t even notice, as the summer rain continues to fall.<br />
<br />
Suddenly I see Sagar run out of the dining hall; his back is to me as he skips down the path down to the river. He is dancing and prancing on the wet pathway, his soaked hair plastered to his face, his hands flying joyfully in the air. “<em>Ganapati Bappa Moriya</em>,” he’s shouting. Suddenly he turns around, pulled perhaps by the tears welling up in my eyes. He stops, folds his hands carefully and properly into “namaskar”, bows deeply at the waist in my direction, flashes me a smile that could be a billboard for Crest toothpaste if only his teeth were actually present and white, and then turns and continues running down to the river….. My question has answered itself. Yes, he has sung the hope back into his heart. <em>Ganapati Bappa Moriya</em>….It seems, for the moment, Sagar’s obstacles have been removed. The ocean is full.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://sadhvibhagawati.files.wordpress.com/2010/09/dsc00421.jpg"><img alt="" class="alignleft size-medium wp-image-15" height="300" src="http://sadhvibhagawati.files.wordpress.com/2010/09/dsc00421.jpg?w=225&h=300" title="Suraj and Sagar - a few months later" width="225" /></a><br />
<strong><span style="text-decoration: underline;">Booklist:</span></strong><br />
<ol><li>Ainsworth, M. and Bowlby, J. (1965). Child Care and the Growth of Love. London: Penguin Books.</li>
<li>Ainsworth, M., Blehar, M., Waters, E., & Wall, S. (1978). Patterns of Attachment. Hillsdale, NJ: Erlbaum.</li>
<li>Thompson, A.E. & Kaplan, C.A. “Childhood Emotional Abuse”. British Journal of Psychiatry. 168 (1996) 143-148</li>
<li>Zimbardo, Phil, The Lucifer Effect (New York: Random House. 2007).</li>
</ol><hr size="1" /> <a href="http://sadhvibhagawati.wordpress.com/writings1/phd/my%20final%20work/essay6-suraj%20and%20sagar.doc#_ftnref1">[1]</a> (http://www.musicmissionkiev.org/news_detail.cfm?NewsID=1&ArticleID=97) <br />
<a href="http://sadhvibhagawati.wordpress.com/writings1/phd/my%20final%20work/essay6-suraj%20and%20sagar.doc#_ftnref2">[2]</a> The elephant headed God worshipped as the remover of obstacles, also called Ganapati<br />
<div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #0066cc;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 24px;"><br />
</span></span></div></div></div></div></div></div></div><noscript></noscript></div>Sadhvi Bhagawati Saraswatihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04720603185087768750noreply@blogger.com2