“Ganesh Tok?” he says. “That’s a small temple, insignificant. Don’t waste your money.”
“Please arrange the car,” I repeat. “I’m going.”
The car picks me up at 5:15 a.m. Ganesh Tok, in addition to being a tiny temple dedicated to Ganesha, the Hindu God of writers and travelers, is a lookout point. But it’s cold and foggy today in Gangtok and there’s nothing to look out at except white mist.
I don’t care, though. I’m not here for the view. I want spend some time with Ganesha, the adorable, elephant-headed God, the first God Hindus pray to, Shiva and Paravati’s son. A God who reportedly likes his sweets, which I can relate to.
Ganesh Tok is roughly the size of my lilliputian bathroom back home. Brightly painted in reds and yellows with an altar covered in statues and drawings of Ganesha, flowers, incense, candles and candy, the temple is open. A pensive-looking priest is performing a ritual, chanting, circling a burning candle clockwise in his right hand and ringing a bell with his left.
I stand in the back of the temple, just barely inside, and begin my silent chat with Ganesha. The priest actually looks down his nose at me, at my feet, expecting, no doubt, to see shoes, then nods approvingly at my bare feet.
The priest hands me the candle. I dutifully circle the candle clockwise. After a few minutes, he demands it back and places it and the bell on the altar. He sits down on a cushion on the right side of temple and beckons me to sit in front of him.
He marks my forehead with Tikka (red paste) and pats my right hand, indicating I should hold it out. He pours water into my palm and motions for me to drink. Then he gives me sweetened puffed rice to eat. He ties a red and yellow string around my right wrist three times.
My driver steps inside the temple and says something to the priest in Nepali. The only word I can make out is “America.”
The priest’s dour expression changes into into a gentle, sweet-looking smile. “May God bless you,” he says.
After Ganehsa Tok, we head to Hanuman Tok (“tok” means hilltop), which is situated above Gangtok at a height of 7,200 feet. A huge signs implores visitors “not to make donations.”
My driver and I remove our shoes and walk about 50 feet outdoors on the cold marble to reach the imposing temple. A priest is there, too, chanting prayers.
I don’t know much about Hanuman, except that he’s often depicted as a monkey-headed god. But I love temples. I love the word “temple”. I chose my college, in fact, because it’s named Temple. My last trip to India, I didn’t seize enough opportunities to explore the temples. I’m not repeating that mistake.
The priest motions to me in a manner that makes me think he wants me to scoot along, leave. But the driver intervenes. “Walk,” he says. “Around. Three times.”
Both he and the priest watch me intently as I stroll around the temple, behind the altar, clockwise. I’m presuming they want to ensure I can count to three. Or that I’m taking them seriously. After my first rotation, the driver says, “Pray. Pray. Pray!”
The driver deposits me back at my hotel before 8 a.m. The hotel manager is standing outside. “You have tikka!” he says, laughing. “You had a good time?” he asks, incredulously.
“My favorite morning so far,” I say.
I realize as I write, I’m more comfortable talking about Lord Ganesha and Lord Hanuman than I am the Lord of my own religion: Jesus Christ.
I realize that, like my embarrassment over my U.S. citizenship, I feel shame for being a Christian, a Catholic, no less. But the truth is that while I love Hinduism and Buddhism, I love the religion of my childhood most. I take what I like from Catholicism and leave the rest, and the message I find most comforting is Christ’s promise that we are guided by Grace, rather than karma.
Karma scares me. Grace makes me feel comforted, cared for, more secure in the world.
“Grace” is a word I love even more than “temple”.
Mahatma Gandhi said the one religion he didn’t have much tolerance for is Christianity because it’s the only one that tries to convert others. I can understand his sentiment. To me, the belief that any given religion is right or wrong is not only arrogant, it’s insulting to God.
Down the hill from my hotel lies a Catholic Church, St. Thomas’. In keeping with traditional Sikkimese architecture, it’s a brightly-colored building: pink and green and yellow. To the left of the main church is a life-sized statue of the Virgin Mary, with her prayer inscribed below it. I hone in on my favorite word—Grace—and immediately feel a sense of safety.
It’s impossible to spend any amount of time in India and not think about religion. This is the birthplace of many religions: Hinduism, Buddhism, Sikhism, Zoroastrianism, and Jainism.
India is unabashed about its religious devotion. A reference to God or the gods manifests in virtually every conversation. In Kashmir, the waiter in charge of my floor asks, “What is your God’s name?”
Hamid, one of the partners in the ski shop that arranged my trip asks, “Are there many Moslems in America?”
Throughout India, bells and chanting and singing ring out in the early morning, in the afternoon, during the evening. Virtually every cab, jeep, car, bus and semi bears an altar on its dashboard.
The “goods carriers,” semis, known as “Tatas,” are painted like temples. The word “God” is omnipresent in India. Jeep drivers stop at impromptu roadside temples, say a prayer and leave a donation.
At the Himalayan Ski Village ski patrol training center near Manali, the 12-hour day begins with morning prayers. A Tibetan monk from a nearby village strolls over most mornings to lead the prayers.
I’m self-conscious about the very prominent Tikkas marking my “third eye.” Back home, I’d never wear a huge crucifix in the middle of my forehead. I chat with locals throughout the day: Babyla, my new friend at the Himalayan Spiritual Healing Center, Sandeep, a young man who works at my local candy store, Raj, who serves the best coffee in town, Dr. Singh, the homeopath who is helping me with my chronic insomnia. I expect each of them to mention the Tikka, at least ask about it.
But no one does. Being a Western woman, alone, in Sikkim, in the middle of winter—that’s unusual. Wearing a Tikka on my forehead is not.
Lynn, this is excellent. Thank you so much. The thinking about religion and treating it seriously, I didn’t expect, and was so interested and pleased when it happened.
Thank you, Mardi. India makes it easy to appreciate religion. They have so much fun with it here. I doubt I’ll ever abandon my original religion, but I sure am enjoying all the new experiences.