Faith in all forms

Religion can become a convoluted and complex creature. It can foster just as much disjuncture as community at times. No religion seems to be found in its truest, idealistic sense; yet there can be incredible wisdom in every religion. And, in my opinion, an honest faith can be stunningly beautiful. So here are some of my favourite prayers and songs from many religions.

                                                                                                                                                                    

“If you see the soul in every living being, you see truly.”

The Bhagavad Gita

May today there be peace within. May you trust God that you are exactly where you are meant to be. May you not forget the infinite possibilities that are born of faith. May you use those gifts that you have received, and pass on the love that has been given to you.... May you be content knowing you are a child of God. Let this presence settle into your bones, and allow your soul the freedom to sing, dance, praise and love. It is there for each and every one of us.

St. Theresa's Prayer

The Islamic call to Prayer

ੴ ਸਤਿ ਨਾਮੁ ਕਰਤਾ ਪੁਰਖੁ ਨਿਰਭਉ ਨਿਰਵੈਰੁ ਅਕਾਲ ਮੂਰਤਿ ਅਜੂਨੀ ਸੈਭੰ ਗੁਰ ਪ੍ਰਸਾਦਿ ॥

Ik­oaʼnkār saṯ nām karṯā purakẖ nirbẖa­o nirvair akāl mūraṯ ajūnī saibẖaʼn gur parsāḏ.

One Universal Creator God. The Name Is Truth. Creative Being Personified. No Fear. No Hatred. Image Of The Undying, Beyond Birth, Self-Existent. By Guru's Grace

The Mul Mantra- The foundations of Sikhism



Tibetan Prayer Flags

Lord, make me an instrument of your peace,

Where there is hatred, let me sow love;

where there is injury, pardon;

where there is doubt, faith;

where there is despair, hope;

where there is darkness, light;

where there is sadness, joy;

O Divine Master, grant that I may not so much seek to be consoled as to console;

to be understood as to understand;

to be loved as to love.

For it is in giving that we receive;

it is in pardoning that we are pardoned;

and it is in dying that we are born to eternal life.

The prayer of St. Francis

Maha Gayatri- a Hindu Mantram

May the road rise up to meet you.
May the wind be always at your back.
May the sun shine warm upon your face;
The rains fall soft upon your fields
And until we meet again,
May God hold you in the palm of His hand.

Traditional Gaelic Blessing

PASSION

As a teenager
It is important to shake your fist at the gods
to run as far and as fast as you can into the dark
get lost, pass out, and wake up the next day
with a volume of new and troubling goals
and no plan whatsoever to help you achieve them.

As an adult
it is important to look back at how hard your fist shook
and how those gods still forgave you,
because they had been there too,
running and passing out,
and now that it is all here upon you
plan or no plan
those goals don’t seem nearly as troubling.

By Dallas Clayton via Thought at Work

The power of being a stranger

I was walking up the stairs at school one day as a girl was walking down. As we passed, we smiled at each other and then she hesitated. She took another step down, paused, and ran back up three steps to where I was. “I’m sorry if this is sounds weird but you just look really cute.” I didn’t quite know what to say but before I had grasped the compliment, she was already heading back down the staircase. I went on my way but couldn’t help to think about how easily an unexpected compliment can brighten your day.

What is it about that moment, and hundreds of others like it when a stranger compliments you or performs a random act of kindness or simply starts an unexpected conversation that seem to have so much power to impact us, to brighten a day? I think the answer lies in the basic fact that it came from a stranger.

In anthropology, Marcel Mauss is known for his work concerning reciprocity and the act of giving. Mauss’ work centers around the practice of potlatch among the Kwakiutl of the Pacific Northwest where tribes would present rivals with gifts and feasts in an attempt to out-give each other. The tribe that could not give away or destroy an equal or increased amount of wealth was considered defeated. While similar practices of exchange and reciprocity have been studied as a part of economics, Mauss views the potlatch as relating to social structure and as symbolic of social relationships. He considers the three acts of giving, receiving, and repaying as social obligation. When Mauss coined the phrase “no gift is unencumbered,” he basically said that no gift or act of charity or kindness is done without expectation of return in some form. People donate money to charity for all sorts of reasons without always recognizing it: for tax breaks, for social status, out of tradition, etc. As in the case of the Kwakiutl, gifts were a way of gaining honor and prestige and the inability to give led to shame and loss of social status.

