Desicritics Author: Deepa Krishnan

Book Review: City of Fear by Robin David

Deepa Krishnan — Sun, 6 Jul 2008 02:15:09 EDT

My friend Shoba was in Bombay last week, and she invited me to a book reading at Crossword. It was Robin David's 'City of Fear', set in the backdrop of the Godhra Hindu-Muslim riots.

I don't particularly like book readings. I speed-read most books, letting the story and the mood come to me in flashes. Except when I'm telling a bedtime story, the idea of s-l-o-w-l-y reading a book aloud doesn't hold much appeal.

But Robin David's reading held my interest, mainly because it was a first person account of the 2002 riots in Ahmedabad. What better way to experience it, than by listening to the author tell it in his own voice? (That's Robin in the centre of the photo, in a black T-shirt.)

City of Fear is set in Guptanagar, a Hindu area of Ahmedabad. On one side of Guptanagar is the Muslim locality of Juhapura. Robin and his mother live in a house on the border of the two localities. As communal riots erupt, the area is placed under curfew. Robin is Jewish, and therefore an outsider to the Hindu-Muslim conflict, except for one little technicality - he is circumcised.

The fear and anxiety of living in a curfew area come through beautifully in the book. Robin worries about running into a mob, about having his pants pulled down, about being hacked to death. He quarrels with his old friend Jayendrasinh, a staunch Hindu, who refers to Muslims as 'those bandiyas' (referring to their circumcision). His Hindu barber, with whom he has a long-standing relationship, turns hostile after failing to understand the difference between Judaism and Islam. His Parsi friend witnesses the stripping and brutal killing of Geetaben, a Hindu woman with a Muslim husband. Even walking through the neighbourhood is difficult for Robin - groups of people cluster outside houses, eyeing strangers with suspicion. He makes it a point to wave to familiar faces, so that he can pass safely.
In the charged atmosphere of rioting Ahmedabad, Robin is unable to stay secular - he must take sides, just to survive. As relationships fray, and old friendships are betrayed, Robin and his mother leave their home in Guptanagar.

City of Fear is more than just a first-person account of how riots de-humanize people. Robin manages to weave several other threads into the story. He writes about the devastating Gujarat earthquake in 2001, just a year before the riots, and how it damages his house. It is this double-whammy of destruction, one natural and one man-made, that drives him from his Guptanagar home. When he moves with his mother to a small apartment in a 'safe' area, they have to leave behind not just old memories and bric-a-brac, but also their dog Ora. Living in the apartment is particularly difficult for Robin's mother, who develops a fear of heights after the earthquake.

Another recurring thread in the book is the concept of home. Where does Robin belong? Where do the Jews belong, in a country that doesn't even know they exist? Robin tells of their family's repeated migrations to Israel - they come back every time, convinced that they belong in India. Guptanagar is their home, but the riots destroy that sense of belonging. In leaving Guptanagar, they lose more than just a home.

The book also is a painfully honest account of Robin's life, his girlfriends, his relationship with his mother, and his awareness of his body's defects. At times, the navel-gazing can be a bit tiresome, but that does not detract from the impact of this very readable book.

At the book reading, someone asked Robin why he wrote this book. "A lot of people say we should forget the past and move on", he said. "But some things cannot be forgotten. They should not be forgotten." As someone who lived through similar riots in Bombay, I couldn't agree more.

Love And All That Jazz

Deepa Krishnan — Wed, 25 Jun 2008 10:25:41 EDT

I was checking my email when I saw this advertisement for a matrimonial services website.

Is it just me, or does anyone else see the irony of an arranged marriage advertisement that promises love?

Perhaps there is a blinding moment of romantic love somewhere during the lengthy process of arranging a marriage? Does love come suddenly tiptoeing in, as families check whether the horoscopes match, whether the bride is fair enough, and the groom wealthy enough?

Or maybe love comes later. On the wedding night, perhaps? Maybe there is a very Indian sort of love then; a heady cocktail of flower-strewn beds and dutiful sex, of virginal fumbling and earnest baby-making?

