Kolkata - Missive 2

  Kolkata (Calcutta), West Bengal, India
Friday, November 16, 2007

Kolkata Journal - Missive 2 November 10-11, 2007

Diwali, the Festival of Lights, ends today with the immersion of the Goddess Kali in the Ganges. The last 4 nights have been loud, with firecrackers sounding from 5-11 pm each night. While many of the fireworks are of the starburst variety, the most popular one sounds much like a very powerful bomb, at least 4-6 (maybe 10) times the firepower of our M-80s (cherry bombs). I cannot understand how they don't blow 4 foot craters wherever they are set off. - and they are going off everywhere. Being the culturally myopic person that I am, choking on the toxic fumes that linger in a thick white haze in the breezeless Kolkata night and into the next day, I find myself wanting to throw open my windows and shout"You IDIOTS!" every time I hear one. Rather than doing that, I keep my windows closed until around 2 am, and endure the slight burn in the back of my throat with each breath.

Yesterday I went to Baba Lokenath's Temple at Kalighat to plan my visits next week to the Lokenath Divine Life Mission's street schools,

Street School Children Singing Devotional Chant

mobile clinic vans, and village projects. (Baba Lokenath was a Himalayan Master who lived from 1730-1890. Great devotion toward him lives on West Bengal 120 years after his Mahasamadhi (a master's conscious exiting of the body). Baba Lokenath appeared to and enlightened my teacher, Baba Shuddhaanandaa, in an all night vision in 1978.)

The temple building is a humble one. It is the converted downstairs of a devotee's home, about 25 feet down a small alley-one-lane street from the wider, crowded, often grimy, always chaotic and littered Kali Temple Road, which is lined with hundreds of rickety, bamboo-draped-in-tattered-plastic vendor stalls. The stalls are punctuated by the occasional pile of trash or rubble. Kali Temple Road teems with life. The religious relic and especially the food vendors here do a furious business all day and late into the night. Yet countless people sleep on the hard pavement behind the stalls, some during the day, amid the cacophony of bleeting taxi horns and intense commercial life.

Entering the temple, you step onto the concrete floor of a large, high ceilinged, open room, formerly a courtyard. To the left as you come in is a wash basin, then 2 tiny offices. One is the pharmica, where the homeopathic medicines are prepared for the 2 mobile vans and 7 community health clinics that serve 175,000 people a year. The other, room, not too much larger than an oversized pantry, has 3 small desks. One has a computer. This is the Mission office! It is immediately obvious how little is spent on infrastructure, given the scope and effectiveness of the Mission, which has served over 2.5 million people since 1985 and lifted whole villages out of poverty!

Girl from Street School Reciting Poem for Baba

A raised concrete curb marks the area beyond which there are no shoes. Beyond the curb, is a large open room (about 20x20) with a permanent awning roof is lined with burgundy cloth that is edged in chartreuse, scalloped silk. The floor is covered with tan linoleum. The upper part of the walls are covered with sandalwood featuring handcarved Hindu mythical figures and stories. At the far end of the room are 2 sets of carved sandalwood doors leading to the altar room, the chamber where Baba Lokenath's huge, white marble statue sits, robed in radiant red and gold silk. He is luxuriously draped in garlands of marigold, a delicate white flower, and a huge prayer mala.

The family who owns the home lives upstairs. The father, Shudeep, runs the temple. He also works closely with Baba, Anupama (the woman who manages the urban projects), and Amilendu,( who runs all of the rural, village projects). Shudeeps' mother died only 2 weeks ago, so his head is shaved and he wears all white cotton, the grieving uniform of those who have lost a loved one. He has only just returned to work after 12 days of rituals and isolation from all worldly duties. His wife, Ipshita, is tall and beautiful, quiet with a generous, warm smile. They have 2 lovely daughters, 17 and 9, and a very thin and eager, handsome son, who appears to be about 13. They all take loving care of the temple and are a beautiful family. Shudeep and his 17 year old daughter, who wants to be a physicist, speak excellent English.

While at the temple, I help with all of the preparations for the noon meal that is prepared and served to the poor on Kalighat's streets. First, I sit on the linoleum floor with 2 other women in the open area which is surrounded by sandlewood carvings. The carved wooden doors that set off the altar area are open. The temple priest is performing a puja ritual, chanting those haunting Sanskrit prayers that I love so much, but do not understand a word of.

One of my fellow-vegetable choppers is a very lovely, finely featured, kind-and-bright eyed, elegant teacher named Ellora. The other woman, who does not speak English, appears to be a paid cook or an extremely skilled volunteer. Almost all Bengali women are stunningly beautiful, with haunting, soulful eyes and heart warming smiles. Both of the other women are skillfully using a tool to peel and cut the vegetables. I can only describe it as reminiscent of a half-scythe, mounted on a block of wood/ The curved blade faces away from the user. The tool is held in place with one foot, while the user sits or squats on the floor and works away. God, these women are strong and supple! Certain I would lose a section of a finger if I even attempted to use this tool, I am relieved to be given a knife.

We peel, seed and chop pumpkin and green papaya, then beans, potatoes, cauliflower and an Indian vegetable that looks like a 2 inch cucumber with tapered ends and large round seeds. We throw the pieces all into a huge, sturdy common aluminum pan that I estimate to hold about 10 gallons. In another pan, cabbage has already been shredded and spinach has been chopped.