So what is it about a stranger’s gift, be it a compliment or kind act, that strikes us as so unexpected? Maybe it’s because with a stranger, there is much less social obligation. When a friend leaves you an encouraging note, there is some expectation to return the gift at a similar level, perhaps saying thank you, perhaps with a note in the future. When a stranger leaves an anonymous note of encouragement in your mailbox, as one incredible friend often does for her neighbors, there is no expectation of return. It is a gift in the truest sense. The giver may have gained a small bit of social status if she told others about the act or perhaps gained a sense of self-satisfaction, but largely, the gift was socially unrepayed.

As strangers, we hold incredible power in the smallest acts. I’ve heard the story, be it true or not, about someone at the drive-through of Starbucks on a busy day who paid for the order of the car behind him. When the car pulled to the window and found that the drink was already paid for, there was no one to thank or to return the favor to, so instead, the driver paid for the order of the car behind her. This went on for hours, each car paying for the one behind, until the line died out. The desire to repay the gift was passed on from stranger to stranger. Shows like Secret Millionaire and Extreme Home Makeover capitalize on the emotion and impact of unexpected and unreturned giving. And few can deny how inspirational they are. But it doesn’t take a camera crew or thousands of dollars to have the same impact. All it takes is being a stranger. Sure, a compliment may not match building a home, but the principle is the same. It is a gift without obligation. Keep that in mind next time you’re at the grocery store or school or work or anywhere you meet a stranger. Because in that moment, you have an incredible power to brighten someone’s day.



"My whole life I have been complaining that my work was constantly interrupted until I discovered my interruptions were my work."

- a professor at Notre Dame

A simple thought for a snowy day...

In fourth grade, I had to memorize the poem "Stopping by the Woods on a Snowy Evening" by Robert Frost. I remember reading the words written on a blue sheet of paper decorated with snowflakes which hung on the wall of the classroom. Something about the idea of stealing a moment in someone else’s woods to watch the snow fall resonates deeply with me. I’ve always loved the simplest moments when time seems to stand still and a quiet happiness settles over everything. But it’s the last lines of the poem that always come to mind, as if Frost knows a moment in the woods is just that, a moment. There is no regret as he continues on his way. With the end of winter holidays and all the laziness they inspire, tonight offers one last night to watch the snow fall. Tomorrow reminds me of all the ambition, excitement, work, adventure, and challenge of another semester which I’m eager to start. Though the moment was lovely, I'm glad it's once again time to look ahead.

“These woods are lovely, dark and deep.

But I have promises to keep,

And miles to go before I sleep,

And miles to go before I sleep.”



Flowers and farewells

All through airport security, I juggled my bags, my passport, boarding tickets, and a crumpled paper flower. Its orange crepe paper petals were jostled in my backpack but I couldn’t let them tear. The dark wire that held them together bent as my bags were tossed about by careless airline employees who just wanted to get some sleep before the sun came up. After three hours of security checks and crowded gates, I boarded the plane that would carry me away from this unforgettable chapter in my life. As the stewardess held up the sample life jacket and began her routine safety speech, I gently twirled my orange paper flower.

Today was my last day. As I walked up to the school, Shivam appears from out of nowhere. He hasn’t been coming the past week or so except to say hi so I was surprised he was here. Immediately he and Rajn greet me and ask, “Didi, last day?” Yes I answer. “Ok, come.” They lead me into the small dark classroom and Shivam pulls his drawing folder out of his backpack. All the kids gather round as we flip through his tracings of Disney movie characters. I mention something about Good Friday and Shivam looks up, interested. “Christian Holy Day?” Again, I answer yes. He pulls out a blank page and begins to draw. Slowly the figure on paper becomes recognizable: Santa Claus. When I ask, he eagerly replies “yes, Santa- your god!” Somehow I’m not at all surprised by the effects of commercial Christmas and capitalism, though I had to laugh. 

