When we are born, we do not yet have the ability to communicate verbally, and have very limited abilities to see and hear. Our first mode of communication is through touch. We sense changes in tension, shape and movement flow in our mother/caregiver’s body. We learn how to interpret the meanings of changes in sensation, and consequently learn how to communicate through our bodies. Babies learn very early on how to arch their back away to avoid something, how to soften and melt their body into somebody they love. They understand when the person who is holding them is anxious or scared to be with them through the tension felt between bodies, and even changes they might feel in pulse. In fact, a large component of this understanding may be instinctual, not learned.
We never really lose this ability to communicate through touch. We learn to value verbal expression as our primary mode of communication, but we never really lose the ability to learn about how others feel about us and to communicate how we feel to others through touch. For example, by placing a hand on somebody’s shoulder from behind to get their attention, we can often detect what their mood or expression might be before we even see their face. It is the most primal way we learned to build relationships, learn our own value, seek affection and care, and build social interactions.
Thus, the world’s earliest religions communed with the divine through a physical relationship with the world. Rituals, via their property of physical touch, developed as a way to communicate with and make sense of what early humans must have believed was a very chaotic world. However, this sense-making is not the same as abstract philosophization. Ritual is not an attempt to predict and deconstruct through the mind, or logical and analytic faculties, as much as it is a means to grow intimacy with that which is unpredictable, unknowable. Continue reading
“You know, Paro, so much beauty is not right for one person to have. Isn’t it obvious – the moon is marked because it is so beautiful. Come, let me mar your face and spoil its perfection.” –from Devdas, Saratchandra Chattopadhyay
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As Navratri approaches again, I am reminded of something I read last year about the artists who create devi pandals in West Bengal, India. During Navratri, the nine-night festival dedicated to honoring the Goddess (Devi) in her various forms, it is customary in West Bengal to create elaborate dioramas of Durga slaying the demon Mahisha, of Kali drinking the blood of Rakhtabija, or of the terrifying goddess Chandi. However, growing numbers of Hindus are requesting less violent imagery for their pandals. They want Durga holding flowers instead of swords, discuses, spears. They’d like a clothed, smiling, less bloody Kali.
I have also been spending my Monday evenings learning to chant the Sri Rudram, a set of mantras from the Yajur Veda dedicated to Rudra, a destructive form of Shiva. Certain epithets have stood out to me: the Leader of Armies, the Spear-Wielder, the Angry One. And yet, he is still described as compassionate, loving, abiding in the hearts of all.
Even if we ignore these outwardly violent forms of isvara and turn to cuddly, big-bellied Ganesha, we must remember that his head was severed before he could have his famous elephant head – by his own father, no less. Lakshmi, who embodies all that is sweet, beautiful, healing, was born from a heated push-and-pull of devas and asuras; love was born from a difficult and painful churning. There is no running from aggression when we face God. Continue reading
I’ve always been a slow transitioner. I marvel at people who can wake up, and almost instantly hop out of bed to begin their day. First, my alarm rings. I turn it off, with my eyes closed. I keep my head under my pillow. Then, after about thirty seconds, I start to slowly take deeper, longer breaths. Then, I bring my head up above the pillow. After another few minutes, I shift my body to a different position, usually onto my left side. Finally, I open one eye, my right eye. My right eye has slightly weaker vision than my left, so I think that maybe if I open this eye first, the extra few minutes of looking at the world that it gets will make it stronger, somehow, over time. (This probably is not true.) After another minute or so, I open my left eye. This entire ordeal, from waking up to opening both of my eyes, takes fifteen to twenty minutes. After another ten minutes, I am ready to get out of bed.
My best friends know this about me. They tell me thirty, fifteen, and five minutes before we need to leave the house before going out. I don’t know why I didn’t take this into account when writing this article – I knew it was going to be a lot of work, that it would take a lot of internal questioning and moments of pause, but I thought I’d have it done within a couple of months. I began in late June of last year, and it is now June again.
This past year has been filled with transitions for me. I wanted to write something about transitioning from childhood to adulthood, but being in that period of time myself, I felt unsure of which experiences of mine I could trust, how to pull together all of the ideas I was getting from my academic research and from my spiritual knowing. Was spiritual knowing even something I could trust listening to? At the same time, I have had a lot of different changes in relationships since last June. Many relationships have been broken, some healed, some still in the process of healing, some may not be healed ever, or for quite some time. A slow transition indeed. Continue reading
People tend to have strong opinions about women and virginity. This piece was particularly hard to write for that reason. Within the past few months, as I was gathering research and materials for this article, I started meeting people who coincidentally wanted to speak to me about this very same topic. Some felt very strongly that virginity is an archaic construct. Sex, to them, is just another way of enjoying yourself, like eating ice cream or having a trip to the beach. How, when, and who it happens with is inconsequential, as long as there is mutual consent. The question of virginity being mediated by any other source, scriptural, cultural, or societal, seemed wrong and disempowering. I’ve met others who feel very strongly that virginity is part of a woman’s sexual currency. Until she has sex, she’s a more worthy mate or is more sought after by men. Waiting to have sex could mean increasing your value in the ‘marriage market.’ Others thought of virginity as a sacred thing, to be saved for a time and person whom you love dearly. Sexual chastity could also be seen as the only foolproof way of preventing the spread of STDs.
I was torn. I wanted to satisfy everyone with my writing, because the threat of overwhelming backlash is imminent when we engage in discussion on a topic like this, where people tend to have very strong and polarizing opinions. I feared how others might even view me, the author, for writing this. If I am a virgin, one might doubt that I have enough experience to write anything about virginity or sex, or I might just be dismissed as naïve or weird for being a virgin in my mid-twenties. On the other hand, if I am not a virgin, some people may judge me as being of “loose character,” that I am probably morally bereft, or may pity me for having made wrong decisions in life. Maybe I’m writing this to justify my sex life (or lack of one) in some way. Both ways, my voice might be dismissed due to a judgment made based on my status as virgin or non-virgin. Then I realized that speaking my truth was more important than what others might think of me.
One of the greatest confusions most Hindu women face is between hearing that women are highly regarded as embodiments of Shakti (‘the feminine principle’), but that women are also impure, unfit to perform puja, and in some cases, not allowed to interact with their own family during the period of menstruation. Women are often treated as if they are inauspicious and dirty during the time of menstruation. Manusmriti gives the instruction that until a woman’s menstruation has ceased to flow (some say this is after the third day, while others say after the fifth, seventh, or even ninth day), her body is impure. Women are discouraged to do puja or to pray. They usually are not allowed to enter temples, and in some cases, are not allowed to cook or are kept separately from those in the rest of the village.
Some have given the reasoning that this is so that women can rest during menstruation. This would seem to make sense for the day before or day of menstruation, when one’s energy might be low. But unless if you are anemic or have low blood pressure, you usually will not have problems past the first day. Some women do not experience fatigue at all. And with the advent of anti-pain medication and pills that even regulate menstrual flow, what place do these customs have, if they have any place at all?
Why would Hindu dharma, which seems to place women on a pedestal (in most cases), have these rules which seem to treat women unfairly?