The kitchen is to the right of the temple area, a long, narrow room. At one end is a small sink and above it, a granite-inset shelf. An approximately 15-18 inch square, 2 feet tall, free-standing cast iron propane burner sits below and to the left of the sink. A massive pot of rice sits fully cooked, still submerged in water. I am given a large, flat 8-10 inch metal sieve to lift mounds of rice out of the water and let it drain before depositing them into a large basket lined with cloth. The basket sits in a larger pot that catches any excess draining water.

Two small tables sit along the far wall holding bags of this and that that have no labels. I see precious little food stored anywhere in the kitchen. I wonder where they keep all the food!

After all the rice is removed, the cooking pot is drained of the liquid and wiped dry. The burner is re-lit, the gargantuan aluminum bowl-shaped pot placed back on the flame. About 2/3 of a quart of oil is poured in. The cook tosses a handful of broken red chili peppers into the sizzling hot oil, then a handful of mixed seeds (cumin, fennel & mustard, I presume). A few moments later, I am instructed to take heaping handfuls of vegetables and carefully add them to the crackling oil, until they are all in the pot. Everyone around me is making very sure I don't get too close to the flames that are licking the sides of the pot and catch fire.

Then I am given an iron paddle, about 4-5 feet long, to stir the vegetables as they continue to cook. It is hot in here, but by some miracle of grace, I don't react to the heat. I am just grateful for the privilege to be preparing this food to serve to God, praying at some level that those who eat it will receive it as God's love for them.

I continue lifting and shifting the weighty mounds of vegetables from one side of the pot to the other. Just as the vegetables are start to cook down a bit, the cook hands me 2 heaping handfuls of salt to add. Then she adds mounds of turmeric, handfuls of brown spices (garam marsala?) and lots deep red cayenne pepper. I step back and notice that the iron frame is glowing brightly...and realize just how much hot pink is a literal term. After some time, the cook adds the cabbage and spinach, then several pitchers of water. After all the vegetables have cooked down for a while, quarts of freshly rinsed moong dal are added. As she bends over to add the lentils, I see small beads of sweat along her spine, and am reassured that I am not the only person in India who gets hot. Finally, she adds 4-6 more pitchers of water and the pot is left to boil for about 20-25 minutes, with occasional stirring.

The rice is carefully lifted by its cloth lining and poured into a new pot. I scoop the vegetables with a heavy, long iron spoon that holds about 4-6 cups per ladel, into a pot. People magically appear to carry the heavy load of the food out into the market area for distribution about a block and a half away.

Shudeep leads me through the street, telling me that I will serve the food. We come to an area where about 15 very old Indian women in dingy and worn cotton saris are crammed together. Many of them have the pancake-like protruding lips of those who are toothless. They are huddled tightly together, bickering intensely, impatiently pushing and shoving one another over their place in line. We have arrived a bit ahead of the food. I have a strong urge to try to assure the women that they will all be get food, but they would not understand a word. Feeling powerless, I simply fold my hands in front of my forehead, bow to them and start saying in a soft, somewhat pleading tone, "Maas, Maas." Then "Jai Baba Lokenath". Their bickering continues after the food arrives.

There is nothing formal or pretentious about this food service operation. Pots are set directly down on the street itself, a chair is brought for me to sit on, and I am handed an industrial sized spoon. A tiny, tiny woman, probably from the streets herself, squats next to me to instruct me with gestures. I can tell by her gestures and sharp tone that she is telling the women in Bengali in no uncertain terms that the food will not be served until they stop their squabbling. They begrudgingly get quiet.

A man squats behind me with 2 large packages of plates made out of dried banana leaves. He begins handing my helper/instructor one plate at a time. She holds up a plate up to me and gestures that I am to place 2 heaping spoonfuls of rice and two of vegetable stew on each plate. I bend and scoop as fast as I can. There is such an urgency in these people to get this food. I have to keep my focus on the ladeling the food out to the plates to keep up with the pace of the demand without spilling anything in the rush to serve it. I quietly chant "Joy Baba Lokenath" with every dip and release of the spoon, looking up into the face of the person taking the food as often as I can. Some are so eager to get their plate that they take it away before I can get the second spoonful of vegetables to their rice. Oh, well. What to do.

Occasionally, the pace slows, and I can take more time look into their eyes, smile and bow my head at the privilege of meeting and serving them. Several women are calm enough to actually receive my silent greeting, return my bow and linger for a few seconds as our eyes meet. I am so grateful for the human contact.

We fed about 80 people today, probably 90-95 counting those who brought their own bowls. There were lots of grandmothers, widows I presume, several children with their mothers, some alone, middle aged women, a very frail old man on crutches with only one leg, a few men and adolescent boys. They come forward toward the end. Suddenly it is over. The rice is completely gone. There are some vegetables left . A few people come forward with bowls. I thank the woman who helped me. She is so delicately beautiful, obviously poor. A keen intelligence and light shines in her eyes. I go back with Shudeep. It all happened so fast!

Before I leave, I walk down Kalighat Temple Road to the "pandal", a large, elaborately constructed, temporary bamboo temple housing a 20 foot figure of Mother Kali, the goddess of destruction who leads the soul back to its formless state of divinity. The detail of the artwork on the pandal is amazing. Dozen after dozen of bamboo mandalas and mythical figures cover the interior and exterior walls and the interior domed ceiling. The rich textures are breathtaking, given that this was constructed only for the 4 day Kali Puja festival. Of course, my camera battery is dead! Exiting the opposite door, I am surprised to see 15-20 foot high, colorfully decorated, painted white horse figures who stand on each side of the exit doorway. And all of this will all be torn down on Monday!