Seeking God by Abinaya Gopalan

When I was a young child, I loved twisting myself into strange shapes. My favorite pose was with my knees crossed, feet up in what is the yoga posture called “Padmasana”. I did not know this at the time, but still persevered in my funny poses. When I was slightly older, maybe 12, I became very interested in India. I had read a novel called “Nectar in a Sieve” by Kamala Markandaya, and it really gave me food for thought. I found some old sheets and material pieces and tied myself up in a makeshift saree – complete with a lipstick bindi. I liked to walk around the house, folding my hands in “Namaste” position.

In high school, I took some hatha yoga classes, finally realizing that the funny poses of my youth were really yoga asanas. Blessed with a flexible body, I enjoyed these classes immensely. Yet it was not until college that my true craving was unearthed. Thanks to a wonderful professor, Professor Joan Price, I began the study of philosophy. Professor Price was a student of the great Bengali sage, Sri Aurobindo Ghose. I became fascinated with the works of Aurobindo, and joined a study group that Professor Price facilitated. It was then that I felt I understood the purpose of life – that the pursuit of God Realization or supramental consiousness, was to be my first and best destiny. I began studying various meditation techniques, and completed my undergraduate education with a degree in Philosophy, most notable that of Aurobindo. It was also at this time, and due to Dr. Price’s enormous influence in my life, that I became a vegetarian. Such a lifestyle, in light of ahimsa (non-violence) made perfect sense.

As my life moved forward, I found myself drawn to different meditation teachers. I received lessons from the Self-Realization Fellowship (under the guidance of the late Paramahansa Yogananda) and was moved by his well-known book, The Autobiography of a Yogi. I practiced meditation, although I was by no means an adept. I studied Vedanta, continued reading Aurobindo, and considered myself a Hindu. I studied Hindu scripture and philosophy, and paid attention to the yamas and niyamas (disciplines and restraints) of Hindu life.

Unfortunately, I then began a phase of my life I now refer to as “Guru Shopping”. I traveled from ashram to ashram, both in the States and in India, finding many gurus but connecting with none. I visited Aurobindo ashram and the ashram of Sri Ramana Maharshi in South India, acquiring many more books to read. I often think that I was exactly like the disciple in the often told folk story who asks his guru to teach him realization. “I have studied holy books for twenty years!” he announces, as much to his chagrin, his guru instructs him to take a boat out onto the river and there commit his books to the briny deep!

Having heard stories of Satya Sai Baba, I traveled to Bangalore for his darshan. I sat with the other women on the grass, head draped in the required scarf, and watched Satya Sai walk through the multitude. I was struck by his short stature, his puffy hair, and his ability to manifest objects out of the ether. Yet in his presence I felt nothing. More books purchased and read, but not much else.

I then spent a month studying with an unknown Tamil guru in the town of Cuddalore, in Tamil Nadu, south of Madras (Chennai). Known simply as “Iyya” which in Tamil means “Sir” (this is an accepted form of address for elderly men), he spent hours teaching me mediation techniques. He had been a railroad worker when he attained God-Realization, moving then into retirement. He accepted no money from me, and indeed he lived a very simple life. When I asked to use a bathroom, his daughter led me outside in back of their tiny house, and simply motioned to the great outdoors! I remember one day in particular. I was sitting on the bench across from his bed, along with several other devotees. They were only speaking in Tamil, and after hours of stretching my brain to try and understand, I became restless and frustrated. My head was spinning, and I longed to take a walk outside. I said to myself that Truth had no language, and that despite the fact that I could only understand every third word, I was still absorbing the essence of Iyya’s discourse. Noticing my discomfort, for I was beginning to fidget madly, Iyya turned to me. Breaking off his talk, he regarded me with his warm brown-eyed gaze. He smiled slightly. “Truth has no language” he said.

