Bombay Blues

by Tanuja Desai Hidier

  I wasn’t sure how you could wash the photos, though.

  Although the large god and guru statues bore the whitest of skin, the miniatures used for abishek were a deep brown — like the garlanded guru in that other mandir at the room’s back.

  And the white Krishna’s upturned flute-playing palm as well as Radha’s waving one: a rich pink hue. They looked mehendi’d, newly bridal: Radha and Krishna, the holy couple; gopis, the adoring (and perilously besotted) flower girls.

  I perused the crowd, who appeared mostly of the brown persuasion, and spotted a possibly white girl — though with this city’s solar wattage, even white went gold. Another NRYB: This one’s dirty-blond hair was dreaded to the hips and she was nose-ring’d and earring’d like she’d had a lengthy tryst with a hole puncher. Her eyes were closed (and kajal’d), and she was grinning a very depilated-head, white-boy New York Hare Krishna type grin — maniacally, almost dictatorially, cheerful.

  Rastagirl opened her eyes, caught my stare, and smiled broadly at me. I smiled back a little hesitantly. She swayed harder (which seemed to defeat the very essence of a sway), nodding as if to coax me into a round. I shook my head no, thanks, but lifted my lens in compensation, for which she magnanimously posed, offering an extra whip of her dreads.

  I quickly turned my camera away.

  The priests were now waving genie lamps in ever-widening circles towards the gods. Then they lowered them offstage onto a tray held by another priest, who turned and promptly bolted across the room … to offer them to the mini mandir brown dude. No one followed him, so I guessed the main activity was still taking place up front.

  It was getting a little confusing. In church, where I’d midnight massed with Gwyn a couple times, you mostly just sat and stared straight ahead. But here, everything was everywhere.

  A sudden heave and I was pushed forward with the crowd till I was nearly against the latticed gate. The priest before me was now taking finger-dips of conch water and flicking it over the devotees, who supped it up like desert pups. I’d just managed to steer my lens out of the way when — splat! — a grand wallop of this liquid blessing hit me in the eyes.

  Earth, wind, fire, water; bhūmi, pavan, agni, jala — the elements on offer: When my vision cleared, they were twirling some kind of cloth … then, an instant later, as if by transmogrifying magic, waving some blooms about. I shot the singing, chanting crowd; when I spun back priestward, their sadhu spells had produced some yak-tail fans in place of the flowery stuff, rising and dropping in a swoony cascade as if of slow-motion-shot, long-haired headbangers — while the rest of the room sped up.

  The mantra cranked. Some of the crowd were jumping up and down, as if on pogo sticks. The priests were now flapping peacock feathers, bells ringing in their non-fanning hands all the while.

  Templegoers dosey-doed a couple steps forward, a couple back, arms raised as if they were part of a hoedown stickup. Everything seemed faster, louder. It was making me a little anxious, like gym class. Were people yelling the mantra? I turned to discern a couple guys planted towards the back with mics, bvox-ing the space to earsplitting volume.

  Hare Hare!

  Surround sound. A man fell to the ground, narrowly missing my feet. I was about to help him up when I noted a few more men doing this and realized it was on purpose. Rarely did Hindus lie down on purpose. These particular ones prostrated themselves in a state of curiously inert elation. Dreaded Deadhead stalker girl was back, inching in, nodding into my face and overdoing it with the dance moves. Cornered, I reluctantly hands-upped. She smiled triumphantly. It made me feel lonely. I cast my eyes around the room so Karsh and I could exchange looks. We were always so in tune, so …

  Where was he?

  I peered into my camera, using it to survey the space. A shock awaited me. Karsh, who’d stayed a slight distance behind, was tilting back and forth to the beat, eyes intent on the stage action. He didn’t look like he felt left out at all.

  His expression made me nervous. It was completely devoid of irony. It wasn’t looking at me, or even for me.

  And then he did the most outrageous thing of all: He raised his arms overhead … and began to sway.

  As if we were a seesaw, my own arms abruptly dropped like lead.

  The holy-men trio synced up again on their individual stages, blew their mollusking trumpets with gusto.

  A strewing of roses. A last ding-a-ling of the golden bells.

