Nikkahs Are Made In New York

It is true, Bhikku. Marriages ARE made in Heaven. It's only later that they come crashing down to earth.

-- The Diary, September 529 BC

When young men of a certain age meet, the conversation inevitably turns to marriage. And so it happened when comrades K, R1, R2 and S visited your humble correspondent last spring. The natural candidate to lead such a discussion would have been the extremely kadalacious Comrade S, who is constantly in touch with (oh, grow up. you know what I mean) thousands of Girls. However, he referred to some of them as "friends", and that automatically disqualified him on grounds of abnormality.

The mantle, then, fell to me. Admittedly, I am no Cassanova, but I do wish the receptionist "Good Morning" everyday. I don't like to brag, but she always responds. Little does she suspect that I am one to wish and tell. Naturally, comrades K, R1 and R2 considered me something of an expert on Marriage, Sex, Girls and Women. I manfully shouldered the burden, and proceeded to analyze each man's expectations.

It emerged that Comrade K wasn't yet sure whether he was a boy or a girl; and Comrade R1 was sure that he was neither. That left us with Comrade R2, a hormone-filled Hamlet if ever there was one, a deadly mixture of desire and doubt. We asked him what he wanted in a wife. "She and I should have similar tastes" quoth he. In general, this is a noble if silly expectation, but in this case it was particularly tragic, for Comrade R2 had never betrayed signs of any kind of taste. We tried to make him snap out of it and focus on specific realistic goals.

"How educated do you want your wife to be?"
"What do you mean? Oh, you mean she can read, write and all that? Hey, that'll be cool."
"Hmm! OK, what about money?"
"I don't want dowry, if that's what you mean. As long as she'll inherit a lot of cash after her father dies."
"Well, if she's that rich, she might be materialistic. Are you OK with that?"
"You mean she'll want to buy stuff? Well, electronics stuff is OK. I like electronics stuff."
"Dude! Exactly how independent do you want your wife to be?"
"Huh?"
"Meaning if she disagrees with you, how assertive do you want her to be?"
He seemed shocked. "What? She'll disagree with me?"

At this point, feminists and other Phoolan Devi types (meaning you, dear cousin D~) might scream in protest. They are missing the point. The point is not that Comrade R2 treats women badly. The point is that he treats them no differently from men. The nub of the matter is that comrade R2 just doesn't dodebates. If you are bigger than him, he will not disagree with you. If you are smaller than him, he will not let you disagree with him. Comrade R2, I've always said, would have been a great apostle of non-violence, if only Arnold Schwarzenegger, and not that wimp Gandhi, had advocated it. But I digress.

As leader, it was my task to guide this child of Nature-red-in-tooth-and-claw. I conjured up an image of the woman he wanted, and compared it with all my two female acquaintances. My spine turned cold. I had a problem, a *Very* *Big* *Problem*.

Like all pious men, I immediately turned to God. And soon enough, I came up against Free Will. The trouble, you see, is that God is a bit like Peanut Butter, which can be crunchy, extra crunchy, mildly cruncy, creamy or extra creamy. In short, there are myriad types of God, and one's never sure which type is good for one. Faced with such a dilemma, most people would have drowned their sorrows in either alcohol or Art of Living. Not I. I am, as I have remarked many a time, a man of Faith, Reason and Determination. I duly applied the Scientific Method. My aim was to get R2 married off, and I knew that marriages are made in Heaven. The thing to do was to find the God that goes with the best Heaven, and apply to Him for help.

Resolved thus, I surveyed anew the list of available Gods and matching religions.

First up were the foremost flowers of ancient Brownistan: Hinduism, Buddhism and Jainism. I studied these. I found, for instance, that Hinduism's Deepest Truth is Tat Tvam Asi, which a knowledgable native translated as You Are That. I was discouraged. When the Deepest Truth of a religion sounds like one's five-year-old niece fighting with her sister, one suspects something is amiss. But I persevered. I learned that the foremost Hindu Gods, Rama and Krishna, lived in Uttar Pradesh and Gujarat respectively. And I learned that they were just two among 330 million Hindu Gods. I blanched. As Bill would put it, my knotted and combined locks parted and each particular hair stood on end. Hindu Swarga, I realized, was just a fancy term for Bihar. Promptly, I crossed these religions off my list, and swore never more to break bread with Hindus, Buddhists and other kinds of cattle.

Disheartened, I turned to the West. It held more promise for my purpose. After all, Christianity started because Adam and Eve did it, in spite of God. Further, a culture that uses nudity to advertise pasta is a culture that knows the value of pleasure. (I jest not. Europe is full of such ads. A walk along the Champs Elysees is in itself a complete course in sex education.) I had hit paydirt, or so I foolishy thought. I was wrong. Firstly, there was the small matter that Christian Heaven is rather dull. From what I could gather, one just hangs around and sups with the virtuous on the right hand side of God, because of course, the left hand is corrupted by contact with chi-chi. Further, I realized that black people just will not settle for R2, because they think brown people aren't cool enough for them (and God-damn-it, they are right, the racist bastards.) That still left whites. Now white women, if they are not models, are hideous and huge. And if they are models, they are so much silicon that one might just as well love an IC instead. At any rate, white people have sex by the time they are potty-trained, and that just won't do. R2, like all brown men, insists on having produce fresh from the farm, if you get my drift.

