Photopost: Temple Rededication

On Sunday I wrote about the local Hindu temple's kumbhabhishekam, or rededication; later that morning we attended the conclusion of the four-day ceremony. I took loads of photos, and I have to tell you, I wasn't the only one, although most people were snapping away on cell phones.

The entrance to the temple grounds, coming from the parking lot next door. The grey object in the center is the head of Ganesh; he is the remover of obstacles and the lord of beginnings.

The entrance to the tent outside the temple, where there were pujas to purify and revivify the temple and its contents going on for days. Up until a certain point, the temple was completely closed.



This was a holy occasion, and thus, a shoeless affair.



I don't know what this pole's purpose is, but it's new. At the end of the ceremony, a priest came out and put things on its base, but by the time I got up to it, all I saw was a small bowl with a bit of water. People were dipping their fingers in it and dabbing their foreheads and throats.



There are seven of these golden spikes; they're new, too, and according to a priest we flagged down, they draw divine energy into the temple.



This lady is holding a kumbha (vessel), that's wrapped with thread. A group of people (who I believe paid for the privilege) were allowed to take the vessels, which were partially filled with holy water, and pour their contents on the main altar. This is known as abhishekam, or sprinkling, and it can also be done with milk, ghee, oil or milk curds. The garlands on the door behind her are made of fresh flowers.



The only place in St. Louis I've ever been able to lose my husband in a crowd.



And then the helicopter appeared, carrying one of the temple's priests. He was flown around the various parts of the temple so he could sprinkle holy water and rice on the building. Ordinarily, this is achieved with ladders and internal staircases, but the fire codes prevent this.







Then he did the same to the crowd in front of the temple; it was windy and gritty and joyous.

Dwadasha Kumbhabhishekam

I know, it's a mouthful. Here's what it means: 12th anniversary celebrations at the Hindu Temple of St. Louis. It's both a rededication and a refreshing of sorts, involving water, fire, purification of the carvings of gods, chanting, and offerings. We were there yesterday, dropping off a 50-pound bag of rice to be used as prasadam (offering of food to the gods which is then distributed to the people), and we picked up an elaborate program that explains what's going on and why.

The temple has numerous vigrahas, or stone carvings of Hindu gods and goddesses. When they were installed 12 years ago they were purified, chanted over and generally prepared to serve as channels of the divine, and they're worshipped on a daily basis by resident priests as well as devotees. The ongoing worship is partially meant to keep the channel of divine love open, but that does not guarantee the proper level of spiritual maintenance. Here's an excerpt from the aforementioned program on this topic:

"The day-to-day rituals of temple worship act as a guide to keep the wayward mind focused. Nevertheless, the many errors of omission and commission in the daily conduct of the devotees and the comings and going of many who do not share the ethos of temple worship do diminish the spiritual intensity of the initial consecration over time."

The four days of rituals will also involve a purification of the building itself; I'm hoping we will see that later today. If we do, I'll write about it here. If we don't, I'll write about whatever we do see and experience here. As you can see from the schedule below, there's a lot going on today.

Last Night at the Hindu Temple

For the past few weeks I've been thinking about my dad, thanks in part to the ubiquitous Father's day ads, but mostly because yesterday was both his birthday and the second anniversary of his funeral. We ended up at the Hindu temple last night, which worked out well in terms of marking the occasion; I'd wanted to do something, but wasn't sure what. Ordinarily, we go to the temple on weekends (partly for the food) but we had houseguests, and once they departed, lassitude slunk in and I was loath to change out of my lounging outfit.

The crushing heat of the last few days has been a visceral reminder of his stroke, long decline and funeral, all of which took place in Arizona. High temperatures make me wilt, and I already felt wilted on the inside. I was hoping the sweet peacefulness of the temple would perk me up, or soothe me, or otherwise make me feel better.

Not long ago, I told a friend that it doesn't seem to matter what state of mind I'm in when I enter the temple -- by the time I finish going around to all the altars and sit down to contemplate the main one, I feel deeply well. I think it has something to do with paying attention to things outside my daily grind, paying attention to my spirit life, and maybe just plain old paying attention. I don't feel the need to understand it completely, though. I'm just grateful that it works even when I'm in as sorry a state as I've been lately.

Last night we arrived to find the main tower swathed in scaffolding; Mowgli says they're cleaning it for an upcoming major festival and that they do this every so often. At first I was disappointed because I had already envisioned a stunning image of the ornate, gleaming, otherworldly structure at the top of this post. Then I realized it's an apt metaphor for how I've been feeling: in need of maintenance.

Waiting for Dosa

About a month ago, in the basement of the Hindu temple, a man struck up a small conversation with me. This is unusual, but it’s also true that I don’t often initiate conversations, as A) I’m not terribly good at that anyway, and B) everyone’s usually eating, or waiting for food. Specifically, we’re waiting for dosas.

Dosas are enormous, thin, crispy, savory crepes, made from a batter of rice and very small beans called urad dal. The basic idea is this: you wash and soak the beans and rice for a few hours, grind them together with some water, and then let the mixture ferment for roughly 20 hours. This fermentation process is the key to producing the aforementioned crispiness.

Back to the gentleman who was talking to me: I had just gone through the shared-table ritual of asking, “Do you mind if I sit here?” and he had nodded his assent with a tilt of his head and a smile.

Him: I hope you will enjoy the food.

Me: I always do. It’s the best in town.

Him: Can you make Indian food?

Me: Some of it; simple things like dal, and dry curries.