  And it was over. As the crowd sundered, I wiped my eyes and sought out Karsh … my camera landing, after so many snaps, upon a NO PHOTOGRAPHY sign. I hesitated.

  —It’s okay, a voice spoke low in my ear. —You can take a picture.

  One of the bvox boys stood beside me, holding a small pouch like many of the devotees had. He smiled, I supposed an enlightened smile.

  —A hundred and eight tulsi beads, he explained, following my eyes to the pouch. —You’re new here.

  It wasn’t a question.

  —We’re new here, I said, indicating Karsh, just now approaching as if stepping out of a dream state. He was still a little wobbly, so I guessed with some relief that his swaying moves had more to do with a dearth of electrolytes than that mantra. —Karsh. And Dimple.

  —Where are you from?

  —New York.

  —Ah. New York — a very significant place for Hare Krishnas. For ISKCON, the International Society of Krishna Consciousness. I’m Gopal. Come. Have lunch with us and we can answer any of your questions.

  I wasn’t sure we had any, other than what was for lunch. Karsh was nodding frantically, famishedly, like it was the invite of a lifetime.

  —And you must meet Gokulanandini, who lived in New York once upon a time as well, Gopal continued, guiding us towards the back of the room. —My name means “protector of cows.” Another name for Krishna, who was a cowherd.

  An image of Krishna atop one of Patti Smith’s horses whinnied into mind. A cowboy god!

  —We’ll dine with the devotees, Gopal said, walking us through a set of doors into a kitchen/café where numerous 108-tulsi-bead-pouched individuals were lining up, ladling their banana leaves carefully with vegetarian cantina nosh: aloo bhaji, chapati, basmati rice.

  We joined. Karsh exhibited none of his usual hesitation with the food on offer here; he must have been ravenous. Leaves loaded, Gopal led us to a table and dug into his own banana boat with expert fingers, dunking rice in dahl.

  —Such an auspicious day, he said now, side-to-siding.

  —What’s the occasion? Karsh asked.

  —You are the occasion. You have discovered us — and Godhead!

  Karsh cracked not a mischievous look my way. Dehydration?

  —Thirsty? Gopal inquired now, clearly making the same diagnosis.

  —Very, I said, worried.

  —Ah — well, here comes Gokulanandini with paani for all!

  The bearer of the four stainless steel cups, it turned out, was neither male nor Indian … but the dreadlocked white-gone-golden girl with the multiple-entry piercings. She distributed the cups and sat, beaming round at all of us as Gopal made the intros.

  —Wow. You don’t look like a Gokulanandini, I finally said, unsure of what one of those would look like in any case.

  —Gokulanandini is my Hare Krishna name. Like Gopal used to be Sanjeev.

  —Sounds like taking a DJ name, I said, stuffing my face. —Frock, I feel so much better already — that water-fight part really woke me up, too. Great for a hangover!

  Karsh shot me a look. What? I mean, weren’t the Beatles — those reefer-ridden musical geniuses — into this religion? And even the gods must experience hangovers in Hinduism, right? Bhang. Chillum. All those spiritual quick-fix elixirs?

  —For hanging around. It’s great to hang around, Karsh said now, swiftly scoring the gold for lamest cover-up ever.

  —I’m glad you are enjoying the lunch, Gopal nodded. —Are you a vegetarian, Dimple?

  —Part-time vegetarian, I replied. He gave me a q
uizzical look.

  —Whenever I’m not eating meat, I explained.

  —Dimple, he gasped, stricken. —I know I don’t really know you, but if I may say something? I urge you to stop eating meat as soon as possible. The path you are on can lead to no good.

  He was exuding that bossy brochure vibe. He and Gokulanandini were clearly in cahoots.

  —You’re right, I said. —You don’t really know me.

  This dude had pushed a button I didn’t even know I had. Karsh intervened:

  —What Dimple means is —

  —I think Dimple knows what Dimple means, I assured them, amazed Karsh could jam the same button so quickly. —Sanjeev.

  —Gopal, my three co-diners corrected me.

  —Dimple, you should really at least cut onions from your diet, the many-named man recommended now.

  How could he presume I included them?

  —Huh? Isn’t that Jain, the no-onion thing?