Or does it come still later, as the husband and wife settle into familiar traditions and festivals, and find their place in the larger family? Perhaps when he comes home from work bringing flowers for her hair, their relationship morphs into a real tenderness? Is it then that love develops?

If you ask me, I think the truth is that a very different sort of love develops in Indian marriages - and it is the arrival of a baby that brings it on. It seems to me that many couples put romantic love on the back-burner as they find a fiercer, deeper parental love that all but consumes them. The legendary Indian attachment to children burns brighter than anything else, and provides life-long sustenance to the marriage, replacing notions of romantic and sexual love.

Maybe this sort of marriage is really what humans need - a stable, no-nonsense system that creates companionable partnerships, so that we can get on with the real business of making and raising children, and populating the gene pool with little copies of ourselves.

Maybe the ancients got it right a long time ago. Why fret and fume over male-female relationships, when really, it’s all about babies? I am too much a product of Western thinking to be happy with a partnership geared towards childrearing. But Darwin would have approved, I think!

The God Question

Deepa Krishnan — Mon, 16 Jun 2008 01:20:09 EDT

In this deeply religious country, it is hard to be an atheist.

Try declaring, to an uncle or an aunt, that you do not believe in God. Worse still, ask them *why* they believe in a blue-skinned being flying around on a giant eagle saving the world. The initial response is a startled silence, followed by a quick look around to see if anyone else overheard it. This is then followed by much tsking and shaking of the head - "Shhhh...you shouldn't talk like that!", they say.

I have a problem with this attitude. What do they mean by "shouldn't talk like that"? Why they believe is an honest question, for crying out loud. I get especially upset when people say this to children. If a child asks you a question about God, you owe that child a sensible answer. It may or may not be the right answer, but it is better than giving the child the impression that even *asking* such a question is criminal.

When I was 10, I attended a discussion session organised by a Hindu religious group. In a mixed gathering of children and older people, a middle-aged woman was talking to us about God. When she said "Any questions?", I stood up and asked "But how do you know God exists?" It was a genuine question, I wasn't being cheeky. The speaker smiled at me very condescendingly, and said I was too young to understand, and that when I grew up, it would all become clear. Meanwhile, it would be better for everyone if I just sat down and joined in the prayer.

I sat down, feeling snubbed. I was seething inside. Did my question not deserve an answer, even a small one? It was my first brush with religious tradition, and I remember thinking how closed and narrow it was!

Later, I asked my father the same question. "Appa, why do you believe God exists?" He smiled and said, "Well, I don't really have any proof. But several wise and good men in whom I believe think they have seen and experienced the truth. And because I believe in them, there's a good chance God exists." I was happy with the answer - it gave me something to think about. "Who are these men?", I asked, and it led us into a discussion of Indian philosophers.

The point is not whether my father was right or wrong. The real point is that he gave me a logical answer to his beliefs. It is when people brush aside questions, or spout dogma instead of answers, that I see red.

As I grew older, I made my own observations and deductions. I now believe that we still don't know the real answer to whether God exists, but I've also come to the conclusion that it doesn't really matter. All I want from religion - if anything - is a set of rules to live my life with a clear conscience. And since I have already made up my set of very satisfactory rules, it is not particularly important to me to figure out whether God is for real.

This is not a particularly radical line of thought. Several Indian schools of religion have similar views. Buddhism, for example, is most definitely an agnostic religion. It believes that the eight-fold path of living will lead to salvation, and does not require any belief in a divine being. Mahavira, who founded Jainism, said quite clearly that he didn't believe in a Creator God - he chose instead to believe that the universe has always existed, will always exist and is governed by natural laws.

The Mimamsa school of Hinduism believed that there is a natural Karmic law, where cause and effect apply, with no need of an all-powerful God to enforce the law.

Carvaka, who founded a stongly atheistic sect in around 300 BC called the vedas the ramblings of rascals, and said:

While life is yours, live joyously;
None can escape Death’s searching eye;
When once this frame of ours they burn,
How shall it ever again return?