This conversation got me thinking, not only about why he would ask me that particular question, but why I didn’t cook more Indian food. The dishes I had tried weren’t horrendously difficult, turned out well, and had built my confidence. Why was I resting on my Indian cooking laurels? What made me think something like, say, dosa would be beyond me?

I started searching for recipes, both at home and online. The ones at home all called for rice, which we happen to be very low on right now. But online, I found one calling for rice flour, which I have, so I decided to start with that, on Wednesday night. Thus last night was the night of dosa truth, and let me tell you, it was a bit harsh.

First of all, I don’t have the right pan – dosa pans are huge circular things, flat like crepe pans and curled up at the edges (I assume that’s to help with flipping). Second of all, I had no idea what heat level and amount of oil was best. Even though I was working with non-stick pans, parts of them were definitely not non-stick, and besides, as Mowgli helpfully informed me, oil is essential when cooking dosas.

My batter was also pudding-thick, and seemed too grainy; the recipe I used was not specific about how much water to add. I had used a food processor instead of the rice grinder that would be used in an Indian household, and suspected I hadn’t ground the batter long enough. I hauled the food processor back out, combined some of the batter and some water, let it whiz around for a few minutes, heated up the pan, and ladled a bit of batter in, spreading it around with the back of the ladle.

The question of when and how to flip the thing was vexing, so I abandoned all hope of getting it right the first time and used my memories of pancake-making as a guide. The top got dry and a bit bubbly, and there was some steam coming from underneath, which I had no idea how to interpret. Using a silicone spatula, I worked around the edges and flipped it, let the second side cook for a minute or so, and slid it onto a plate.

I took a small bite. It was undercooked, which I attributed to the batter still being too thick and not able to spread properly. I added more water. And still more. Sadly, a few dosas had to be abandoned. They crumpled when I tried to flip them and their gooey insides stuck together, making them into useless lumps and prompting Mowgli to offer the Indian cooking proverb “the first dosa always sticks.” This would have been reassuring, but I was well beyond the first dosa.



Turning up the heat and adding more oil seemed like good variables to play with, and indeed, that’s when the batter started cooperating. I achieved my goal of making enough dosas for dinner, roughly an hour and a half after I had started. They were only crispy on the edges, and they were not the delightfully thin variety that’s so fun to eat, but as Mowgli had reassured me, there is such a thing as thick dosa, so I’m not worried about that.

There’s some batter left from this batch, so I’m going to try more with it to see if it’s better the next day, like so many things are. I’ll keep you all posted on that, as well as future attempts.

Good Hair, God Hair

Back in January, I came across an interview with Chris Rock. He wasn’t talking about his latest comedy special or TV show. He was talking about hair – specifically, African-American hair. His daughter had come to him in tears one day and asked, “Daddy, why don’t I have good hair?” In his quest to answer that, he ended up making a documentary called “Good Hair,” about the significance of hair in the lives of African-American women.

You may or may not be aware of the time, money, energy and emotion these ladies put into their coiffures, but to give you some idea, here’s a number: it’s a $9 billion industry. Here another: An organization in India makes $18 million a year from the hair they sell for extensions, or weaves. It’s a Hindu temple devoted to Lord Venkateswara.

Thousands of devotees who wish to make a special offering to the God line up in front of the temple barbers to have their heads shaved. The temple organization then sells the hair to international buyers. It’s highly desirable because of the quality that comes from years of simple care, and if you were to have some of it put on your head in a salon in New York, it would cost you $2,000. For short extensions.

There are other producers of hair in India – on Oprah later in January, there was a piece about “temple hair” as well as the “dead hair” market, in which women in Indian villages pool the hair that collects in their hairbrushes and sell it to hair dealers. They are given $2 per batch.

When women who’d just parted with their hair at the temple were asked if they were offended that their hair had been sold, they said no, there were pleased to offer it to god.

When the women who took their hair out of hairbrushes to sell were told how much the dealer sold it for, they were upset that they made so little for it.

Stranger in my Own Land

When I lived in Kushiro, on the island of Hokkaido in northern Japan, I was one of about 20 foreigners in a city of 200,000. As a blondish, blue-eyed person who was taller than half the population, it’s fair to say I stuck out. Once when I was taking a walk off the beaten path, a child ran screaming from me, which was only funny later. At the time, it felt like what it was: utter rejection based on nothing but my appearance.

A year ago, my family and I went to India for a wedding reception my in-laws gave me and my husband, Mowgli (not his real name). There, I experienced something similar, but more intense, as it was combined with open staring of the sort that’s somewhat evident in the photo above. It’s not malicious, it’s just unapologetically open.

The local Hindu temple is a place I adore; it is peaceful and beautiful and full of the vibes of people worshipping and meditating. The feeling I get there is akin to how I feel in an empty church. There are rituals I find comforting in both Hinduism and Catholicism, but it is the quietness inside me once the rituals are done that keeps me coming back to the temple.

We went to the temple last Sunday – they are open seven days a week, but we tend to go on Sundays because that’s when they serve the best masala dosas in town. When we walked into the basement to order food, I received an open stare, which I greeted with a smile, as usual. Because of space restrictions, we ended up sitting at the staring guy’s table, which was fine. I was occupied with Mowgli, and he was occupied with his companion. I didn’t talk with him, he didn’t talk with me.

The episode got me thinking, though, about the usefulness of feeling like a stranger in your own country. There is a visceral understanding that comes with being made to feel like an outsider, and it fosters empathy – always a good thing in my book.