The Bauls

(This article was originally published in Prabuddha Bharata, a monthly journal of the Ramakrishna Order that was started by Swami Vivekananda in 1896.)

Nabani Das Kshyepa Baul

“A band of minstrels suddenly appears, dances, and sings, and it departs in the same sudden manner.  They come and they return, but none recognizes them.”

- Sri Ramakrishna (Gospel Chapter 49)

Sri Ramakrishna said that he would be born again as a Baul; the Holy Mother Sri Sarada Devi told this to Swami Arupananda.  According to one of her recorded conversations, this would happen within a century, while Girish Chandra Ghosh and some others were of the opinion that Sri Ramakrishna spoke of returning in two hundred years.

My First Experience with the Bauls

It was the year of 1985 – almost one hundred years after Sri Ramakrishna’s passing -- and I was living near the Hollywood Vedanta Society at the time.  When I heard that one of the most famous Bauls – Sri Purna Das Baul – was on tour in Los Angeles, I went to find him.  This was my chance to get to know more about the Bauls.

I had been rather ill for almost a year, suffering from a severe respiratory infection and, since I had never experienced any long-lasting illnesses before, I felt insecure and thought that I might never get well.  When Babu, Purna Das’ eldest son invited me to come to the 1986 Joydeb Mela, I happily accepted.   For a long time I had the desire to go to India, travel to a remote place and write about it for the National Geographic magazine.  This was my chance to do that and to forget about my illness.  Moreover, deep in my heart I cherished a wild dream:  perhaps, I would find Sri Ramakrishna born again as a baby Baul at the mela, fair.

As it turned out, my first trip to India put me into the fast lane to God.  Although I never wrote a story for National Geographic, I got cured of my illness, and I started to live and experience first-hand what I only had been reading and dreaming about before.

For those unfamiliar with this event, Joydeb Mela is a three-day and three-night Baul festival which takes place every year during the time of Makar Sankranti, the 14^th day in January as per the solar calendar when the sun begins to travel northwards.   The mela is held in Kenduli, a small village in Birbhum located about 30 km west of Shantiniketan where Rabindranath Tagore founded his famous forest university. Tens of thousands of people throng to Kenduli during the mela to hear the Bauls sing and to bathe in the Ajoy river during the auspicious time of Makar Sankranti.

The poet Jayadeva who composed the Gita Govinda, is said to have taken birth at Kenduli, although some dispute that and put his birthplace somewhere in Orissa.  Be it as it may, the Joydeb Mela is dedicated to honoring Jayadeva and his wife Padmavati and, as one wanders or rather is pushed by the crowd through narrow, dusty lanes lined by make-shift stalls, one finds many pictures, statues and small booklets glorifying the poet.  One of Jayadeva’s famous saying is sabar upare manush satya tahar upare nai  - there is no higher truth than the human soul.

Throughout the year, Kenduli is a sleepy little village but, when the mela starts, thousands of people arrive in cars, buses, bullock carts, and on bicycles.  There are long lines of dusty villagers that have walked for days to get there.  Every year, temporary large tents are erected in Kenduli where the Bauls stay and perform.  Generally these tents fill up with people way past maximum safety regulations.

Brajabala Dasi, wife of Nabani Das and mother of Purna Das Baul

When I arrived in Kolkata, it was night time and Purna Das’sons Babu and Bapi picked me up from the airport.  The first impressions of India rolled past me as I pressed my nose against the car window.  I saw people walking in the dark and shopkeepers sitting in small stalls lit up by flickering kerosene lanterns.  This sight was deeply familiar.  It reminded me to my early childhood when my mother, grandmother and I stayed in a house in the Austrian countryside after the war.

Purna Das Baul Samrat

Early next morning, Purna Das, his wife Manju Das, his three sons Babu, Bapi and Chotton and I squeezed into a light-blue Maruti mini-van and drove to Shantiniketan where we picked up three musicians that were to accompany Purna Das during the performance at Joydeb.  It was hot, dusty and extremely uncomfortable sitting in the crowded car.  As we drove on a small country road over pothole after pothole and dodged one head-on collision with a truck after another, we were all getting somewhat irritable.   All of a sudden, Manju Das began singing a Baul song.  It was as if she waved a magic wand.  The mood changed instantaneously from being irritable to joyous.  Everybody in the car started singing, and we arrived in Kenduli elated.