The Rig Veda itself, which modern-day "Vedic" fundamentalists revere as the one authentic source of Hindu religion, says of the creation of the universe:

Who really knows, and who can swear,
How creation came, when or where!
Even gods came after creation's day,
Who really knows, who can truly say
When and how did creation start?
Did He do it? Or did He not?
Only He, up there, knows, maybe;
Or perhaps, not even He.

When you read books of Indian philosophers, it is obvious that we have a great and ancient tradition of religious questioning, of frank open thought. Tragically, the tradition is no longer alive. In its place, we have dogma, backed by political and economical lobbying. The rot has set in, and I fear it is irreversible.

Summer Games

Deepa Krishnan — Tue, 27 May 2008 13:01:12 EDT

The summer holidays are here, and my daughter and niece are bored. School is closed but it is too hot and humid to play outside. There's only so much television they can watch. So the girls are holed up inside the room, with nothing to do.

"Let's play Monopoly", says my niece suddenly. All at once, the mood in the room changes, and the afternoon seems filled with new promise.

In a few minutes, the board is set up, and "money" allocated. Within the first thirty minutes, the girls are transformed into fledgling real estate barons. Ha! I got Park Street, says one, as she pays for the property. Tchah, says the other, I have Bond Street!

When the rivalry gets sharp, I announce lunch. They give up the board reluctantly. "We're going to continue after lunch", they announce.

After lunch, the game quickens. By now, both sides own sizeable chunks of London. There is gleeful gloating, as rents are levied. The girls keep a sharp eye on each other's wealth. Fortunes are made and lost, and the fate of London's real estate swings wildly in the hands of two competing girls with giddy sums of money.

As I watch the game, I am transported to a scene from my own childhood - my sis and I playing Monopoly in the summer holidays. We compete fiercely, but I always lose, while she makes infuriating amounts of money. It is the same with any game of chance - Ludo, Snakes and Ladders, cards - I always try hard, but she always wins.

My daughter interrupts my train of thought.

"Do you want to play with us?" she asks. I smile and refuse.

"But why? It's fun!", says my niece.

I decide to confess. "Because I'll lose", I say to my niece. "I'm no good at this game! Your mom and I used to play this game, and I always lost!"

The girls look at each other and grin. "I'm going to win this one", says my niece. "No way!" says my daughter, and they go back to the game.

I watch them competing, hunched over the board, and I smile to myself. I remember my sister, and the intense concentration of our summer games. Some things just don't change.

The Lion People

Deepa Krishnan — Sun, 25 May 2008 15:37:27 EDT

Everyone knows about the Masai of Africa, but have you heard of the Lion People of Gujarat?

My daughter went to Sasan Gir Lion Sanctuary, and brought back this portrait of a Maldhari herdsman.

The Maldharis are buffalo-herders, who live in little mud nesses inside the Gir forest. Like the Masai, the Maldhari count their wealth in cattle and build their ness with a thorn enclosure to safeguard livestock from predators. But unlike the Masai, the Maldharis are vegetarian and do not slaughter their livestock for meat. They live instead, by selling milk and milk products, and use the earnings to barter or buy vegetables.

Maldhari homes have no electricity or running water. Every morning, the Maldhari men take their cattle to the forest to graze, while the women gather firewood and grass, draw water, and tend to the home. While letting their cattle graze, the Maldhari have to keep a sharp lookout for Gir's Asiatic lions, for whom the cattle are an easy target.

They're good looking people, these men, aren't they? Sharp features, confident, and so very macho. Maybe you'd be macho too, if you had to watch out for prides of hunting lionesses, with only a stick or an axe to protect your herd? The lions take 8 out of every 100 cattle that the Maldhari own, but the Maldharis do not hunt or kill the lions. They have learned to live alongside them.

The Forest Department believes Maldhari cattle over-graze the forest and deplete its water resources, making life difficult for the deer, nilgai and other ungulates of Gir. In addition, they fear domestic cattle will bring disease into the forest, wiping out the last surviving pure breed of Asiatic lions.