  —These underground roots — onion, garlic: They excite the system too much, Gopal disclosed, like that was a bad thing. —They are linked to an argumentative nature.

  —Argue the point, Karsh added gently, likely for my benefit. —Not the person. Who said that?

  —You. Just now, I replied, suddenly feeling highly shallotted. —Bad ears for a DJ, no?

  —I don’t eat meat in India, Karsh reported now, not mentioning that this was due more to hygienic angst than anything else. —Or at least a lot less.

  —A DJ? Gokulanandini exclaimed, probably fearing for Karsh’s spiritual purity. Then, hopefully, —Weddings?

  —Karsh is DJing a big show at L’Heure Bleu tomorrow, I offhandedly announced, to support her in her fearing. —It’s just down the road from here.

  —Isn’t that the venue that was shut down when they found intoxicated people there? Gopal asked, worried.

  —Isn’t that every venue? I laughed cruelly. —I mean, how else would you even know it’s a venue?

  —I studied computers, Karsh interjected. —Tech work.

  I couldn’t even look at him in case he’d turned into my parents.

  —Yeah. As in algo-rhythm. Well, you’ve got something in common, anyway, those places and this one, I went on, directing my comment at Gopal and the cowgirl. —All those dancing masses. The singing, the music, the ecstatic look — that happens at all of Karsh’s shows. Even people falling on the floor. Except it’s him onstage, not Krishna.

  —They weren’t falling on the floor. They were supplicating themselves before a higher power, Gokulanandini sighed now. —Surrendering. You should try this, Dimple.

  —You first, I suggested.

  —And, Karsh. As a music lover, you will so appreciate the 7:15 darshan here — and George Harrison’s Brahma Samhita. He was a Hare Krishna, of course.

  Gopal nodded. —You should come to that one, by all means. But of course the most powerful darshan of all is the first of the day: four thirty A.M., when your spiritual powers are at their peak.

  —We never see four thirty from that side, I told them. They ignored me.

  —The mantra has inspired many musicians. The Fugs, and Nina Hagen, too, Gokulanandini informed us. She’d probably dated a musician when she was still Amy from Minneapolis.

  —And of course Hare Belafonte, I snickered. No one got it. Did the abstinence from stress relievers so many devotees practiced (sex, drugs, rock ’n’ roll) include eschewing a sense of humor as well?

  —Wow, you two get here so early for these darshans, Karsh broke in, sounding impressed. —I mean, Bombay traffic’s killer. Do you live nearby?

  —I live right here, Gokulanandini said, smiling and patting her heart.

  —Which chamber? I asked. —Ventricle or atrium? Or the unforgettable auricle?

  —Here. At the ashram.

  —I am only here visiting. My father has had surgery, Gopal said. —I moved recently to Vrindavan.

  —Oh. I’m sorry about your father, Karsh said with great emotion. —I … I lost mine not so long ago.

  Gopal and Gokulanandini immediately laid their hands upon Karsh’s. Gokulanandini got a bit of dahl on Karsh’s wrist, but he didn’t seem to notice.

  —Oh, Karsh. I am so sorry, Gopal said quietly. —Perhaps a visit to Vrindavan would be just the cure to help heal your heart. Have you ever been?

  —Krishna spent his childhood there, the most beautiful place in the world! Gokulanandini added. —And so much grass!

  I perked up.

  —And so many cows! Gopal added. I perked down. —You really need to be surrounded by grass and cows to maximize your spiritual sensibility.

  —Do beaches count? I asked. —I mean, what about everyone here? They seem pretty maximized.

  —That’s not what Gopal means. Gokulanandini smiled patiently. —But this urban environment can dilute the innersphere, corrupt the channels. Introduce impurities.

  I longed to recommend a loofah.

  —I hope one day to move north as well, she added dreamily. —So I can truly become one with Godhead.

  This sounded strangely sexy coming from Gokulanandini’s … pierced … tongue. That also seemed a pretty good way to introduce impurities.

  And as far as urban environments went, I thought, my father and my uncle seemed pretty adept at finding their Zen here — even in dogged Bombay traffic, in most populous suburb Andheri.

  —I don’t know, I countered. —Seems it’d be a no-brainer to zone out around cows and grass. The real trick would be to be enlightened in the crazy day-to-day. On the streets of this city, for example. In a crowd. In a club.