I did begin to meditate regularly, especially when confronted with several hours of lecture in a language I could barely make sense of. I walked often along the beach in Pondicherry (the town where Aurobindo’s ashram is located, which was only about 10 kilometers from Iyya’s home) sometimes sitting and losing myself in the calmness of the waves. When I was ready to return to the States, Iyya asked me to return and stay with him for one month. If I did, he promised me realization. In our parting photo, I am standing beside this tiny, thin brown man, looking like some sort of giant. We are standing in the front door of his home, next to a plaque that states his name and then simply “Divine Service” to indicate his profession.

Returning home, I again resumed my quest for the perfect guru. I continued to meditate and listen to tapes of Iyya’s discourses, but the memory of my experience slowly faded. Once again on a “shopping spree”, I took workshops with a direct disciple of Yogananda, visited Swami Muktananda’a successor, Gurumayi in New York (more and more books!) where for an exorbitant fee I was given “shaktipat” (the transmission of divine energy from a realized master) This consisted of Gurumayi tapping me with a peacock feather mounted on what looked like a broom handle. I attended morning, afternoon, and evening meditations, marveled at Gurumayi’s wealthy and famous disciples, and sat for long hours on the heated floor of her meditation hall during an “intensive”, but not much else. (Years later I visited again with my husband, who is from South India and who, after witnessing the arrangements, promptly walked out!).

I began teaching Hatha Yoga after having been trained in the Integral Yoga method of Swami Satchitananda. I also became a regular at his ashram, again studying meditation. Swami Satchtananda is a very kind and gentle soul who earned my great respect. I purchased more books and continued my studies. At home I began a meditation group and gave group and private Hatha Yoga classes. I continued to meditate and became rather more disciplined in my practices. My wonderful Tamil teacher, Kusum, was married to a man who was an ardent devotee of Aurobindo, and so my connection to Aurobindo’s work continued as well.

It was at this time in my life that I met my husband, Gopal. He was from the city of Coimbatore in Tamil Nadu, and as I had been studying Tamil avidly, we found many similar interests. Both Hindus, we believed that marriage was a sacred trust, not to be defiled by pre-marital dating or intimate relations. We wanted to grow to love one another as spouses, not as “boyfriend and girlfriend”. Needless to say, we were married within three months of being introduced! We were married in a Hindu ceremony in Washington, DC, and several months later journeyed to India where we married again. The woman who performed our US ceremony, known as Srimathi Kamala, was an American by birth who became an ardent disciple of Swami Premananda (a direct disciple of Yogananda) and the founder of the Gandhi Memorial Center in Washington. I attended her wonderful lectures and Sunday satsang. She has done much to promote spiritual growth, and to bring the teachings of both Mohandas Gandhi and Paramahansa Yogananda to the public.

Gopal had been initiated into meditation by the spiritual master Sant Thakur Singh, a man of great love and wisdom. After several years, I also began reading and studying his approach. He urged his inititates to meditate at least 3 hours per day, a feat that I believed to be impossible! Yet immediately following my own initiation, I found myself able to sit in meditation for longer periods of time.

My spiritual life seemed to veer off in a different way after my marriage. I made regular trips to India where my in-laws and I visited many, many South Indian temples. Together we performed countless pujas. My father in law was a great devotee of Lord Murugan and Lord Ganesha, Lord Siva’s two sons. As my own Hinduism was decidedly Shaivite (centered in the worship of Siva, who is part of the Hindu Trinity), these trips led me into a greater life of prayer and active worship. My in-laws were very simple people, but very religious Hindus. I was lucky enough to, as a result of their influence, deepen my religious and spiritual practices. Hindusim is really a way of life as much as it is a belief system, and it was at this time that I began truly living my life as a Shaivite Hindu. Gopal and I celebrated the festivals, performed home pujas, and kept the recommended fasts. We regularly visited the local temple, and were active in our Indian community. In 1994, our daughter Savitri (named not only after the heroine of the Satyavan/Savitri story, but also for Aurobindo’s epic poem of the same name) was born.