I did not want to get out of the car when I saw the mass of people that surrounded us.  The ocean of excited faces staring at us was scary to me.  Out of exuberance over the arrival of Purna Das, people were shaking the car.  The side door opened and Purna Das stepped out of the car unperturbed and smiling.  I was scared to get out, and I was even more scared to be left behind.  Clutching my camera equipment and purse, I pushed through the throng of people, following Purna Das’orange turban bouncing above all the heads in front of me.  I was terrified of getting lost. 

In later years, I learned that there was never any chance of me getting lost.  I may not have known where I was, but everybody among the thousands of people attending Joydeb knew exactly where I was at any time.  I was one of, perhaps, two or three Westerners that attended the mela.  During my first trip to India, I still thought like a Westerner.  I had not yet learned the Indian way.

Kenduli did not have much of an infrastructure to support that many people.  At that time, there were dirt roads, and it was very dark at night because few houses and tents had electricity.  Yet, the magic that happened on a stage lit by a single light bulb is difficult to describe.

They say that once you have listened to a Baul singing ecstatically, you will never forget this experience.  I can vouch for that.  Even though I don’t understand the words being sung and need to rely on somebody’s translation, my inner being intuitively responds to the call of the Baul.  Filled with passionate longing for God, the Baul sings earthy songs dripping with the juice of divine love.  As he sings loudly, the red earth of Bengal resounds and carries his call to villages far off into the horizon.

The Ways of the Bauls

Though most Bauls are poor, their spirit is rich due to non-attachment to external things.  Outwardly they wear the garb of a beggar but, inwardly, they delight in the wealth of bliss.  Established in his sadhana, the Baul sings with the freedom of a soul without shackles.

 

Baul songs are mystical, poetic and multi-layered.  Underneath the obvious meaning of words, lie deep meanings that cannot be properly understood by a person who does not practice sadhana.  Secrets of Baul sadhana are given openly in hidden language.

Naboni Das Khyepa Baul’s elder brother Rasaraj wrote the following famous Baul song “yemon beni temni rabe...” 

The way my braid is, that’s how it will stay.

I’ll get into the water, I’ll splash water around

But I won’t get my hair wet.

I’ll swim about this way and that way

I’ll dive into the water and won’t listen to what people say.

I’ll enjoy myself but not suffer because of it.

Gosain Rasaraj says: “Listen, my friend,

That beauty leaves me speechless.

I won’t be chaste; I won’t be unchaste.

I won’t leave my Lord.”

On a similar note, Sri Ramakrishna often told his householder disciples engaged in worldly activities: “A boat may stay in water but water should not stay in the boat. An aspirant may live in the world, but the world should not live within him.”

 

The Baul sips like a bee, as it were, the most suitable nectar from Hinduism, tantric Buddhism and Sufi Islam and distills this concoction into a honey that gives him an intoxicating direct experience of God.  This approach to God is perceived as too unconventional by people who lack the freedom and willingness to comprehend.  Therefore, Bauls have been labeled as “mad” by orthodox prejudice for at least 600 years.  Breaking conventional social customs, Bauls deliberately dress in both Hindu and Muslim garments.  They embrace all, disregarding religious, caste and social restrictions.

Kanai Das Baul

Authentic worship of God, according to the Bauls, takes place only deep within the heart where the divine moner manush, “Man of the Heart,” is enshrined.  “God is hidden in the heart of man and, neither priest nor prophet, nor the ritual of any organized religion, will help man to find him there,” writes Professor Edward Dimock, an eminent scholar of Bengali literature.

The village of Kenduli has been built up quite a bit since I attended Joydeb Mela in 1986, and the number of people attending this festival has dramatically increased.  Purna Das Baul, who was one of the first Bauls to bring Baul songs and philosophy to the drawing rooms of Kolkata and the rest of the world, has done much to spread awareness of Baul traditions.  Before Purna Das Baul, the Nobel laureate Rabindranath Tagore added much to the popularity of Baul ways.  Drawing inspiration from the Bauls, Rabindranath Tagore was a great supporter of Purna Das’ father, Nabani Das Kshyepa Baul.  He collaborated with Nabani Das Baul, supported him financially and gave him land for a Baul institution.