Soon I realize I haven’t given the teachers the photo album I made for them yet so I walk over to the head teacher and hand it to her, hoping she won’t steal it and hide it away somewhere. Luckily she hands it back to me, giving me the opportunity to show the kids and other teachers their photos. Soon class begins and the kids all settle down to write their numbers. Afshar asked me for his pen. He had entrusted it to me for safe keeping the day before while the school was under siege from a troop of baboons. Not surprisingly, my Hindi vocabulary had no way sufficient way of explaining that in the midst of the baboon attack, I had lost his one and only pen. All I could do was offer him my favorite pen from home. Afshar scribbled something and Shivam joked that it looked like Urdu (the language spoken in Pakistan). Afshar then writes out something in Urdu at the kids’ request. I asked him to write my name and he did. Then Dinesh must have made some comment about Pakistan because Afshar reached for his throat and looked furious. The other kids called Sir-ji who started yelling at Dinesh. I didn’t know what he said but he was definitely defending Afshar and made gestures of a group inspiring unity, not prejudice. Dinesh was told to sit in a corner after that.

With Sir-ji nearby, the kids were pretty calm. We talked and played the paper game and drew helicopters, airplanes, and crocodiles. At 11:50 I asked if the kids would write me letters when I was back in the States. I gave them my address and phone number but I don’t know if they will ever contact me. Rishi gave me his phone number. When the car arrived, I went to say goodbye to the teachers. I signed the visitor’s log and as I stood up to go, Afshar and the other teachers appeared holding an orange paper flower. I felt like crying, all I could do was smile and say thank you. Driving back to Hauz Khas, I held back tears with a smile. Though I was looking out the window watching Delhi pass by, I saw nothing yet felt everything.

Suddenly I can’t remember what it’s like to be home, to drive down wide empty paved streets passing manicured lawns. I’ll miss the motorbikes, the rickshaws, the honking, the diseased cows, the dusty signs stacked on top of each other. I’ll miss the food that I never thought I’d like. Malai Kofta, Aloo Gohbi, Paneer Tikka, Tandoori, Fried toast in sugar syrup. I’ll miss the Nokia ringtone that is everywhere. I’ll miss the people and the life. I’ll miss India. But only for a while… I know I’ll come back to this chaotic, colorful, complex, and incredible place soon.

Jungle Book

As the sun rises over the white stones along the river, children in brightly tattered t-shirts scamper into the water, laughing as their shadows land on paw prints in the sand. From underneath the thick layer of green scrub, lazy eyes watch the village. A flash of reddish orange and the eyes are gone, deep into the jungle to wait for dusk when sambar deer venture towards the water. I watched the sun climb high over the Himalayan foothills, waved at the children, and wondered if those eyes were watching me.

An old faded green book leans precariously on my bookshelf at home. Set apart from the other books, its plain cover bears no words, simply an outline- sher kahn, king of the tigers. The spine reads Man Eaters of Kumaon. Written in the early nineteen hundreds by British officer Jim Corbett, the pages are filled with nonfiction accounts of Corbett’s efforts to protect local Indian villages from renegade tigers with a taste for man. Today, that same region is known as Corbett National Park and Tiger Reserve. This is where I spent my weekend.

Now before I go into too much detail, I’ve decided that some stories are better told in person and some are better left to the imagination. Corbett is a little bit of both. I will say that Shanta and I embarked on this adventure without any plans or reservations outside of the train ticket (and yes it was another overnight train). It was also the first occasion the two of us have traveled outside of Delhi alone. Both factors proved significant to the outcome of our weekend, though I won’t say how. Just to get your imagination going, did we find a place to stay? Cross a jungle in a rickshaw? Go on a safari? See a tiger? Wild elephants? Snowcapped Himalayas? That you’ll just have to ask. While you’re at it, ask about Goa (the weekend before last)- where hippies and malaria are well and thriving, where hut-hotels line the beaches, and where gender defines your experience. For now, I intend to leave you wondering.

I have two weeks left and so many more stories to gather. Eventually I’ll go to the Taj Mahal, buy a second scarf (three months and only one scarf is just sad), start my schoolwork (maybe), attempt to get a video of the NBCC kids dancing, and say goodbye to the people and places I’ve come to know as home over the past few months. As with every aspect of India, contradictions and complexity will prevail. A myriad of thoughts and emotions accompany the close of this crazy adventure and I’m certain I’ll never really sort them out.

I came here hoping to give something to the people- my culture, my time, myself. But instead India has given me so much more than I could ever imagine: blue bangles given to me by a young Afghan girl, new songs stuck in my head (and by songs I really mean mumbled words that sound something like the Hindi lyrics), quotes I will never forget, and a new perspective of my own country and of myself. Two weeks from now, I’ll be sitting on a plane listening to my ipod and wondering what comes next. Ask me, and I'll tell you.