But other conservationists say the Maldhari herds are still vital to the survival of the lions. A 16-month study monitoring six Maldhari nesses in 2006-2007 established that almost 50% of the diet of Gir lions consists of Maldhari livestock. If you were to remove the Maldharis from the park, the study says, it would significantly affect the lion density, pride size and structure.

Sasan Gir has a complex set of problems. The biggest one is that it has too many lions and too little space. So there are territorial fights among the lions, and this leaves the smaller and younger males with no choice but to look for new places outside the protected area. Gir's lions have now started migrating outside the park. I'm glad they are reclaiming the lands where they once roamed, but this brings them into populated areas and creates new sources of conflict. Relocating the lions to another sanctuary would be a good idea - but the Gujarat government doesn't want to move the lions out of Gujarat, so it blocked a plan recommended by the Wildlife Institute of India to move some lions to Madhya Pradesh.

Five state highways pass through Sasan Gir, and there is a widespread limestone mining nearby. There's a cement plant barely 15 kilometers outside the protected area. There are 23 temples, and 250,000 tourists every year. In an area that has very little rainfall, these human activities drain scarce resources, and leave the waterholes dry in summer (Lions in Gir have fallen into human wells!).

Instead of fixing these issues (which involve influential people and big money), the government has got it into its head that the Maldharis - a community that does not poach - are the chief problem.

In my view, the biggest threat to the Asiatic lion is not the Maldharis. The biggest threat is that the only 300-odd surviving Asiatic lions in the world are all hemmed together in one small forest. A single epidemic could wipe out the entire species. This is a disaster just waiting to happen.

Masala Central

Deepa Krishnan — Fri, 23 May 2008 09:07:46 EDT

I was walking through Crawford Market looking for pasta, when a row of bottles with neat blue labels grabbed my attention. I paused for a closer look.

"What a great collection of specialty Mughlai masalas", I said to myself as my camera went click. "And cuisine from other regions as well!"

The shop was called Tasty Spices, and there masalas for over 50 different dishes, ranging from the widely popular chicken tikka, to regional specialties like yakhni pulao. I saw several masalas for mutton - dabba gosht, dal gosht, bhuna gosht, kheema masala, roghan josh and mutton chop fry. I counted at least 8 different masalas for cooking chicken, each one more tempting than the other. butter chicken, chicken 65, chicken malaiwala, golden fried chicken, chilli chicken, chicken white korma, chicken lollypop...the list went on.

As I read the neat labels, I thought of Mumbai's many tiny Mughlai restaurants, with their faded menus and their standard but popular offerings. Did they all buy masalas from places like this? "Hmm", I said to myself, "Maybe this is why Chicken 65 tastes similar, whether it is eaten in Bhayander or in Masjid!".

Alongside traditional Mughlai masalas, Tasty Spices also had coastal cuisine - Malvani masala, Goan fish curry masala, vindaloo masala, prawns masala fry and so on. A bottle of sambar masala was the sole vegetarian representative from South India, but to add a dash of international flavour to the offerings, there was a bottle of "Pizza Masala". Purists might scoff at the idea of pizza masala, but this is a hugely popular mix these days, thanks to Mumbai's vegetarian Gujaratis.

There are other shops in Crawford Market that sell masalas, but none of them have the neat packaging and display of Tasty Spices. I complimented the owner on his marketing savvy. "It's not just bottled masalas", he said to me. "If you buy the masala, we also give you the perfect recipe for how to make the dish at home. Try it - your home food will taste just as chatkeela as the restaurants!"

A tempting thought, indeed, for harried mothers of finicky children. Mumbai loves to eat out, so often it is restaurant food that defines the standards for what is tasty and what is not. A masala that promises to transform home cooking into something interesting and extraordinary is quite a draw.

If your family is addicted to restaurant food, go to Crawford Market and take a look at Tasty Spices on Lane 1. Maybe you'll re-create that strange restaurant magic at home, and have everyone asking for more!