And that brought me, finally, to brown people of the second kind: the children of Allah. Now I was in business. After all, the most alluring beauties that ever have fired up lust in the loins of a lascivious lad, have all invariably been members of the Ummah. And Islamic Heaven absolutely rocks, for it is written that in Jannat, each man shall have no less than seventy-eight, yup LXXVIII, hour-il-ein. (Hour-il-ein is the Urdu term for "Oh mamma" and connotes the ravishing virgins, note virgins, of Paradise.) Allah, I realized, was just the God for our man R2.

There was, however, a catch. Being a brown man of the first kind, R2 obviously couldn't court Mussalman (or any other) women himself, and his folks would rather murder him than marry him off to a mleccha, leave alone setting up such a wedding. The alternative was for R2 to go to Jannat, and for this I could find but two ways--penance and a life of kindness and virtue, or blowing oneself up in a crowded bus. I presented the options to R2. Penance, he said, was out of the q. because it would interfere with his evening workout. And while blowing people up sounded cool, it involved concealed plastics which were a definite turn-off.

We were stuck. I was disconsolate, R2 was shattered.

Till last week.

Because last week I discovered that the Messiah is at hand. Aye. As the New York Times proudly informs its readers, Sheik Reda Shata of Brooklyn, New York, has taken it upon himself to unite the faithful in holy wedlock. And the fact that R2 is currently a kafir is no problemo. Sheikh Shata prefers to set up truebloods, but he's not one to stand on birth. If R2 would only pronounce Allah-uh-Akbar, his kufr will be forgotten, and Inshallah, he will attain the Kingdom of Heaven here on Earth. Admittedly, R2 will miss his 330 million Gods, but you'll agree it's a small price to pay for finding True Lust.

Bismilla-ar-Rahman-ar-Rahim.

PS: For the record, I made almost all of this up. R2 is a perfectly nice bloke. He's still single, but I daresay when his time comes, he'll give his wife all the love, respect and freedom she deserves. Provided she buys only "electronics stuff", of course.

Giri pai

They say, Bhikku, that the Gods live on mountains. I highly doubt it. It is rather cold up there. But overall mountains aren't bad places to visit. They make one gentle. Unfortunately, they don't make one wise, but nor does anything else. At any rate, wisdom is a journey, not a destination.

-- The Diary, August 1st, 504 BC

It was a pika. At least that's what it most closely resembled, of the ten or so "common wildlife" pictures on the trail map. It was barely 15 feet from the trail. I switched on the camera as quietly as I could. It whirred on, sternly said LOW BATTERY and went to sleep again. I swore under my breath. Third wildlife sighting in camera range and second time this damn thing had to die. I cursed myself for not charging it daily. Why couldn't I be more organized?

Then I smiled at my own dissatisfaction, and looked at the pika. It now had its back to me. Slowly, it walked away. I decided to sit on a little rock by the trail. All around me were peaks rising up a few hundred feet. Well, they really were 8000 feet or more from ground level, but I was in a kind of high valley. The trail had been steep--nearly 1500 feet in barely 5 miles and then half-a-mile on this flatland surrounded by sharp high peaks. And so is life, I wistfully thought. In youth, the mind courts steep slopes, for it aims high. It strives and suffers, but marches on. But eventually the climb is too steep, the current too fast. The mind tires and compromises. It creates some comfortable niche, fills it with some Ism or the other, and fits in with the world. No wonder all these poetic birds go on and on about the glory of Youth.

I shrugged and looked around. The mountain air was keen, all around was quiet. This place was above the tree line. Only shrubs grew here, humble yet hardy foot-soldiers that could live through the fierce winter. But now it was summer, and the air was pleasantly warm. This little cup in the mountains brimmed over with the soft light of the evening sun. Touched by the sun's tender caress, the glacial ice on the mountain-tops shimmered happily, and a gold-edged cloud above looked down fondly on the scene. (More-puddle-than-)Lake Solitude lay before me. Her clear surface reflected the gently glowing peaks--she borrowed thier splendor and showed it off as her own. Around the lake, the dense shrubs simmered bright green. There were some wildflowers, not pretty in isolation, but achieving beauty through numbers. Swept by the muffled breeze, they swayed with slow grace, like drunken dancers dressed in bright silk.

"This is the amphitheater of the Gods," I said to myself, "and I am fortune's favourite child, camera or no camera; conviction or no conviction". I felt noble and generous and kind, as one can only feel when one is alone and happy. I'll go back from here to my old world, but live a new life. I was loved by those whom I loved, and while that's common enough, it's still a precious gift. But I had traded not only in love, but also in pettiness and hurt. I looked back and felt a tinge of regret. What do we all fight over? Aren't we a part of the same Life force that courses through this pika's wild veins; and keeps these shrubs alive through ice and wind and storm, to flower anew every spring? And what good is this human mind if it cannot step back and see itself a part of all this? We all know this, of course. But knowlege is not action, or as old JK would put it, ideation is not perception, whatever that means.