At present, I continue to meditate and study. Gopal and I are actively raising our daughter to practice and understand our Hindu faith, and to learn and practice meditation. We remain committed to our life together, our family, our faith, and God. I remain close with my former professor, Joan Price, who still hosts a monthly Aurobindo study group! In many ways, I believe that the strongest spiritual influences in my life remained ever constant, despite my “shopping “ expeditions. I have met some wonderful people through God’s grace, including Jay and Gabriele Mazo who are also Siva devotees. Jay’s wonderful book, “The Inner Guide” is quite inspiring. Gabriele’s stories of her life in India are also amazing. About three years ago, I also began studying Bharatanatyam, the ancient religious dance form of South India. For me, this is another way to express my devotion and faith. Everything points to more opportunities to love and serve the divine. I have never tried to write about myself in this way, so I hope you enjoy reading this!!

I also wrote a little piece about how it was to perform Bharatanatyam at the Hindu Temple in New York on Ganesha Chaturthi. This experience left me feeling very much connected to God. Bharatanatyam is for me an expression of prayer and love. But as a performing art, it also adheres to certain strict codes of dress and behavior. But it has still been a great experience for me, and I have met so many wonderful friends in India as a result of studying there.

DancinG in the Rain

They had been thrown together in this for what seemed like so long that they had bonded in the way that girls will do- pulling for each other, hoping for each other, wearing one another's nerves in their hair and in their gaudy jewels and paper jasmine. Four of them: Payel, Gayathri, Rujanthi, and Abinaya (the white girl with the Indian name), peering out into the rain while they fussed and laughed. Rujanthi with her doe eyes, Gayathri with her face of good-natured puzzlement, Payel with her sweet smile, and Abinaya, whose Mediterranean face and terracotta hair swam among them.

They pinned and tucked and sweated in the humidity, listening to the rain pelt the air conditioner, straining to see out of the dirty window to the temple where Lord Ganapathi, he who is the remover of obstacles, was paraded through the streets on his chariot of flowers. The beat of the drums and the echo of the crowd tapped time to the skittishness of their hearts. Abi pinned Payel's pallu, Rujanthi tied Abi's belt, and Gayathri peered near-sightedly at them all. They were ready.

Too soon and yet not soon enough, they left the house, their chappals squishing and sliding in the puddles. One good thunderclap sent them scurrying - visions of four hours of make-up in rivulets on their necks - as they threaded their way through the crowd. Women in sopping wet sarees, men with rain in their hair, flowers streaming lilke boats on the wet pavement. The air was thick, as close as a rainforest, so that even the joyful cries of "Jai Ganesha!" were muted.

They stopped in front of the temple, stopped by the steaming masses and the oily voices over the loudspeakers. "Let them through!" someone cried, "Let them pass!" And suddenly they were in front of Ganesha, under the main goparum, skidding to a stop on the slick cement. So many eyes upon them! The eyes of the world, eyes belonging to brown people and white people, priests and paupers, children and adults. Eyes that roamed from Abi's white skin, to Gayathri's bright pink silk, to Rujanthi like a queen, and Payel's gleaming braces. It was time.

The music scratched itself out of the recorder. They didn't think, they only danced. On the too-slick pavement, in the presence of God, under the arch of temple and tree, beneath the grays and teals of the rainy sky. They forgot to be nervous; they made no mistakes. It was both joy and prayer, their dance. All the colors of the world were reflected in their purples and pinks and greens, in the serene gaze of Ganapathi, in the translucence of the water kissing their feet. Then it was over.

And as girls are wont to do, they held hands and smiled. Camera shutters clicked noisily. Was it the evening news? (No, they discovered, it was merely the presence of Abinaya, so tall and white and startling among them). Gayathri went inside to pray. Rujanthi and Payel found their families. Abi looked at the sky. Just four girls, after all. The same but never the same. Four girls and a dance and the face of Lord Ganapathi, thrown together like Indian sambar, stirred and heated up, and oh, so good.