Vedic Astrology Goes Global

Deepa Krishnan — Mon, 12 May 2008 11:43:27 EDT

"My colleague Anne is flying to Mumbai this week", said my friend Pradeep on the phone from the UK. "She wants to have her horoscope read. Can you help?"

Anne, it turned out, was a successful consultant based in London. "My company advises people on how to manage vendor-client relationships", she said to me. "And I'm curious about this science that predicts whether a relationship will work."

Anne figured the best way to understand Vedic astrology was to try checking her horoscope compatibility with her husband. I thought it was a logical approach.

"It's all computerised these days," I told her. "If you give me the date, time and place of birth for your husband and yourself, I should be able to get you a reading."

So she mailed me the data - they were both born in little towns - and off I went on a Saturday morning, looking for a computerised horoscope service. I found one in Churchgate, but I wasn't quite sure how they would manage astrology for people from different time zones.

As it turned out, they were quite capable of producing charts for the British. Or for Mexicans. Or Polynesians. Or really, anyone from anywhere. The secret? The Britannica Atlas! To figure out the exact time of birth, the guy at the shop spent 15 minutes finding the towns I gave him, and then found out the latitude/longitude co-ordinates and time zone.

Once the dates and places were keyed into the computer, here's what it produced - an analysis of the two charts, and a recommendation. The report starts with a little disclaimer.

"It should be understood", says the disclaimer, "that marriage is pre-ordained by Almighty Providence, and actually one has no control at all over the selection of one's partner in life". Some other very sensible advice on the disclaimer: "Astrology is only capable of indicating tendencies and potentials. The user of this service should treat these predictions with due discretion".

Vedic Astrology is a practical sort of thing - it determines the compatibility of horoscopes by checking whether the couple is mentally and sexually compatible, whether the marriage will bring luck or prosperity, whether the attraction in the relationship will last, whether the bride and groom will live long, and of course, whether they will have children. A reasonable recipe, actually, for a successful marriage.

The methodology is complex, but primarily includes an analysis of the major gunas (characteristics) of a person. The assumption is, of course, that the position of the stars and planets at the time of your birth influences your gunas.

There's a scoring system to see how well the gunas of the man and woman match. If you don't make the minimum cut-off (18 points), then the match is not considered very good. An average "acceptable" level is 18 - 24 matching gunas, but the higher the score, the better the marriage. Scores of 32 or above indicate that the marriage will do really well.

I don't know if Anne's horoscope matching was correct, or whether she figured out new secrets for great client-vendor relationships. But I'm hoping it will give her a couple of anecdotes at least, for her next presentation!

Apart from horoscope matching, you can also get a glimpse into the future - a 20-year prediction costs 700 rupees and tells you everything you want to know about yourself, year by year. What's more, this is a multi-lingual service. You can order the prediction in Gujarati, Hindi or English. While I waited at the shop, several prosperous looking people came in for future predictions, and remedies for current problems. They got neatly stapled printouts, with advice on what lucky stones to wear, what mantras to chant, what prayers to offer, and what colours to wear.

Me, I prefer not knowing the future. My grandmom had a simple philosophy - do what you have to do, don't harm others, don't think bad thoughts, and let the future take care of itself. If my future is meant to be good, then it will happen anyway. And if the future's bad, I don't want to ruin the present worrying about it.

Travel Report: Naldhera - Abode of God

Deepa Krishnan — Sat, 10 May 2008 00:44:07 EDT

It's that crazy time of the year when the endless heat begins to get to me, and I long for cooler places. This time, we picked Naldhera, a little place near Simla, in the cool slopes of the lower Himalayas.

To get to Naldhera, though, we had to start from Chandigarh - which was even hotter than Mumbai!

We took the 10:00 a.m. flight from Mumbai, and landed in Chandigarh when the sun was climbing high. The heat hit us like a furnace when we got off the plane. The tarmac was hot and dry and blindingly white as we walked towards the shelter of the airport building and collected our bags.