While the popularity of the Bauls brought material success to some, it did more harm than good to the true Bauls who practice serious sadhana.  It brought an influx of shilpis, professional singers, who dress like Bauls and sing Baul songs for money but do not practice Baul sadhana.  According to some estimates, there were over 200 shilpis at the 2008 Joydeb Mela, almost outnumbering the real Bauls.  The shilpis cash in the rupees while the real Bauls are still poor.

Moreover, misunderstanding of the “way of the Baul” has caused a lot of mischief at Joydeb Mela.  Nowadays aside from simple village folk, hordes of people from cities throng to Kenduli during Joydeb.   Attracted by the term “freedom,” worldly city dwellers come to Joydeb Mela to indulge in licentious behavior.  They come to smoke ganja, get drunk and behave badly with women unaware that their distorted understanding of freedom only leads to greater bondage and suffering.

Bauls are rather difficult to comprehend.  I have lived with Bauls, read most books written on the Bauls, interviewed people on Baul philosophy and seen most video clips on Bauls that are available.  Rarely have I found worthy information and accurate statements in books written by Westerners as well as Indians.  Either the books are too scholarly or they deal with an author’s misguided perception of what it means to be a Baul.  One cannot understand the Baul intellectually; one must intuitively feel them with one’s heart.

Some statements in these books remind me to Sri Ramakrishna’s fable of the blind men describing an elephant.  Touching different parts of the animal, each of the blind men has the experience of the elephant but that experience is only partial.  The blind man who touches the ears of the elephant proclaims that the elephant is like a winnowing fan and another, who touches the leg, says that the elephant is like a pillar.

One cannot label Bauls and put them into convenient categories.  Baul sadhana practices differ from one Baul clan to another, from one akhra, Baul ashram, to another.  Perhaps it would be easier to herd cats than to start an organized group of Baul members.

Yet there is a through-line of similarities among the different Bauls.  Be they Vaishnava Bauls or Muslim Fakirs, be they grihasta, householder, Bauls or sannyasin Bauls, all Bauls believe that love for man is the path leading to love for the Divine.  All Bauls practice intense pranayama and various kundalini and yogic practices.

Nabani Das Baul became such an adept in breath control that he could stay under water for a long time.  His wife, Brajabala Dasi, told a story about the time she and her neighbors thought that Nabani Das Baul had drowned.  A neighbor saw him enter into a pond in Shantiniketan in the early morning hours but did not see him come back out.  As villagers stood around the pond lamenting, Nabani Das Baul resurfaced and was startled by the commotion.

Bauls dress in flaming orange colors or in patchwork kurtas that reach down way past their knees.  They do not cut their hair and generally tie it up in a top knot.  When they dance, their steps follow practices so ancient that they are universal.  An Australian aborigine elder joined Purna Das Baul during a performance in Australia.  While Purna Das sang an old Baul song and performed dance steps handed down by his ancestors, the aborigine elder sang an old aborigine song in the same tune following the same dance steps.

 

Traditionally, Bauls only used percussion and stringed instruments for accompaniment.  Of these, perhaps the most famous one is the gopiyantra or ektara, a one-stringed drone instrument that is plucked by a wire plectrum.  The drone sound reminds the Baul of the oneness of all.  The next in importance is the anandalahari or khamak which is a drum that is plucked.  A pair of strings attached to the skin of an open one-headed drum is fixed to another small drum.  By tightening and relaxing these strings, the Baul strikes them with a plectrum, creating a most exhilarating sound and beat.

Other Baul instruments are the dotara, a four-stringed long-necked lute, the duggi, a kettle drum which is tied to the Baul’s waist, nupur (anklets), kartal (cymbals) and the khol, a drum that is a Bengali village version of the mridanga.   Today, some Bauls also use the harmonium, tabla, flute and violin.

Bauls earn most of their living by singing in public places, at railroad stations, and by going from door to door.  Their style of living is simple – some would say lowly - but their attitude, their way of thinking is most high.  They may sit on a used, torn mat on the verandah of a clay hut and eat a simple meal, but they share it with their family and whoever happens to be around with such gusto that the simple food turns into nectar of the gods.

