The timing could not have been better. I went to India -- my second trip -- immediately after finishing a semester course on Hinduism taught by Professor Diana Eck, author of a superb book on Hinduism for westerners, Encountering God, and founder of The Pluralism Project at Harvard University. This was not my first trip to India, but it was my first since bringing Hinduism into my family by marrying the beautiful and brilliant Khyati Y. Joshi. On my three-week journey to sites all over northern India, I got to use the tools Professor Eck had taught me -- how to spot and interpret certain symbols, what various aspects of Hindu worship represent, etc. -- to understand the strange and vivid images and to teach my father, who accompanied us on our trip, my own rendition of 'Hinduism 101.'

I cannot read any Indian language, and while I speak a few words of Khyati's native Gujarati language I don't know enough to understand a detailed description of an object, much less of an idea, theory, or article of faith. But I could understand the language of symbols, and that language -- once you've learned to "read" it -- can tell you a lot. By the time I got to India I had read the Ramayana, the epic story of Rama, the seventh incarnation of Lord Vishnu; the Gita Govinda, a sometimes-risque (think Song of Solomon) poem about Lord Krishna, Vishnu's eighth incarnation; parts of half a dozen of the Puranas, the holy texts which tell Hinduism's foundation stories (think Genesis and Exodus, Acts, etc.); and much of the Bhagavad Gita, an excerpt from the epic Mahabharata which offers up Hinduism's basic rules of living (think of Paul's letters to the early church). So when I looked at an image, I was able not only to identify it but also to know how it fits into Hinduism's foundation stories.

The importance of images in Hinduism is impossible to overstate. The are not merely a focus for prayer, like a church altar or the cross that hangs above it, like the Torah, or like the alcove on the eastern wall of a mosque. God actually resides within the many-armed statues or simple stone lingas found in Hindu temples. It's easy to understand how westerners encountering Hinduism for the first time saw it as idol worship. Some western colonialist or trader pointed to a Shivlinga or elaborate multi-armed statue of Lord Ganesha and asked, "What's that?" "That is God," responded the polite Hindu who tended the shrine. But it's not. Not exactly. The statue or image is not God, but God is in there. When an image is sanctified, the God it represents is asked to come and reside in the statue. To really understand this idea, you must be able to see God as truly transcendent; it's not that only "part of God" is in there. God is all there, and all in the murti (carved image) in every other temple in the world, and

He's also all not there -- He's all above and around and within us. He can do that; He's God.

(Aside: Although I will use the masculine pronoun to refer to God in most cases, God in Hinduism is not as gendered as the always-male God we're accustomed to in the Abrahamic faiths. In Hinduism, there is not only the goddess in her many forms, but also incarnations of God that are genderless or dual-gendered.)

My most important assets in understanding all these images as I saw them were Khyati and her parents. As an illiterate -- like a young child, and indeed like nearly half of Indian adults even today -- I could learn only what I was told. The Sanskrit word shruti is usually translated as "revelation" but it literally means "what is heard." The wisdom of the faith is passed down

orally, and images are the starting points for story-telling. This theme -- the idea that a holy image is didactic, and can serve as an illustration of a story you're being told as you view it -- will appear throughout this journal. Of course, this is not a uniquely Hindu phenomenon. We see it in a Catholic church's stained glass windows, which picture Jesus and the apostles; a mother will balance her toddler on her hip and point: "There's St. Peter. He built the first church in Rome, and he'll be waiting at the heavenly gates to let us into God's kingdom." Or maybe your church has statues or pictures showing the twelve stations of the Cross; walk around the church with your child, or with a friend who's not Christian, and you can tell the story of the Passion. When visiting a Hindu temple, it is common practice to perform pradakshina, a circumambulation (walking around) of the temple's central image or the temple itself. Walk around a Hindu

temple and you'll find ornate carvings on all sides and from floor to ceiling. Each one can be the impetus for the sharing of a holy story from parent to child, or the chance for an educated boy to read an inscription to his illiterate sister, cousin or grandfather. As I discuss below (January 11), the entire temple is a teaching tool, illustrated inside and out with pictures and statues like the illuminations of medieval Bibles.

"Be known to us, Lord Jesus, in the breaking of the bread," Episcopalians sing from The Book of Common Prayer each Sunday morning. The bread and wine of the Holy Eucharist (aka Communion) are among our conduits to God; by partaking of them and the ritual of receiving them we feel touched by God and connected to the Bible stories that we've known since before we could read or talk. Likewise, the Hindu worshipper often receives prasad from the priest; prasad is some simple foodstuff -- sugar crystals, nuts, or dry chickpeas -- which has been offered to the god and has thus become consecrated. It is a piece of God's holy blessing which we can take into ourselves by eating it. When we traveled in India four years ago, our friend Adina, an observant Jew, would not take prasad; she made this choice based on her interpretation of the First Commandment and of the portions of Kosher law designed to ensure that Jews not accidentally consume wine that had been offered to pagan gods.

Another thing you'll notice on many of the images you see on this site is their prominent eyes. A Hindu approaches an image to take or "do" darshan, which literally means "seeing." When you enter a temple to do darshan, you see God and God sees you. ("Then why do we close our eyes?" I asked my mother-in-law. She just laughed at me.) Hence the eyes on all these images.