Chandigarh airport looked like a disaster zone from the outside. The May heat rose off the concrete in dizzying waves. We ran for the safety and relative coolness of our Toyota Innova.

Apparently they're converting Chandigarh to an international terminal (Chandigarh has become such an IT and BPO destination these days). I have only one piece of advice for the airport authorities: plant some trees! We need the shade!!

Lots of little shops like these dotted the highway. This one offered watermelon and sweet lime juice. Punjab also grows a wide range of fruits - oranges, lemons, mangoes, litchis, guavas, pears, peaches, plums, grapes and berries...what a wonderfully fertile land! I didn't see any fruit farms by the side of the road, so I was really disappointed. All we saw was these invitingly cool fruits on the hot dusty highway.

Finally, we reached the foothills of the Shivalik mountains. A brief break for lunch at Parwanoo (Timber Trails), and we were off climbing up further. The road had sharp curves, it was cool and pleasant, and I rather envied this man riding free and easy on his two-wheeler.

It was dark by the time we reached Naldhera. The wooden chalet we stayed in was beautiful, with a balcony on the upper floor, and a patio. But it was only in the morning that I figured out how pretty the scenery was. I sat and listened to birdsong at 6:00 a.m. The trees rose behind the cottage, tall and straight, everything around me was serene and perfect.

(Well, almost perfect. By seven a.m., they were piping this irritating outdoor music on a tinny music system. Can you imagine ruining the peace of this place with bad music?)

Breakfast was in a big community dining hall. They served us masala-tea on request, spiked with fennel. I'd never tasted that before.

At ten a.m. we set off on a trek up the mountain. Well, I say up, but in truth, it was downhill first, and then a climb back! The initial phase was easy, but it got steeper as we went along. The reward - beautiful views of green cedarwood forests. And no piped music! We saw an elderly couple - and old man and woman - carrying loads on their heads, climbing up. We, on the other hand, struggled with the uphill climb, and had to stop frequently for rest. This sort of thing always makes me feel very "urban" and very stupid.

The next morning, we set off for Tatta Pani, a place on the river Sutlej where there are hot springs. Tatta Pani is a local corruption of Tapta Pani - Boiling Water. The Sutlej at Tatta Pani is a forceful river, carrying with it mud and silt. The temperature of the river is 4 degrees, but right near the river is an underground spring which feeds hot water into the river.

The water of Tatta Pani collects in many places along the river bank, and forms shallow pools like these. Algae grow in the hot sulphur. The rock pools disappear in June, and reappear in November after the rains. It has something to do with the water levels in the river. I'm glad we went in May.

The hot water flows into the cold river. At the place where the two waters mingle, it is very pleasant. The kids had a great time stepping into hot water, and then jumping into the colder stream. Lots of laughing and shouting!

But Tatta Pani is not all about fun. It is also famous for its curative properties. This hopeful family of father and two sons had come to cure the ailing father. One son sat with the old man, while the other son made a little private pool for the old man to bathe. There was something about the way they sat together that had a deep impact on me - perhaps it was their simple quietness.

The two brothers spent half an hour creating a little pool for their father. They worked quietly and efficiently, with no noise. Here is the second son. The pool water was hot, so every now and then, he would dip his fingers in the cold river water. It took the two brothers nearly an hour to make a large enough pool for the old man to lie down. After the old man stripped down and had a bath, they took him wrapped in sacking cloth to the nearby priest for prayers. I didn't photograph the prayers - but the sons sat with him all through it.

Tatta Pani is also a major place of pilgrimage. Large numbers of people come to bathe in Tatta Pani in the month of Magha (Jan-Feb), when it is believed that a dip in this water washes away all your sins. And they come on Baisakhi Day in April. Funnily, they also come on January 26th, Republic Day! (Sometimes I think I will never understand my fellow countrymen.)