Bauls give respect to all.  In the West, we may say “thank you,” and think that we are done with giving respect.  I remember Purna Das Baul scolding me once severely after I thanked Sri Manohar Kshyepa Baba, a most respected guru of many Bauls, for allowing me to interview him at Joydeb Mela.

Manohar Kshyepa Baba

“Who are you to thank such a great soul as Manohar Kshyepa Baba?” scolded Purna Das Baul.  “You are in no position to thank him.  All you can do is pranam and beg for his blessings.”  I learned a great lesson.  Bauls regard their guru as God and pay the utmost respect to him.

Non-attachment is another trait of a real Baul.  I remember Purna Das Baul telling me a story about his childhood.  His family moved often from village to village.  At one time, they stayed longer at a particular village.  Outside this village was a small roadside Kali temple.  Purna Das Baul took a liking to this image and went there every day without telling his parents.  Curious about where his son was going,  Nabani Das Baul followed him one day.  “My son, you should never be attached to any external thing,” said Nabani Das Baul.  The next day, the family packed up and moved to another village.

Another story I heard from Purna Das Baul gave me a lesson in same-sightedness.  Nabanidas Baul was gone for many weeks and his family was starving.  Ma sent out Purna Das Baul in search of his father.  After searching for a while, Purna Das Baul found his father in a small village that was suffering tremendous food shortages due to draught.  They had asked Nabani Das Baul to stay and do a special sadhana to bring rain.   Nabani Das Baul told the villagers to feed the children.  When they did as told, not only did rain come but also miraculously food appeared , brought by neighboring villagers.

Purna Das Baul tapped his father’s shoulder and mentioned that his family is starving while he is feeding children in this village.  Nabani Das Baul replied, “Who says that these are not my children?  All are my children.  I am feeding my children.”

Sri Ramakrishna Baul

I am still waiting to meet Sri Ramakrishna as a Baul.  Though many disregard the possibility of Sri Ramakrishna being born again -- saying that he has given enough and does not need to return -- I believe that Sri Ramakrishna will return as a Baul.  Perhaps he will come in 100 years, perhaps in 200 years.  In my humble opinion, the mood of a Baul might suit Sri Ramakrishna well.   Outwardly, the Baul shows tremendous emotion and drama but inwardly, the Baul is still like Shiva soaked in the bliss of Oneness.

It may be apt to conclude this article  -- my humble attempt of verbally using a few brush strokes to sketch a picture of a real Baul -- by quoting Sri Ramakrishna talking about the Bauls in The Gospel of Sri Ramakrishna recorded by M.

Sri Ramakrishna Paramahamsa

Sri Ramakrishna (to M.):  Leaning on one side too long yesterday while in ecstasy in Adhar’s house, I got pain in my leg.  So I now take Baburam with me wherever I go.  He is a sympathetic soul. 

Saying this, the Master sang:

How can I tell you, O friend! What is in my heart?

I cannot live without a sympathetic heart.

The man of the heart is recognized by his look.

He is rare; he swims in bliss and is steeped in love.

The man of the heart trades in love.

Where can we find the man of the heart

Who carries only a tattered rag under his arm?

He does not say a word; he travels the high road.

The man of the heart makes a stir on the high road.

Sri Ramakrishna:  The Bauls sing such songs.  There are also songs like this:

Wait, O Dervish, holding the begging bowl,

Stand and let me dwell on your beauty.

Sri Ramakrishna:  The siddha (perfect individual) of the Shakta Cult is called a kaul.  According to Vedanta, he is called a paramahamsa.  According to Baul Vaishnavas, he is a Sain.  There is none beyond the Sain.

A Baul becomes a Sain when he is a siddha.  For him, there are no differences in the world.  One half of his necklace is made of cow bones and the other of the tulsi plant. 

Sri Ramakrishna:  A Baul once came here.  I said to him, “Are you finished with all the work of refining?  Is the pot down from the fire?”  The more you boil the syrup, the more refined it will be.  First you have the juice of the sugar cane, next molasses, after which lumps, next sugar, then sugar candy, hard sugar balls, etc.  It is being refined continuously.