This web site can only give you a limited view of the Hindu experience because it can only stimulate one sense, your sight. The darshan concept aside, seeing the holy images is only one part of the experience of visiting a Hindu temple or road-side shrine. The enthusiastic call India a "feast for the senses." Some days, "assault on the senses" might be closer to the truth. When you look at my photo of a little shrine at the base of a tree (December 28), know that right after I snapped it I was jostled by a massive brown cow, one of half a dozen that were ambling down the Ahmedabad roadside. When you see the inside of a temple, imagine the acrid scent of old incense and burned butter (ghee); and imagine yourself not seated in that comfy ergonomic chair, but standing barefoot on cold, wet marble. When I speak rapturously of Banaras's great temples, know that the narrow roads around them are an obstacle course of cow patties, clingy street children and neck-snapping whiffs of the open sewer that runs along the curb.

If you want, you can refer to this map of India as you read about the places I visited.

Finally, remember that this is one person's account of his own experiences in part of India. To learn more about Hinduism or about the particular places I visited, check out one or more of these books:

Darshan by Diana Eck, a slim book offering a nuts-and-bolts introduction to Hindu images and theology;

Encountering God: A Spiritual Journal from Bozeman to Banaras by Diana Eck, chronicling the author's own journey from a provincial Methodist upbringing to studying the history and theology of Hinduism in the world's oldest city;

The Ramayana

The Mahabharata

And so, we begin our journey...

December 24, 1999
Delhi

One of the first things you notice in India is that God can be anywhere. Growing up in rural Pennsylvania, I was used to God having His place -- marked by the church spires that gazed over the town -- and pretty much staying there. When I went to college in Providence, I grew accustomed (thanks to many taxi rides) to seeing some religious symbol dangling from the

rear-view mirror. These were more apt to be religious objects (tools, if you will) -- the cross, prayer beads, a St. Jude's medal, etc. -- than actual images of God or another holy figure, although I would also spot the occasional baseball-card sized image of Christ or the Holy Mother taped to the dashboard. Typically these images were the reverent Renaissance-era paintings that we're all familiar with. But in India, images of God are both more ubiquitous and more likely to be in forms that, were I to see them in the Christian context, I might call them base or disrespectful. Case in point: On our first day in Delhi, our taxi driver had two plastic murtis (statues) on his dashboard. Although these murtis were in the traditional poses and proportions for Hanuman and Ganesha -- in other words, they were otherwise indistinguishable from a stone or glass murti a Hindu might see in a temple or purchase for a home altar -- they were mounted on springs attached to suction cups. They looked more like cheap children's toys than like holy images. As we proceeded along the uneven road from the Red Fort to our hotel in the main bazaar, they bobbed and bounced -- an image far from the solemn reverence which I am accustomed to associating with things holy.

[missing image]

God is definitely out there on the road in India. That same day, we spotted an elaborately-painted image of Lord Shiva mounted in the back window of another rickshaw; in the image, that most supreme of gods peeked playfully around

the edge of the window as if he were a child riding in the rickshaw's back seat. (I wasn't quick enough with my camera.) A few days later, in Ahmedabad, we spotted the message "victory to the Mother Goddess" painted on the back of another rickshaw. Rickshaws -- as ubiquitous in India as the yellow cab in Manhattan -- are the main form of transport in India. They are three-wheeled beasts that run on a gas-oil mix that produces noxious black exhaust smoke and weave their way through the additional "pollution" produced by the cattle, donkeys and oxen with which they share the road. Perhaps it was the un-solemnity of the images themselves, or perhaps the fact that I encountered them in the exceptionally dirty context of the Indian roadway; either way, it gave the impression that God is everywhere in India, and certainly not confined to the quiet and clean places we reserve for Him in the United States.

December 25
en route from Delhi to Agra

We hired a car to take us south from Delhi to Agra, home of the Taj Mahal. The Taj, one of the seven wonders of the world, is mausoleum built by the Muslim ruler Shah Jahan for his wife Mumtaz Mahal... or so most people agree. Even the Taj is not immune from being used divisively by partisans in the Hindu-Muslim conflict. Some Hindu nationalists claim that the Taj Mahal is an ancient Hindu shrine which was ransacked and converted into a tomb by the Mughal king. They use elaborate arguments -- from the etymology of the word mahal to the fact that the Taj does not face east -- and claim that the minarets (closed to the public) are stuffed with Hindu statues desecrated and decapitated by Shah Jahan, a Muslim. On our 150-mile journey to Agra, we never went more than five miles without seeing a small road-side shrine to the god Hanuman like this one. The stone image, covered in orange powder, faced the road from a simple concrete riser, or looked out from the shadows of a small (3 to 5 feet high) temple structure. The images were the "standard" Hanuman image: The god -- actually a monkey with holy characteristics -- is shown holding a club and a mountain. One leg is raised, indicating that he is in the process of leaping. The club is Hanuman's weapon. (Each god has a weapon and usually a steed as well. For example, Lord Shiva's weapon is the trident and his steed is Nandi, the bull. Hanuman does not have a steed, perhaps because he is himself an animal or perhaps because he is not wholly supernatural but merely a being with supernatural powers.) The mountain -- or, just as often, a mountain of herbs -- which Hanuman carries comes from the epic Ramayana. Late in the Ramayana, as the heroes rescue Ram's wife Sita from the clutches of the demon king Ravana of

Lanka (modern-day Sri Lanka), Rama's brother Lakshmana is struck by a poisoned arrow. Hanuman, who has the power to leap great distances, jumps to the Himalayas to retrieve healing herbs to save Lakshmana. Depending on which version of the story you read, Hanuman returns either bearing an entire mountain in his hand or on his back, or bearing a "mountain" of the healing herbs. That's the story portrayed here, with the mountain (of herbs?) tucked under Hanuman's left arm as he leaps southward to deliver them to the wounded Lakshmana.