This family was making a tula-daan, a donation. It looked like an offering to offset the influence of Shani (Saturn). The offerings to Shani are strange - black gram (urad), black clothes, iron, oil and leather (that's what told me it was Shani - these set of scales had a pair of black leather shoes). In the tula-daan, you weigh yourself on the balance, and donate these things equal to your weight. The donation goes to the brahmin priest.

That afternoon, I went to the mall at Shimla. The mall is a long road full of shops. No vehicles are allowed on the road, but for tired whiny kids, a group of guys offers an innovative stroller service. For 50 rupees an hour, you get your own stroller, and your own personal pram-pusher along with it! So momma gets to shop in peace, with kids trundling along safely contained in a little stroller. Oh and the kids get to play tinny music as well.

Himachal is synonymous with apples. The stores in Simla stock apple wine, but also stock several other kinds of wine from locally grown fruits - strawberries, grapes, pears, and even rhododendron wine. We tried some of them...but I didn't quite like them.

Lots of woolen products are also on sale. I bought not one, but three pashmina shawls. The shopkeeper was a smooth talker who spoke flawless English, and showed me how the entire shawl could be pulled through a finger-ring. I was hooked.

The next morning, we set off for Chandigarh. Ranjit Singh, our driver, was a madman on a mission - to get us to the airport in time for the flight. We hurtled down the slopes at dizzying speeds, and had to stop midway when everyone started feeling truly carsick. The roadside dhabas serve the most amazing masala lemon-soda, by the way. As we neared the lower slopes, I bid goodbye to the hills, and turned my thoughts homewards.

For more photos and the full story, here is my flickr travelogue.

The Marriage of Technology and Religion

Deepa Krishnan — Tue, 29 Apr 2008 13:58:35 EDT

Have you noticed how neatly religion is wedded to technology in India? Like hot water and noodles, we've cleverly mixed the two to serve up God in an instant.

Take this advert for cell phone ringtones in the Hindustan Times this morning. "Devotional Special", it says, in a font that is inspired by the Sanskrit Devnagiri script. You can download mantras and chants on your cell phone for under 20 rupees, and when someone calls you, you can play them a little piece of the mantra. In the process, you dispense instant punya across the telecom network.

In addition to dispensing punya to people who call you, you can also earn punya for yourself. How? For 5 rupees, just download a religious wall paper as the background for your cell phone. The payoff? It lights up every time someone calls you, giving you small doses of darshan throughout the day. There's even a cartoon wall paper version of Lord Ram and his wife, for the young at heart. Or maybe it is meant for kids, to give them an early start in the lifelong process of acquiring merit.

I tell you, the gods must be pretty pleased with how well technology is working for them. And going by the number of prayers and chants I hear on people's phones these days, I'm sure the telecom companies are happy too.

But it's not just the mobile phone companies that have understood the marriage of technology and religion. Here's an advert on a popular website for online pujas. For $25 paid online, a priest will conduct a full-fledged puja on your behalf. All kinds of prayers and rituals are available, but what looks most popular is this one, a prayer to Kali that neutralizes any potential scheming enemies.

Astrologers have gone online as well. The simple road-side jyotish now has competition from "Ask Pandit" services, where for a fee paid online, you get horoscope consultation and religious advice via email. Advice is provided on everything under the sun, ranging from marriage, career, infertility and education. It is a tiered price structure, starting at $2 for a basic reading, and progressively becoming more expensive as you ask for more specific information. Oh and there's a shopping cart, where you can pay by credit card.

The big temples have understood technology too. The richest, Tirupati in Andhra Pradesh, offers e-Darshan, a facility where you can buy tokens online so you don't have to queue up to see the Lord. The Tirupati website proudly explains that they're now using biometrics to regulate entry at the temple gates. Tirupati also has branded their other offerings - they have e-Seva, e-Hundi, e-Donation and e-Sales (whatever that is!). The website is a smoothly functioning e-Commerce centre, where you can engage with the Lord from the comfort of your home.