When is the pot taken down?  That is, when will spiritual practices come to an end?  It will be when the sense organs will be conquered.  The sense organs will become loose like the leech which drops off itself when lime is put on it.  He lives with a woman but does not know her.

Jai Guru

Yielding to the Storm of Kali

This article, written in 1992, first appeared in Tattva-Sangarba, the journal of the Sringiri Shankaracharia Math, India. A portion was also published in Tantra Magazine and Light of Consciousness. 

There’s a sacred wind blowing, heralding the dawn of mysticism. I feel it, my friends feel it, and the news media has started writing about it. We are waiting with bated breath for the day to come when mystics will inhabit the world, when Christians, Muslims, Jews and Hindus get so intoxicated with love for the God of their heart that their differences melt into a giant pot of divine love. When I close my eyes and think about it, I can almost taste what a world consummated by collective mystical union could be like.

Ma Bhavatarini Kali

A mystic in my dictionary is someone who, over and above his or her spiritual and/or intellectual disciplines, is in perfect tune with the consciousness underlying all-the very thing we all have in common and that which differentiates a live person from a dead body. Everybody is hooked into this life-giving consciousness, but only few enjoy its divine bliss and splendor. A mystic enjoys the glamour of God because he or she has managed to shake off the ego, which is the only thing that separates us and prevents lasting happiness.

We’re living in a time when things are getting ready for change. As we approach the millennium, suddenly old beliefs we’ve lain in comfortably for so many years don’t hold any longer, baring the field of doctrine to a tempest which may reshape Western religious and intellectual thought.

On the spiritual side, there is turmoil. Organized religions have trouble keeping their formalities flexible enough to accommodate people’s desire for a more personalized religion. I believe that people want to practice yoga whether they call it by this name or not. They want to have their own personal connection with God and put sacredness back into every aspect of their daily lives. People are reaching out to spirituality, something that can be substantiated by the fact that Pope John Paul II’s new book, Crossing the Threshold of Hope topped the best-seller list, bypassing Faye Resnick’s raunchy tell-all book about Nicole Brown Simpson.
On the scholarly side, there is turmoil. Faith in secular, rationalist humanism-with progress as the promise and reason as the tool-is eroding for the first time since this philosophy germinated in the Renaissance. Rationalist humanism made us believe we could discover the “laws of nature” through reason and, applying this knowledge, things would get better and better.

And since we’ve failed to harness nature over all these years, the voices of advocates of the chaos theory are now getting louder, undermining the conventional theories of rationalist humanism. According to the chaos theory, we’re living in a universe of chaos where change is the norm, and where change without end does not necessarily mean we are progressing toward anything better.


As a lover of the Hindu Goddess Kali, I have no problem with chaos. I see it as Ma Kali’s divinely intoxicated dance. As the destroyer, Kali clears the path for new creation. Shouting, “Off with the ego!” the great Queen of the Universe clothes Herself in chaos so awesome that our arrogance automatically falls off, giving way to unconditional surrender.

Ma Dakshineswari Kali of Laguna Beach

This black goddess Kali is mysticism personified. As such, She has a tremendous unifying power. She intoxicates us, fermenting us into the same wine. I’ve been privy to gain first-hand knowledge of this. Over the past couple of years, I have sponsored public Kali pujas held in Laguna Beach, California, performed by Sri Haradhan Chakraborti, the main pujari (priest) of the Dakshineswar Kali Temple. So many blissful faces, so many diverse people worshipping side by side-Westerners and Indian, people from the Vedanta Society, SRF, Yoga Center, ISKCON and followers of a veritable rainbow of yogis and yoginis too numerous to list.
The first time I felt like abandoning myself to the divine will was when I first saw Ma Kali’s face in the inner sanctum of the Dakshineswar Kali Temple, Calcutta, India. I was so awed that I forgot to ask Her for anything, not even to straighten out any of my problems. All I wanted was to let go of myself just like a child lets go of the string, releasing the balloon to ascend toward the vast blue sky.

Perhaps this feeling of wild abandonment was caused by the inexplicable ecstatic joy I fest at the time, or perhaps it was just the noise of my rapidly beating heart that drove away my thoughts. Whatever the reason, this feeling came to me quite naturally and was not something I deliberately manufactured.