I called this the "standard" Hanuman image because it is the most common pose in which you'll find Hanuman murtis; you'll see it again in tomorrow's image. There are two other typical Hanuman poses: kneeling at the feet of the enthroned King Rama (a.k.a. "Ramraja"), and pulling open his own chest with both hands to show that, as the perfect devotee, he keeps Rama and Sita always in his heart.

December 26
Agra

I couldn't resist showing you this image, painted on the wall of a cheap restaurant not far from the Taj Mahal. Hanuman has been commodified, and is shown carrying not a mountain of herbs but the Taj Mahal itself. Were the image not so cartoonish, my first impression would probably have been that such a painting is disrespectful of something holy. But this line between the sacred the profane, between clean and dirty, God and mammon is harder to draw in India. More on that later.

December 27
Ahmedabad

Virtually all Hindu families -- in India, the U.S., and elsewhere -- have some sort of altar, even a small one in a kitchen cabinet, with a handful of the murtis most important to them, where offerings can be given and darshan done. Khyati's family has a puja room, a four- by seven-foot alcove at the bottom of the stairs in their comfortable two-story bungalow on the outskirts of Ahmedabad. It holds an altar of carved marble which stands some four feet high. The altar is dominated by two large (18") statues. Although Khyati's kin are northern-Indian Brahmins, and therefore Shaivite, the statues depict Lord Vishnu and the goddess Lakshmi (pronounced LUCK-shmi). Vishnu is recognizable by the discus held aloft in his left hand, the conch shell in his right, his club, and the peacock feather on his crown. Each of these is a "marker" for Vishnu; if you see them on an otherwise unfamiliar statue, you can generally presume you are looking at Vishnu or one of his manifestations. The discus is a weapon but also a sun symbol, perhaps expressing Vishnu's role as the preserver and sustainer of life (as the sun nourishes terrestrial life), or perhaps reminding us of Vishnu's role as helper of Indra, the sun-god, when he slew the serpent Vritra. Vishnu is also described in the hymns of the Rig Vedas as he who upholds the earth and heavens, as we here see him holding up the sun. The

conch shell is another image associated with Vishnu, as an expression of his benevolence and of the God-made order of the universe. The peacock feather -- present in some (often stylized) form on virtually every one of Krishna's Arca Avataras or "divine descents" (such as the diamond-chinned Srinathji and the cartoon-like Jaganathji) -- reminds us of the playful Krishna and the dharmic Rama, both incarnations of Vishnu. In traditional artwork portraying these two major avataras, peacocks often appear as well. Here, Lord Vishnu's lower two hands are in the position that indicates the god offering a blessing to worshippers. The off-white color of his skin is also a tip-off: Vishnu (except in his incarnation as Krishna) is more likely to appear as alabaster-skinned, while Lord Shiva is almost always shown with blue skin. The three smaller beings gathered around Vishnu's feet in this image may be devotees, or may be minor gods playing

a "guardian" role. The pink and white garland is draped around the murti as an offering to Lord Vishnu; garlanding and dressing of murtis is a common worship practice meant to please the god.

Lakshmi is Vishnu's consort -- sort of a female parallel to the male god. Notice the peacock feather in her crown, marking her association with Vishnu. (Every major male God in Hinduism has a female deity associated with him. Like their male counterparts, they are found in many manifestations. For example, Lord Shiva's consort/wife Parvati also appears in Hindu tradition as Durga, Kali, and Mahishasura Mardini, slayer of the bull demon. In another manifestation this duality of godly gender, Lord Shiva is sometimes referred to as Ardhanarishvara, or "half man, half woman," incorporating both his "Shiva self" and his "Parvati self" in a single being.) Lakshmi is the goddess of wealth and good fortune, and one of the most common incarnations Vishnu's female companion. Because she is wholly benevolent, she holds no weapon, but instead offers devotees blessings and holy lotus flowers. For this reason, of all the gods and goddesses whose names are used extensively in the names of stores and businesses (see December 30), Lakshmi's is among the most common. By invoking her, businessmen and -women hope to receive her blessing in the form of commercial success. Lakshmi figures prominently on the home altar of Khyati's family both to invoke her aid for the future and to thank her for the family's past and present financial success. Dada (Khyati's grandfather) built a successful trucking business -- the only man of his generation to move from the little village of Isund to Ahmedabad and make good -- and two of his three sons now live successful lives in America.

Also present in this photo but washed out by my flash is a polychrome image of Durga, the ferocious goddess who wields the weapons of all the gods and rides a tiger. Although threatening of aspect, Durga (and her other ferocious incarnation Kali, who has black skin, a bright red tongue, and wears a necklace of human skulls) are not evil gods. Indeed, the concept does not exist. While the Puranas and other Hindu literature are full of evil characters, they are asuras or demons, the very opposite of gods (suras). It is the asuras -- whose acts are harmful to the gods or mankind, or otherwise adharmic -- who could be characterized as "evil." The destructive gods of Hinduism, like Durga/Kali, Shiva "the Destroyer," and the proto-Hindu sun god Indra -- are destroyers of evil. When they act on earth, they do so in destructive ways but for the greater good, as when Lord Shiva swallowed poison, "destroying" it, in order to protect his fellow gods from the deadly mixture.

