Holi and the Azan

It's the evening before holi and in the surrounding fields, celebrations are already underway with the pounding of drums and the ululations of many voices.  It seems to me that we have come through a great ordeal successfully and the sounds of the coming celebration echo the feelings of happiness in my heart. Yesterday, for a while, I was afraid my wife might die.  Today, all that has vanished.

I am reading the booklet from the Ramakrishna Mission on "The Science of Mantra" and am having a few thoughts of my own.

In my journal I write:
"The idea is that a mantra is a Devata, or a form of the God-head which is invoked by its reciter.  And mantra also means "that which protects" a feeling I have often got while chanting as though it creates around one some kind of invisible shield which wards off negative influences. I prefer, rather than the imagery of a shield which might also block out other, more beneficial influences, the image of an electrical transformer that is able to step up or step down the power to the necessary strength of current and also literally to be able to transform negative influences into positive ones.  I am reminded, as I read, of my first discovery of the writings of Swami Yukteswar and the amazing sense of "discovery" that enveloped me when I first read them. I feel like a movie-goer who is spell-bound by the images on the screen but who has no idea of the workings of the machinery behind the film.  So, there is a great danger of taking fantasy for reality.  Maybe the touch of a passing swami will reveal to me some of the knowledge I crave.  I am quite convinced that it is even possible to be instructed in a dream by a teacher one has not yet met or by one who has been met.  Or that one may be instructed by a Being beyond the human state. As a poet and singer too, I feel that in order to deepen my craft and understanding, it is really up to me to try to fathom these mysteries, so that I may express them freely in my art. For what is art if it does not partake of the deeper mysteries of creation? I think that if I cannot evolve my knowledge to the level of the knowledge of a rishi, I have no business calling myself a singer.  There are too many people taking from life.  More need to learn how to give."

In the middle of this last sentence, the lights go out.  That's it for the evening power supply and so I turn in.

Today is holi,  the festival of the harvest and tomorrow also. One is taking a risk in walking in the streets with everyone flinging colored powders that stain the hair and clothing at neighbors and strangers alike.  Apparently there are three main days of celebrations during which the locals consume much home-made rice beer, sing and dance virtually non-stop and make up for a year of serious adult behavior.  Needless to say, by tonight things will be getting out of hand.

Yesterday afternoon, as I was walking in the park I heard the muezzin singing/calling from the local masjid , the praises of Allah.  The voice was so wonderfully sweet that I made up my mind to take a closer look at the setting.  So this morning, after we are all up, I go off to introduce myself to the folk at the mosque. It is a humble little structure, not much bigger than a house but with a bigger addition under construction that may become a school.

A young boy, standing at the gate, leads me into the central courtyard and what I had thought was the sound of mid-morning congregational prayer can now be seen to a children's Koran lesson in progress.  The children are seated in an uneven circle around the teacher, chanting passages.

A group of young men off to one side watch my approach with interest and finally a spokesman comes over, who speaks very little English.  I try to explain my mission to him, using a now-familiar mixture of English and sign language, telling how I have heard the mid-day call to prayer from the minaret loudspeakers and how I have come to speak with the singer, whose voice I admired so much.

At first I am not very successful, and the young listener simply shakes his head quite negatively, as though I am intruding in the wrong place, telling me more or less to mind my own business, that they are not interested in my interest.  But I persist, telling them that I am student of Ali Moosa, showing them my prayer beads and they soften their approach asking if I am a "Musselman". I shake my head and answer "No, I am a student who is learning about your religion."

Slowly, it becomes clear to me that they think I have been asking to sing from the loudspeaker!  Now they are understanding that I want to learn to sing, from the singer, in the way he is singing. I demonstrate by singing out Allah in a quavering voice which brings delighted and amused laughter from the group of young men.  At last my meaning is becoming clear and I am invited back at 1:30 in the afternoon to meet with the singer.

Back at the lodge, holi catches up with us, at least symbolically. The old lady who lives here at the lodge, who is the manager's mother, comes by our apartment door and gently rubs some deep lilac-colored powder on each of our foreheads, as though she is bestowing a blessing on us.   The staff members try to hide in the next room, but they too are summoned out and dutifully receive their "benediction".

In my journal, I enter a few more thoughts on the wherefores of our trip:
"It seems that this 'journey to the east' that the family has undertaken is a learning experience in which we are gaining knowledge and strength to live our future lives more fully, more successfully.  Also it seems that this is a time of personal withdrawal from purposeful activity in the 'marketplace', with any view to gaining name, fame or fortune. For what are these if the premises for success are not focused and right.  Surely, such success would only bring unhappiness in it's train. Despite my intense personal doubts and questionings I feel very good about the future for I feel my will to knowledge becoming firmer every day and it seems that a great discovery is just around the corner. Perhaps it will be in the sphere of meditative experiences but I can only guess.  However, I no longer feel my mission as an artist is simply to express a personal vision.  I am receiving "echoes" from the outside that are confirming what I am beginning to see as the task in my life. But I have to ask, 'Is all this a huge delusion?'.  If so, how am I to extricate myself? Simply put, what I am in search of then is 'the religious experience'."

I have just finished reading in the little book on meditation published by the Ramakrishna Mission that "Vedanta consists in denying absolute existence of the body, mind and ego, as well as the universe. These are only relatively real.  What is sought is the arrival at the One Absolute Reality called Brahman with which the Self of man, the essence of his being, is identical."

Surely this is the religious experience I crave, so neatly conceptualized in these words. I go on to copy and then analyze the follow up to this in the pages of my journal.

Meanwhile, Karen, who has recovered from her ordeal has somehow got her hands on the colored holi powder.  She has told the staff that she wishes to make designs on her shirts and so they have given her some potatoes from which she is cutting 'potato wood block designs'  which, dipped these into the colored powder, will create the prints. But in a few moments she has the entire staff on the run.

They are in an uproar because she is chasing them around trying to stamp the designs on everyone's clothes and skin. It's as though the spirit of  holi has entered her bodily.  The sounds of laughter and running feet are echoing through the courtyard and everyone, even the staid head servant, is in stitches.  She's struck fear into their hearts and no one is safe from her.  It's hilarious!

In the afternoon, as arranged I return to the mosque. Once again I have to painstakingly formulate my original request and I feel I am treading on a very fine line between wasting their time and insulting them outright. As it turns out, one of the hotel staff members has arrived for his devotions and he helps me to clarify my request.

Finally, after a half hour wait,  the singer comes outside to meet me and piece by piece I am able to put together the words of the chant which is called the azan, or call to prayer.  The other young men have gathered to look on. Although he is willing to help me pronounce the words, he seems unwilling to sing them and soon excuses himself saying that it is time for prayer.  My prayer, however is being answered for he now goes directly to the minaret and begins the azan. As I listen, I am struck by the beauty and depth of the call and it seems to move into the very center of my nervous system, exercising a kind of magnetic pull in me. 

I am curious to know more, where he learned to sing, how long he has been singing but I don't think it will be possible to translate all this.  I still have the feeling that, despite the help I am being given, there is a general air of suspicion around my motives.  I am invited to come back at five o'clock but without the staff member to help translate I feel it's going to be difficult for me to ask anything else.