Yet, what seemed so easy a thing to accomplish at first has turned into the hardest task I have ever attempted. Years have passed, and I still don’t know how to completely surrender at Ma Kali’s feet. It’s a vicious cycle. The more I long to surrender, the deeper my understanding gets of what it means to surrender to the Divine. One moment I feel I have done it; the next, I realize how much farther I need to go.

I found Kali-or She found me-in 1986 while I was traveling in India on assignment for a magazine. I was immediately overwhelmed by the very tangible power one feels in Her presence, and I got frustrated when I could not find enough information on this mystical black goddess. I had so many questions and could find no books written about Her in a language my heart could understand. So, I began research and wrote one myself.

The fuel for my passion that drives me to do all kinds of things-such as writing a book on Kali-is love. Life is boring without love. I think that perhaps I need more love than other people do, because I don’t want to live without it. I remember my teenage years, which I spent mostly depressed. Though I got plenty of love, it was never enough to satisfy my hungry heart. I was a beggar for love, begging with outstretched hands: “Oh please, give me love, give me love, give me more love.”

Today, I am a lot wealthier. Ma Kali’s presence in my heart reversed, as it were, the current of love within me. Previously, this current flowed from the outside in and made me depend on favorable external influences. Now, it flows from the inside out. When I stopped depending on people to love me and started listening to and feeling the love in my own exciting heart, the current of love reversed.

If only people would become lovers rather than wanting to be beloveds, there would be a lot less hurt and hatred in the world. It’s much easier to be a lover because the ego gets less in the way. As a lover, I am more prone to love unconditionally, without expectations. As a lover, I seek happiness more for my beloved than for myself. It encourages me to be unselfish. In my case, unselfishness did not come over night. I’m still working on it and have a long way to go.

My ideal is Sri Ramakrishna, the Godman who lived at the Dakshineswar Kali Temple for 30 years. His passionate love and total surrender to Kali united his being with Hers, making Her will and his inseparable.
“Surrender seems like such a passive act,” remarked my friend Tray during a recent discussion. “Yet, it’s really a lot of work.”

But it’s certainly worth it. The more I go about loving unselfishly, the deeper the feeling of satisfaction. It is my sincere belief that as long as I am unselfish and live in tune with God, my love will always be replenished. I’ll never run our of love, even if the people I love hurt me. I may not be immune to getting hurt, but when I do, underneath the tears continues to flow a sweet current of bliss.

To me, surrender to God means to live constantly in tune with God. This is, indeed, a very hard thing to do. The belief that I am not the doer and Ma Kali is doing something through me comes with practice. It shouldn’t be wishful thinking or come from an emotional sentiment that may land me in a mental institution. When it is real and true, it is a tangible feeling beyond doubt.

I have met many people who I thought had attained great spiritual heights. But, after spending time with them, I discovered that their talk and behavior was based on past spiritual experiences and learned behavior-which is certainly not bad. But, God cannot be realized in the past or future. God can only be realized in the present.
It is truly rare and great good fortune to meet someone who lives in the present moment and whose spirituality bubbles spontaneously from the heart. When one lives constantly in tune with God, every word, every action is spontaneous. Even when one repeats God’s name a thousand times, each repetition is fresh and completely spontaneous.

Though surrendering to Kali means giving up the ego, depending on which Kali worshipper one talks to, one gets a slightly different point of view. I may long to annihilate my ego but my friend Gita may not think this is the goal: “I believe the purpose of creation is to love God-realize one’s identity with Kali but retain the semblance of separation so She can be loved,” said Gita. “It is Mother who gave us this ego and these desires in the first place. It’s up to Her to take them away or fulfill them. She gives so much, even the things that lead to pain. We asked for them and She gives them to let us grow. When you realize that everything is Kali, the desires drop away and you just love Her.” My friend Jose does not worry about the ego. “I never made a conscious effort to bring God into my life,” said Jose. “God is doing everything. I am a Krishna devotee and had no intention of worshipping Kali. It’s Sri Ramakrishna’s trick. Somebody brought me an image of Kali, and I now worship Her every day.”