Durga also adds a Shaivite element to the main area of the puja altar, a must for a Brahmin family in northern India.

On Lord Vishnu's right stand the images that mark this puja as one belonging specifically to a Trivedi Mewarda Brahmin from the village of Isund. The upper image in this photo is the god Eklingji, Khyati's family's ishtadev or family god. Eklingji is the ishtadev of the subcaste of Brahmins that originated in the Udaipur region. (A useful Christian parallel to the ishtadev might be "patron saint," except that affiliation with a particular Hindu god comes with one's lineage and not with one's hometown or chosen profession.) For more on Eklingji, see January 7, below. The second image -- the one anointed with three dabs of red sindoor (in Hindi, tikka; in Gujarati, chandlo) is that of the village god of Isund, where Dada grew up. In the lower right corner of this picture is a special linga. The crystal linga, seated here in an ornate brass base with an umbrella (sheltering the god) and incense pot (burnt offerings for the god) arcing over it, comes from Eklingji, a city and temple which will be described below. No one could explain to me what made this linga special. This one is clear crystal, but based on the selection of "special" lingas I saw on sale in Eklingji, it is not the color that makes it special. I learned only that it was very holy and that when a Brahmin has such a linga on his altar he is obliged to do puja every day. Other devotional tools also make an appearance here: the little blobs of butter with wicks are burned as part of puja worship. The bell is rung to create a sound -- as the chanting of "om" also does -- to entertain the god and to help the devotee clear his mind and focus on worship. Sounds like the bell, or one's own chanting,

are apparently supposed to focus the mind rather than distract it. I must confess, it doesn't exactly work for me. But then, I grew up in a religion where concentrated prayer took place in a spot call the "sanctuary" where silence, dim light, and a certain softness to the air helped one focus by removing virtually all external stimuli. But churches and synagogues are a creation of the sparsely-populated west. In a place as densely populated as India, it is usually easier to drown out the sounds of the street than to shut them out!

December 28
Ahmedabad

India is a land of striking contrasts and incredible diversity -- economic, linguistic, ethnic and religious -- but there are still some things that are ubiquitous. One is the little temple under the tree. These small concrete structures are typically 12 to 18 inches on a side and not more than about two feet high. In their architecture they are miniatures of full-size temples: a mountain-like spire is topped with a wheel representing the endless circle of time, or with a pointed spire, or perhaps (if the little temple holds a Shiva symbol) with a trident. This particular temple bears the painted inscription

Jai Mataji
Tane' Pranam
Jay Shri Jogeshvari Ma

which means Victory to the Mother Goddess I bow down to you Victory to the Mother Goddess Mataji and Jogeshvari Ma are both names for the Mother Goddess in Gujarati. As can be true in temples of all sizes, the murti itself is so elaborately dressed up that it is impossible to tell even what shape it is. The top layer of clothing is a triangular garment woven of coarse silk and gold threads. The goddess is protected from thieves and vandals by a wire mesh firmly attached to the structure. Like many little temples, the builders seem unconcerned that their goddess is right in the middle of everything: this tree stands at the edge of a road, next to a field which serves as an open-air market. (Note the cow grazing in the background.) Cars, rickshaws and motorcycles park among the road-side trees, sometimes coming perilously close to the temple as they pull in and out. Trees make frequent appearances in Hindu belief. Lord Krishna hid in a tree to spy on the bathing gopis (shepherd women), Lord Buddha (considered by many to be the ninth incarnation of Vishnu) achieved enlightenment while seated at the base of a tree. The forest is seen as a place of protection and enlightenment for hermits and ascetics. In the Ramayana, Lord Rama and his wife Sita was exiled to the forest of Sundervan. While in Agra, I saw an interesting collection of little tree temples:

On three sides of a young tree were arrayed temples holding well-kept murtis of Durga and Hanuman, and a Shivlinga. While small -- it was situated on a traffic island in the road about a mile from the Taj Mahal -- this was a notable site because together the temples represented the three major types of worshipped beings in Hinduism: the god (Shiva in his linga form), the goddess (here, Durga), and the faithful devotee. It offers a sort of "one-stop shopping" for the pious Hindu: no matter what she wanted to pray about -- to ask the goddess for protection, or the god for a blessing, or the devotee Hanuman for aid to her own strength of purpose -- she could come to this tree.

There was only one thing I couldn't figure out. Shiva and Durga are both Shaivite deities, but Hanuman is associated with Lord Vishnu in his incarnation as Rama. I asked one of Khyati's kin about this later in the trip. "Oh," she replied, "don't you know Hanuman is an incarnation of Shiva?" In all my readings and all of Professor Eck's lectures, I had not encountered this idea before. But this story illustrates the fluidity of Hindu theology. No one demands that their temple's story or their god's identity be unique. We have one Church of the Holy Sepulcher, but in Hinduism there are twelve jyotirlingas, four dhams, and 330 million gods who inevitably end up with overlapping stories. An example from Eklingji is informative: When we reached the Eklingji temple, my father-in-law explained how the first Maharana of Udaipur knew where to build the temple: Every day, a cow would come to the same spot in an open field and start to spontaneously give milk, which flowed down over the ground at that spot. The Maharana ordered the spot excavated and discovered the Eklingji linga which still sits in the temple today. Here's the rub: That is exactly the same story as Professor Eck told us about the Ramnavami, or birthplace of Lord Rama, in Ayodhya. I've also read the same story describing the discovery of the location of the "most important" jyotirlinga, in Banaras. Different places, different gods, same story... What's more, no one seems to mind.

