Just where is God?

The Urs of our capital's own saint, Hazrat Nizamuddin Auliya, just took place and I was deeply sorry to have missed the morning qawwali. B...

The Urs of our capital8217;s own saint, Hazrat Nizamuddin Auliya, just took place and I was deeply sorry to have missed the morning qawwali. But I also winced, remembering, how on a previous visit, my slippers had been stolen.

I8217;d been pinched where it hurt and a local lad, who claimed to be the equivalent of a panda8217; had taken my money with the promise to update me on the shrine8217;s calendar, but never bothered. It reminded me of an equally unpleasant experience in Chennai at the temple to Ganapathi, known as Besant Nagar Pillaiaar8217;. I8217;d gone, enchanted by the concept of pradosha in which Shiva is believed to dance his Ananda Tandava or Dance of Joy, for all the assembled celestials.

This falls every Shukla Trayodashi or thirteenth day of the moon8217;s bright fortnight. But the officiating priest had been brusque, and a handicapped child had been shoved rudely aside even from the periphery, by the faithful8217; intent on their own salvation. I8217;d sworn furiously never to darken a temple8217;s doors again. Until it was time to visit Kapaleeswarar in Mylapore, that irresistibly ancient quartier of Chennai, redolent with the scent and sound of bhakti. And just this Guru Poornima, when a friend and I stopped impulsively at the Katyayani Mandir at Chattarpur, we nearly had our slippers nicked!

I couldn8217;t help thinking wistfully yet again, of gurdwaras and churches, which are so pleasant and soothing to visit. Funnily, some of my most uplifting experiences at a sanctified place were deep in Uzbekistan, at the village of Kasri Orifon, 30 km from Bukhara. This was the tomb of the venerable Sufi, Bahauddin Naqshband, founder of the order of that name.

You had to visit the saint8217;s guru and mother first, at their tombs, because that was his parting wish. It was rare and wonderful, at the guru8217;s tomb, that despite my being a Hindu and a woman, he took me in next to the grave itself and recited the Qul8217;uw8217;Allah8217;, plus additional passages from the Koran Sharief. I was accepted simply as a human being who wished to pay her respects there.

Similarly, at the saint8217;s own tomb, the imam took me into the mosque, sat me on a square of a wonderful carpet that had apparently been gifted by former Turkish premier Turgut Ozal and prayed aloud. Can you imagine this ever happening in India? We like to keep each other out here, don8217;t we, for all our fine talk of vasudaiva kutumbakam? Only the gurdwaras and churches seem to allow everyone in on trust.

My heart melted again at the beautiful Uzbek necropolis called Shahi Zinda, a shimmering fairytale citadel of blue majolica, where I covered my head instinctively, to the surprise of some Bangladeshis. A young Uzbek who had prayed nearby witnessed this and came up to me. quot;Pakistan?quot; he asked.

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quot;Hindustan!quot; quot;Muslim?quot; quot;Hindu8230;and I have a Muslim aunt and two Christian aunts.quot; Ulug Beg smiled. quot;I asked my grandmother once, where is God? She hit me on my heart and said, Here.quot; He didn8217;t need a preamble to say such things, it was that kind of place.

Back home and regularly afflicted by the amount of petty anger we love to salt away against each other, it8217;s a real joy finding unexpected perspective in the minds of early Indians. Here8217;s how the ancient Tamils tried to define God in Sangam literature, in the poem In Adoration of Tirumaal8217; Vishnu, from the collection called Paripaatal:

quot;8230;You have as differences neither enemies nor kin8230;/If people reflect and understand the matter/You have no form separately for Yourself/Except the one people give You in their minds8230;/You are present everywhere, taking on the names of different deities in different places8230;/It is You again, who dwells in the folded palm/Of those praying to you with adoration./You are indeed the servant of your adorers8230;quot;