One thing all Kali worshippers I met have in common is a sense of fearlessness. I don’t have to be afraid of anything for I worship the Mother who gives birth and destroys all things created. So, whom or what to fear?
Ma Jaya Sati Bhagavati, one of the most vivacious American spiritual teachers I know, has turned Kali worship into a most practical application. Ma Jaya gives Kali to people afflicted with AIDS. She tells them, “I can’t cure you, but I can teach you how to die fearlessly in the Mother’s arms.” Ma Jaya, who is also an artist, activist and humanitarian, is the founder of the Kashi Foundation in Sebastian, Florida.

One can read a lot about spirituality and surrender, but one doesn’t get the taste for it until one experiences it. It helps to spend time in the company of the holy, people who have dedicated their lives to realize God. Their company stimulates sacred emotion, which, in turn, overpowers mere analytical thought.

I owe India a lot. I have learned so much by just being there. In my book Kali, the Black Goddess of Dakshineswar, published by Nicolas-Hays, I tried to convey to the reader what it feels like to stand in the courtyard in front of the temple. The following is an excerpt:

The closer one gets to the inner shrine, the louder one hears throaty shouts that echo from within the temple. “Ma, oh Ma, Ma go Ma! Jai Kali! Jai Kali Ma! Jai Ma Bhavatarini ji ki jai!” One also hears the loud clanking of a bell that rings in spurts. Yet, one still cant see anything in front besides heads and raised arms. The front entrance to the Kali shrine has three arched passageways. Because the middle one is blocked, worshippers enter and exit at both sides. Today, it is very crowded, and one is shoved through. Cold sweat stands on the forehead as one suddenly finds oneself inside a cool covered veranda. It is quite cool although there in no visible air-conditioning system. Toward the left, suspended from the ceiling, hangs a big brass bell. Every other pilgrim who is pushed past, reaches up and clanks it as loudly as possible at least a couple of times. Parents hold up their children to give them also a chance to clank the bell, thereby proclaiming to Ma Kali that they have arrived, that they exist. Countless bare feet shuffle over the cool, smooth marble tiles. Occasionally one steps on something slippery and wonders what it is. Perhaps it’s a flower, spilled water, something indefinable that is better not to know. Whatever it is, one will never know because there is no chance to see the ground. There are too many bodies, pushing, pressing and crowding like moths in the night toward a light that is still a little farther off.

Everyone’s focus is on the lighted entrance in the middle of the covered veranda. A cast-iron gate prevents people from entering, so they crowd before it, half hanging over it, trying to get a little closer inside. Some people kneel, reach through the gate and touch the ground within the sanctum. Immediately behind the gate stand two priests keeping watch. There white dhotis bear the marks of their profession-red sandalwood paste, vermilion and flower stains. Their foreheads are marked with large vertical lives of vermilion, the signs of a male Shakti worshipper-women wear large vermilion dots. Pilgrims hand their baskets of offerings to attending priests, who take the hibiscus garlands and expertly fling them into the lighted inner sanctum at Mother Kali’s feet. Basket in hand, each priest disappears inside, utters some mantras over the basket and offers it to Mother Kali with reverence. A few sweets from each basket stay with Ma Kali in a box next to the altar. The rest of the offerings, together with flowers taken from the altar, are returned to the pilgrim. These returned offerings are called prasad and considered a great blessing. God has taken the first bite-eaten the subtle essence of the food-and the devotee, swallowing the gross elements of the food, takes the second. Anxiety has reached a fever pitch, and the short distance walk from the arched passageway to the lighted inner sanctum seems to take forever. But, when one finally stands before Kali, time seems to stand still. Everything stops. The people, the noise-all is mysteriously gone. One stares with wide eyes, forgetting even to blink. All one sees is Kali and nothing else.

Nobody can define Kali, the mystical black goddess. My book is just a blueprint, an attempt to take people a little closer to the realm of Kali. After a talk in a Berkeley bookshop, one person came to me and said, “When you talk about Kali, you talk about love, whereas I and my group look at Her as a militant, liberated woman. She kills all the demons single-handedly. How do you reconcile the two views?” Pointing to the garland of skulls Mother Kali is wearing, I used an observation Betty Lundsted, my publisher, made some time ago. When you look closely at the severed heads, you see that they are all smiling. They are smiling because Ma Kali killed their egos. After they were liberated, only love remained.

The heart is such a small place. God and the ego cannot coexist there. If one is there, the other has no room.