Likewise, it's said that Krishna died at Dvaraka, the western-most point in India, and a shrine was built there to honor Him. Tradition holds that when the Mughal invaders from the north began closing in on the shrine, the priests either threw the holy image into the Indian Ocean or they set out with it on a ship and then sank. Either way, coastal temples all over India -- even on the country's northeastern coast near Calcutta -- claim a part of their holiness by saying that the Krishna murti washed ashore there. They all say it, everyone knows they all say it, yet no one would ever say, "Well, some of them must be wrong."

So while we have John 14:6 ("... I am the way and the truth and the life; no one comes to the Father, but by me"), John 1:14 ("...only Son of the Father..."), and the First Commandment ("You shall have no god besides Me"), in Hinduism, every temple can be THE temple, and holy sites can share stories, and no one raises any objection. For me, this has taken some getting used to.

December 29
outside Ahmedabad

One of the great joys of traveling is discovering treasures in unexpected places. So it was today. On the outskirts of Ahmedabad, we stopped at a step-well or wav. A wav is a reservoir which collects rainwater or is built on a spring. You get to the water by walking down flights of stairs -- as many as ten flights if the water level is low. This wav, built in 1498 and lately fallen into disuse, covers nearly an acre of land at the surface and narrowing to a ten-foot-square pool fifty feet below; but it is off the beaten path and apparently not beautiful enough to earn mention in any tourist guides. For nearly a hundred vertical feet, from ground level to the ten foot square of brackish water five stories below, the wav's columns and walls are carved with floral and arboreal images. We just happened upon it.

By discovering the wav we also discovered the unremarkable-looking brown stone temple next-door. Though short on time, I was temple-crazy and this point, so I shed my shoes and went inside. Wow! The entire interior -- walls and ceiling -- was covered in a fine mosaic of colored glass. The side wall of the mandapa (anteroom) illustrated a variety of Hindu themes and stories. On the right, a man kneels before a female figure. It looks like a courtship scene, although the man does not seem to be a god and the woman -- with her halo and six arms -- is clearly a goddess. She stands beside a small temple or structure that looks like the "Sita's kitchen" shrines found throughout India which honor Sita's wifely devotion to Rama in the Ramayana; perhaps she is Sita and he is the demon-king Ravana attempting to lure her away. But probably not, since he fails: the man appears in the

same scene, riding away from the woman empty-handed. (Like much eastern story-telling art, this single image combines several moments in time: the man kneeling, the man riding away, the man -- or perhaps another man -- looking up toward a god in his mountain abode.) In the upper right corner, Lord Brahma crosses the sky in his chariot. Not unusual is the statue of Lord Ganesha that guards the archway as one leaves the mandapa and enters the garbha

griha, or altar area (literally, "womb room"). Ganesha is flanked by winged human figures that struck me as possibly inspired by western religious art. Look at them: they are Cherubim, winged horn-players of the Heavenly Host. Perhaps there was some British/Christian inspiration there. Perhaps there is some Hindu eastern theological source for these images as well. Or perhaps they are simply the traditional temple guardian figures adapted to the starry skies envisioned by this mosaic artist. The altar area of this temple places the small Shiva murti in a small built-out shelf/alcove at chest height. Unlike the traditional temple -- where the god gets, in effect, a room to himself/herself -- this one seems designed to maximize the flat space available for its beautiful mosaic. Geometric patterns, including a row above the altar that evokes a distinct sun imagery, retain the mosaic beauty of this wall while not drawing attention away from the altar, where a man lights a diva (lamp) to honor the elaborately dressed and garlanded Shiva image. The columns on either side of the altar are topped by armed guardian figures, who typically appear in pairs around the doorways or windows of temples.

December 30
Ahmedabad

I've probably said, "God is everywhere in India" about a million times by now. But here's one more place you find God in India where He is typically absent in the west: commerce. Many, many businesses in India are named after Hindu gods. In the United States, we'd never expect to see the Jesus Christ Laundromat or St. Peter's Security Systems Inc. When we find religious names in America they are on religious institutions, like parochial schools and charity organizations. But in India god-inspired store names are everywhere. In Ahmedabad, for example, the Nataraj Cinema is right down the road from the Ganesh Complex, a shopping center which contains -- among other stores -- Lakshmi Jewelers. Outside of town, a condominium complex called Lakshmi Villas is going up. In Bombay, we walked by the Ganesh Paper Mart downtown, and the next day we could have tooled around the bay on the Shrikrishna Motor Launch Service.