  —You can’t trust anyone! Gokulanandini decried now, passionately and, as far as I could see, à propos de nada. She’d clearly been cheated on. Probably by that Fugs-loving bassist. —Only God. We here are all married to Krishna.

  —Even him? I nodded towards Gopal, who seemed a little flummoxed about how to reply.

  —We are Lord Krishna’s devotees, she went on, eyeing Karsh. —Like the gopis. We don’t need anyone else.

  —You know, I mused, —I wonder if the word groupie is etymologically linked to gopi….

  A silence.

  —I mean, all those girls all over Krishna.

  —They are not girls all over Krishna. They are cowherds, Gokulanandini nearly squawked. —They feel divine love.

  —Radha, his wife, doesn’t mind?

  —His wife is … Rukmini, Gopal replied. He cleared his throat. —One of his 16,108 wives … but principally he had just eight.

  I let that sink in. For him.

  —But there are only four regulative principles to lead a pure spiritual life! he spin-doctored now. —It’s quite simple, actually. I urge you to desist this DJ lifestyle, Karsh: the illicit drugs, the sexual licentiousness …

  I laughed. I wish!

  —Oh, Dimple, Gokulanandini said sadly, shaking her head. —You poor, poor thing.

  —Trust in God, Gopal stage-whispered, and now he blazed his eyes into Karsh’s. —The way you would trust in your father.

  Karsh’s dad hadn’t really been one to trust — hence Karsh and Radha’s so long — but I figured it wouldn’t be good form to point that out simply to argue with Gopal. The point, not the person.

  —You know what’s so strange, Karsh said now. —The shankha shell. Dimple and I were just talking about it on our way over. My father — we had a connection through the conch. We’d listen to it to hear each other when we were separated….

  Why was he telling these strangers something he’d only just revealed to me?

  —Karsh. That is beautiful, Gokulanandini swooned.

  —They say you can hear the music of the spheres inside that shell. Om, the sound of creation, Gopal divulged. He went on to explain that Vishnu’s conch symbolized life; shells that spiraled clockwise indicated this infinite expansion. The ones that went the other way were linked with Shiva, the destroyer.

  Karsh was leaning so far forward listening that Flip’s lighter now fell out of his
upper pocket, onto a banana leaf. Gopal looked betrayed.

  —It’s for … incense. Agarbathi, Karsh quickly explained, to my total nonsurprise.

  —I am relieved to hear that, Karsh. You know it requires great lung power to blow a conch.

  —In ancient times that was how warriors announced battles. Like Arjuna in the Mahabharata, Gokulanandini supplemented. —They blow it at weddings, too.

  —We’ll have to blow one in less than a couple weeks, then, I smiled to Karsh, thinking of how startled Deepak’s face would be if we did.

  —I didn’t realize! Gopal exclaimed. —Heartiest congratulations to you both!

  We didn’t bother to correct him; after all, at the hotel, I was currently clean-livin’ Mrs. Kapoor. I was relieved to see Karsh flick me a grin.

  We rose to go. Gopal and Gokulanandini rose with us.

  —Your father loved you very much, Gopal said, his arm around Karsh’s shoulders now. —And you were meant to find us … through the music of that shell.

  Emotional manipulation! Dude looked sincere — but his sincerity was pissing me off. They accompanied us out through the mandir space, to the false-ceiling courtyard.

  —Go on, then, Karsh, Dimple. But please do consider all we’ve discussed.

  —And remember, Gokulanandini said, —there is always a home for you here.

  —And in Vrindavan, Gopal added. Gokulanandini hugged Karsh a little longer than necessary, compared to the paltry embrace I received (and bestowed).

  —Everyone’s trying to go to Mars, to the moon, she said urgently. —But the world inside is much bigger than the one on the outside.

  Karsh nodded urgently back at her.

  I took his hand, interlaced it in solidarity. But he was still nodding as we left.

  Out on the street, the urban environment smacked us gloriously in the senses.

  —This city’s so dirty, Karsh said now. —You know, they may have a point. I don’t think it could hurt, a little detox, purification of the soul. I, for one, felt like hell till we went in there.