Yet now, that old combative, divisive narrow self was gone forever, for how can all this beauty and majesty fail to transform one? Surely, I had been touched somewhere deep down, below the turbulent surface of thought with its restless waves of words and principles and morals and judgement. I was now the world and the world was me. At that moment, I effortlessly forgave all who had wronged me. Better, I forgave also those whom I had wronged. I'll go back, and "hold brotherly speech, with those whose hearts I hadn't hoped to reach". I'll apologize. No, why should anyone apologize? I was no longer the man who had wronged them. That man was gone, and we, as friends, would laugh together at his folly.

And then I blushed, as the silliness and pompous sentimentality of it all struck me. "Forgiveness, meta-forgiveness, meta-meta-forgiveness. Wisdom, meta-wisdom, meta-meta-wisdom, and onward ad infinitum. All hail King B., Crown Prince of Amateur Philosophers and soupy teenage girls!". I gave myself a mock bow. I blushed, but I was more amused than embarassed. I started afresh on the trail.

And then I noticed the tall white guy walking up the trail. He was actually a bit fat, but in that strange way of middle-aged white people, he looked healthy for it. He flashed a broad grin at me. "Hi". I smiled back. "Hi". He stopped near me.

"Beautiful day for a hike, huh?"
"Yup. Great day. You planning to camp up here?"
"Yeah. Am doing the whole loop trail. 25 miles round trip. Should be done by tomorrow."
"Well. I should have backpacked too, but haven't done it before. Didn't want to take any risks alone."
"Yeah. That's always better. But you could have tried it here. There's always someone around."
"I realized that too late. Saw a guy with a couple of kids going up just now. You'll meet them soon. I'm heading back to the campground."
"You've got about one and a half hours of light. You'll get there."
"Hope so."

I was beginning to get worried about reaching back before dark. I was about to leave. But he just stood there. Looked like he wanted to talk.

"Where are you from?"
"Atlanta."
"No, before that."
"Oh, India"
"If I may ask, what religion do you follow?"
"I'm a, er, Hindu. You know? We worship in temples. There are some in the US too."
"Yeah, I know Hindooism. You worship Sheeva, don't you?"
"Yup, and a few others. We are polytheist"
"How long have you been in the US?"
"Five years now"
"Do you like it?"
"Love it."
"If I may ask, have you been exposed to Christianity?"
[Oh no, one of those. Damn!] "Well, a little. I've read a couple of books in the New Testament"
"What have you heard or read?"
"This and that. I've read the Sermon on the Mount. It is very beautiful. But otherwise, I haven't read much."
"Have you ever felt a calling to convert?"
"No. I'm not very religious, but I think I prefer Hinduism"
"Why?"
"Well. There's this business of the soul, only humans have it and stuff. Where I come from, we believe all creation is equal. Not really in practice, perhaps. But at least in theory."
"But how can you say that? The God our Lord gave you a soul. He loves you. He made all this, [looking around tenderly] the mountains, the animals, the lovely sunset for you. He wants you to save your soul by returning His love, and turning to Him."
"Yeah, that's what bothers us. This creation in seven days, and the human soul and free will and all that. Our theory is that this sunset, that mountain, that moose, everything, is God. And we don't have anything that they don't have. It kind of ties in with our notion of rebirth."
[anguished] "But, but, you can't really believe that. Saying you have no soul is like closing your door on God. He loves this Earth, but he loves you more. You are his child."
"Well, maybe. But anyway, that's what we believe. I guess I'll get going now."

"Just a minute. What's your name, brother?"
"B____"
"Pat-rick?"
"Yeah. Patrick".
"Well, Patrick! Can I pray for you?"
"Sure. That'll be nice."

He took my hands in his and closed his eyes and prayed. He wanted God to open my eyes and all that. I'm sure it was very touching--their prayers usually are--but I didn't really listen. I stood there, partly resentful, partly grateful, partly touched, but mostly worried about getting back. He was done. He opened his eyes.

"Thank you. That was very kind of you"
"Thank you, Patrick, for letting me pray for you. The Lord loves you. You will turn to Him. I can see that. You are deep down a believer."
"Let's hope so. Bye."
"See you. Head back quickly. It'll be dark soon. Do you want some water?"
"No, thanks. I have plenty left"
"Don't worry. Once you reach Jenny Lake, you'll see the campground lights anyway. God Bless you, Brother."

And then we each turned our way.

If it happened today, we'd both have felt contempt (or pity, which is really the same thing anyway)--I for his nosiness and ignorance, he for my stubborn lack of faith. (I'd definitely have said Dhoda, vanduchi paaru, moonja tookinu. Savugrakki.) Even that day, we both thought, knew, that the other was wrong. But it seemed natural that he should be what he is, and I what I am. I still looked down on him, but somehow it didn't matter. I like to think it didn't matter to him either. For that day, we were both too high up to bother with disagreements.

Mountains do that to people.