The choices don't seem entirely random. In fact, I spotted a Lakshmi (or Laxmi) jewelry store in several cities. (Sort of like the ubiquitous Taj Mahal Indian restaurant in America!) Considering that Lakshmi is the goddess of wealth -- offering both a female image and an association with precious metals and stones -- She's a perfect match. A more obscure connection explains the Ganesh Paper Mart. According to tradition, Lord Ganesha broke off one of his tusks and used it to write down the Vedas, which were dictated to Him by God. So, Ganesh being the scribe, printing-related industries also seem like a fine match. In fact, Lord Ganesha's name is another extremely common one in commerce even beyond industries where there is such a "logical" match, probably because he is believed to render all things auspicious and to protect those who worship him. (Hence the Ganesh Complex in Ahmedabad, the Ganpati Marble mining company outside Udaipur, etc.)

Western companies are getting into the act as well. Take, for example, this poster advertising the Philips company's line of fluorescent light bulbs. It includes not only a stylized -- one might say neon -- image of Lord Ganesha, but also a prayer or sloca praising the elephant-headed god. It is a stretch, but we can see the choice of Ganesh, the god of auspiciousness, as appropriate for a company whose motto is "Let's make things better." Even holy Harvard got some face time:

December 31
Ahmedabad

The old city of Ahmedabad is a maze of interconnecting pols; although the word pol literally means 'gully' or 'narrow street,' it refers to the whole interconnected community of multi-generational families crammed into two- and three-story row houses barely ten feet wide. When my mother-in-law explains to another Ahmedabadi that she is from Lakhiani Pol, it is more than an address; it has the emotional cache of 'the old neighborhood' of early 20th-century America.

The crumbling pols are rife with hidden treasures, from ornately carved wooden facades to craftsmen's shops that seem unchanged for centuries. It was on the crosspiece of a stone archway that apparently marked the end of one pol and the beginning of another that I found this beautiful reclining Vishnu. The elaborately carved image tells a story of creation. Lord Vishnu reclines on Sheshnag, a many-headed cobra who arcs protectively over Him; He is attended by a goddess or devotee, who strokes his feet as he dozes. They are afloat on the dark cosmic sea that is all that existed before Creation. Sheshnag is not all that marks this god as Vishnu: there's also the conch shell in his right hand and possibly a discus in his left hand, partially obscured by his head. From Lord Vishnu's navel

grows a lotus. When it opens, Lord Brahma rises from its petals and looks down at the sleeping Vishnu. In a moment, they will begin to argue about who came first and which of them is supreme. Lord Shiva -- who actually makes his first appearance a few minutes later in the most common Hindu creation story -- stands behind Vishnu's legs, holding the trident which marks his identity. The fury of creation is about to begin, but for now the gods of Hinduism's "holy trinity" are caught frozen in an image that reminds us of time's beginning and of God's role in creating the universe we know.

January 1
Gandhinagar

We tend to associate Hindu images with those that are quite old; from the caves of Ajanta and Ellora to murtis all over India, little is 'modern,' and even most new creations are of stone and wood and look like they could have been built decades or centuries earlier. But in Gandhinagar, Gujarat's carefully-planned capital city, a Hindu sect has recently built a massive temple; it includes a modern, museum-style presentation of the life of a 17th-century swami, Swaminarayan, whom devotees believe was an incarnation of Lord Vishnu. Akshardham -- a word that means 'permanent home' -- is a massive complex which look at first like older temples, because it bears the same ornate carvings of red-brown stone that are typical of northwestern India. But look more closely, and you notice the guide rails that create Disneyland-style queues to enter the Swaminarayan museum. (Photography is forbidden, and because our guides did us the favor of leading us around the long lines of Indians waiting to enter, I didn't want to seem disrespectful of their rules. Hence, I managed to snap only one photo.)

The program begins in a vaulted room lined with huge, spotlight-illuminated glossy photographs of the current swami and his predecessors in the unbroken line of spiritual guides descending (by appointment, not by blood) from Swaminarayan. The great Swami himself is illustrated by a white statue that seems suspended in mid-air at the center of radiating circles of blue light. To American eyes, the effect is campy -- like the fading and dusty American history museum I grew up with in Harrisburg, Pa. -- but to Indian viewers the scene, and others which follow, could indeed seem miraculous. In one of the dozen or so life-size dioramas that chronicle the Swami's life, rain pours down over the fair young swami, who stands in only a loincloth amongst the leaves of a tropical forest. Imagine being someone for whom electricity and running water are still novelties -- and here is a torrential rainstorm, with the attendant sounds and cool damp breeze wafting

about us, indoors! Other dioramas show the good works of the Swami's devotees in his time and since, and laud the Swami's wisdom as he traveled the length and breadth of India from age 12, preaching to ascetics and regular folks alike. It is a museum production worthy of Lincoln's birthplace or the Gettysburg battlefield, but it is also a temple, sort of India's version of Oral Roberts' Crystal Cathedral. The tour ends in the garbha griha of the temple, where a ten-foot gold statue of the seated Swaminarayan, dressed in fine silk and attended by two six-foot gold female statues, gazes gently at the assembled flock.

The Swaminarayan sect, which is almost exclusively Gujarati, is considered a religious conservative movement. Some non-devotees eye the Swaminarayans with the same wary gaze that many of us cast upon the Christian Coalition and The 700 Club. I didn't learn enough about the sect to understand where and how it shares interests with the Hindu nationalist movement, but some connection would not be entirely surprising. Swaminarayan is, for want of a better term, a 'Hindu revivalist' movement centered in a state, Gujarat, that has been the site of a lot of anti-Muslim and anti-Christian violence. (In 1998, an Australian Christian missionary and his two young sons were burned to death there.) Gujarat is also one of just a handful of states where state-wide political control is in the hands of the conservative BJP political party.