But if you really want to see technology working hand-in-hand with religion, you should go see Akshardham in Delhi. It's a sort of cross between a hi-tech Disneyland and a traditional temple. There is a boat ride though an artificial tunnel, a yagna-kund that is also a synchronised colourful fountain, an "audio-animatronics" show, and a giant movie screen that shows a special movie filmed in over 100 locations in India, with a cast of 45000 people.

Akshardham has welcomed technology, dreamt large dreams in technicolour using technology, and moulded technology with a confident hand to fit the special needs of its faithful. The scale and drama of Akshardham make me wish it were a metaphor for modern India - eager to accept new learning, but at the same time, vibrant and self-confident enough to convert it into something uniquely Indian. Do you think that will happen?

In any case, to me it looks like Technology is quite permanently wedded to Religion in India, and this is going to be a long and fruitful marriage. All I can say is - Jiyo mere dulha dulhan. May you prosper and produce interesting offspring!

A Goddess for Summer

Deepa Krishnan — Wed, 23 Apr 2008 13:14:57 EDT

The fierce April heat brings with it rashes, skin diseases and the dreaded pox.

Before it was eradicated in India, smallpox was one of the most feared diseases of summer. Chicken pox is still a big worry for Indian parents. Many communities believe it is the wrath of the Goddess Mariamman that brings on these diseases, and that she must be propitiated to ward off the pox.

In Mumbai, a small community from Andhra Pradesh worships the Goddess Mariamman every summer, seeking protection from smallpox, chickenpox and all forms of disease. My housemaid is from Andhra Pradesh, so I went with her to see the annual Mariamman ceremony. Mum came along, of course, to find out what it was all about.

The first thing we saw (heard) were the drums. Three men came walking from a little lane, and posed for me.

Then the women emerged from several lanes, carrying offerings for the goddess. Their bowls had a sort of thin gruel, made from ragi and buttermilk, and flavoured with chillies. Ragi, or finger millet came to India 4000 years ago from Ethiopia. It is now a staple part of the local diet.

There were neem leaves in the ragi gruel. Neem has medicinal properties and is used all over the country as a cure for chickenpox.

Several children and young girls wore skirts of neem, as protection from the pox.

A temporary tent had been erected, where everyone gathered with their offerings.

Inside the tent, there was a little shrine. In the villages of South India, there's a distinctly different looking Mariamman. But this is Bombay! There is no consecrated idol of the goddess here, so a popular representation of Durga was housed inside the tent, with the customary trident.

Mariamman is said to be a proto-Dravidian goddess, not a part of mainstream Vaishnavism or Saivisam. But as usual, both Saivaites and Vaishnavites have appropriated her, because she has such a large following.

To get things going, there was a dance. Two male performers had come from a little village in Andhra Pradesh. They were not just dancers; they were more like shamans, intermediaries between the Goddess and the rest. They said a little prayer and tied anklets on their feet.

The dancing lasted a short while, but it was energetic and graceful.

After the dancing, there was a brief prayer ritual. An elder from the community performed the arati. The prayers to Mariamman are "non-agama" i.e. not from the sacred Vedic texts. Brahmins do not conduct prayers to this Goddess, except in a couple of very large Mariamman temples in Tamil Nadu, where the worship has morphed into a fully agamic tradition.

After the prayer, a desi fowl was offered as sacrifice to please the Goddess and ask her protection. As the sacrifice happened, the drums and trumpets rose to a crescendo. Quite a spectacle.

I clicked the obligatory gory picture.

This pot would be taken around the city after the sacrifice. It was filled with water, turmeric and neem leaves, and decorated with turmeric, red sindoor, neem, lemon and flowers. In Bombay, this vessel goes to various Tamil and Andhra localities in Dharavi.

The ragi gruel was then served to everyone as prasadam. It was delicious and cool, by the way. There were a couple of neem leaves in mine, bitter as expected. I ate them, mindful of all the medicinal properties neem has.

The customary group photo at the end of the day! This is a section of women from my maid's community. The one on the left, with the orange and red saree is Vasantha, who lives with us, and makes the best khichdi-kadi on the planet. Without her, I would never have known or participated in this amazing spectacle.