January 2
Ahmedabad

Back in the pols of Ahmedabad, we discover a shrine which is barely there. If you're not on a Hindu image hunt like me, you'll probably walk around this shrine without even noticing it. It is no building, nor even a room. Physically, it is nothing but an extension of one wall of somebody's front porch. The entire facade is made of poured concrete, painted pale green. I encountered the shrine when rounding a corner, turning from one branch of a 'T' intersection onto the wider road which heads away from us in this picture. The shrine is little more than red paint on a green wall. The Gujarati lettering reads, 'Victory to the mother goddess.' It is accompanied by a simple rendering if the face and torso of the mother goddess, by the trident (a Shaivite marker), and by a painted-on archway. Swastikas -- an auspicious symbol in Hinduism that unfortunately has been corrupted in the world's eyes by its misuse in Nazi Germany -- bracket the murti, which is simple and androgynous and has been draped with a garland by some local worshipper. The

discus or sun-symbol at the right -- oddly, a Vaishnavite image among Shaivite images -- seems almost an afterthought. Perhaps it's not a discus but the wheel of life, like the one on the Indian flag, representing the endless cycle of rebirth. Notice also the painting of a bell -- just as the bell is used to worship god, a mere painting of a bell can invoke the idea of worship and meditation. Small alcoves are meant hold offerings and the tools of worship; in the top one is a small clay pot probably used as an oil lamp or incense burner. Presumably, the site is maintained by the family in the adjoining house, and is probably not visited by anyone but the handful of very local pol residents whose daily journey takes them by the shrine. Food offerings left on the platform get eaten by passing cows and goats. (This is a perfectly acceptable end for Hindu offerings, which although offered to God are quickly returned and distributed with His blessing. There is nothing unseemly about these recipients being animals -- cows in particular, because of their holy life-giving nature, but really any animals who provides some product for humankind's benefit. Still, it's a foreign concept to we who would be horrified to find cattle grazing through our wafers or lapping up the Communion wine.)

January 3
Ahmedabad

Oh, baby. As a Christian, I'm accustomed to the religious notion of worshipping an infant... the Baby Jesus. So the appearance in Hinduism of major gods in infancy and childhood was not especially novel. Indeed, just as the Baby Jesus is a representation of purity and innocence as part of God's message to a cruel world, Balakrishna or 'Baby Krishna' is part of a Hindu theology that idealizes innocence and forgives childish mischief. The stories of Balakrishna appear in the Puranas as a prelude to the stories of Krishna as an adult. They provide the Hindu idea that part of one's love of God is the sensation that a parent has of love for a child. (Other parts of God-love represented in the stories of Krishna are the love of the friend for the friend, of the child for the parent, and of lovers for each other, plus of course the love of the devotee for God.)

What I find more interesting is that modern Hinduism has gone back and 'created' childhood stories and child-like images of gods who sprang forth as adults. Lord Shiva -- who stepped full-grown from a linga of fire at the beginning of time -- was at some point re-worked into Balashiva, a puzzling mix of childhood innocence and Shiva's raw destructive power. How Hindus extrapolated a cherubic infancy from the God most associated with being an outcast ascetic or a lustful erotic is a real puzzler. Nevertheless, there He was, Balashiva, hanging on the wall of an Ahmedabad temple. All of the Shaivic markers are there -- the trident, the tripundh markings on His forehead, the snake, even the Ganga river flowing from his hair. The mountains invoke Lord Shiva's (past? future? present?) home and his abode on Mount Kailas. A moon/Ohm casts its benevolent light down upon

the sleeping figure. Yet it is a figure, a 'person' -- or rather, a God of a certain age -- who never existed in scripture. Yet another example of Hinduism's limitless flexibility.

The very same day, I came across an entire shelf of baby Ganesha murtis in an Ahmedabad kitcheria. Again, here is a god who sprang full-grown from the skin of the goddess Parvati. She created Ganesha, considered the son of her and Shiva, to

guard over her while she took a bath. So like the Greek god who sprang full-grown from Zeus' forehead, Ganesha was created as a full-grown being from the flesh of another god. Moreover, he was created with a human head; it was not until after his father returned home and slew him accidentally that he became the elephant-headed god. And it was still later that he broke off one of his own tusks to write down the Vedas. Yet here is Balaganesha, with elephant head and broken tusk. The figure is pure Ganesha benevolence: the infant offers us a handful of sweets, as many 'adult' Ganesha figures do. But again, he is a god who did not exist in any classic text, but rather was created by the mind of some man (or woman) in more recent times. Perhaps Balashiva and Balaganesha were created to give Shiva and Ganesha devotees a shot at the 'parent love' experience that Vaishnavite worshippers achieve through Balakrishna. Perhaps some simpler explanation exists:

whim, or the creative inspiration of some artist catching on with the general public. Either way, we again see Hinduism bend and stretch even to accommodate holy manifestations at odds with its own scripture.

January 4
Isund

We went today to the village where Dada grew up. Isund, about 30 kilometers outside Ahmedabad, is accessed via a one-lane paved road that our jeep shared at various points with a full-size bus, ox carts, and a herd of bright pink sheep. (Bright pink? Yes, bright pink. Animals' owners spray-paint them with a water-based paint as a low-budget and easy-to-spot alternative to branding. But I digress...)

If anything in India can be called typical -- with the country's 300 languages, three million gods, its dozens of castes and sub-castes, and its infinite variations of cuisine -- Isund is the typical Indian village. Narrow, dusty dirt roads wander among squat, homes of poured concrete and wood, with low ceilings and thatch doors. Toddlers, who are bundled up in sweaters against the cold 70-degree weather, clutch the door-jamb and peer out at the tall, pale stranger. On a wall near the center of town, someone has used green paint and his own finger to scrawl the dates of upcoming polio vaccinations. (India is in the midst of a UN-sponsored initiative to eradicate polio. To do so, it must immunize, one-by-one, nearly 200 million children in the out-of-the-way corners like Isund. ) Isund lives by a subsistence economy of agriculture and dairy production. Yet amidst all this poverty, the town's main temple shines

like a light. Freshly painted in bright light colors, aflutter with plastic flags stretched from the top of the dome, it is a visible reminder of faith's priority in the lives of so many Indian Hindus. Removing my shoes and entering the temple, I come first to the mandapa or anteroom. We learned in class that this is a space where certain more public rituals, such as a wedding, might be performed. (Indeed, when Khyati and I got married at the Northwest Hilton in Atlanta, we did so in a four-posted structure called a mandap, from the same Sanskrit root.) From a day-to-day standpoint, however, the mandapa is just a room the devotee passes through on the way to the inner sanctum. Like the outside of the temple, the mandapa is brightly decorated and spotlessly clean; its domed roof is painted with images of the twelve jyotirlingas. (For a discussion of the theology of the jyotirlingas, see below.) This marks it as a Shaivite temple, and gives devotees the chance to "do darshan" to all the jyotirlingas of India without having to leave the village.

Since starting my formal study of Hinduism, I've noticed "12 Jyotirlingas" pictures in many places and in many home puja rooms, including those in my in-laws' homes in India and the U.S.A. The clearly serve the same function whether in Bombay, Boston, or in this little village temple: for those who cannot -- for economic or health or purely logistical reasons -- travel to all twelve jyotirlinga sites to take darshan at these holiest of shrines, "12 Jyotirlingas" images allow a sort of vicarious darshan to occur. Just as the temple and the shivlinga are conduits between Lord Shiva and the worshipper, so these images offer worshippers access to these dozen holy sites as part of their daily devotions.

January 5
Isund

Isund's holy images show the diversity of contemporary Hindu worship practices.

1. The traditional worship: A stone Shivlinga sits in a yoni (base, the "female" counterpart to the male -- some say phallic -- linga) which is shaped to help drain away liquid offerings as they are poured over the linga. Whatever substance -- water, milk, yogurt and honey are typical, water often going last to wash the linga -- is poured over the linga drains away down the trough shown, which ends at a hole in the outer wall of the temple. Even the marigolds which have been offered today will wash away when water is next poured over the linga. We also see here the implements of worship:

the bell, rung continuously during many worship sessions to help devotees focus their mental energy on prayer; the aarti-holder, next to the bell, is used to entertain the god with an offering of fire. Oil or butter is placed in each depression with a wick, which is lit. The flaming apparatus is then waved in front of the god's image -- back and forth, up and down, in circles -- to please the god by entertaining Him; the incense holder, like one might even find in an American college dorm room, holds stick incense which is burned as an offering; the incense pot (way behind the bell), for the burning of powdered incense or wood chips; and the brass trident, a decorative symbol of Lord Shiva.

A five-headed brass cobra coils around the linga and arches over it, protecting this manifestation of Lord Shiva. The serpent in Hinduism occupies a dual role, being both threat and protector. It represents Lord Shiva's creative power, and his closeness to wild places -- a mix of danger and comfort. Its presence is eternal: Note, for example, that before time began Lord Vishnu dozed while reclining on a coiled snake. In an alcove directly behind the linga, an anthropomorphic statue of Lord Shiva resides. He is dressed in clothes and garlands, part of devotees' daily worship. 2. Modern touches: A statue of the village's own god -- the central image in a major Isund temple -- is entertained not only by aarti flames (foreground) but also by the twinkle of Christmas lights draped across the archways before and behind the murti. This mixing of the traditionally sacred and modern simplicity is not uncommon. We visited many business establishments -- restaurants, sweet shops, etc. -- where murtis were lit not by aarti flame but by single decorative light bulbs (the amber "candle-style" bulbs were popular) or small strands of lights. At a south Indian restaurant in Ahmedabad, a jet-black, flat, framed image of Srinathji is illuminated from within by at least 100 red, yellow and green LED lights. (It looked more like a jukebox than like a holy image!)

3. Ad hoc iconography: In what must be an extremely common practice, especially among India's poor, holy images can be created simply by the devotee herself. A course reading discussed the common practice of forming lingas out of river mud, worshipping them and then literally "tossing them back in." Here, we see a geometrically simple Ganesha which has been finger-painted onto the inside wall of a house. With its elephant head and Shaivite trident, it is clearly Ganesha. The blessings of the sun and the moon are also invoked. I asked Dada when this was painted on the wall of his childhood home. He could not remember exactly, saying it was put there when some ceremony needed to be done -- perhaps, he said, a ceremony thanking God for the safe birth of one of his sons. Or perhaps as part of a pre-birth or pre-wedding ceremony asking Lord Ganesha's auspicious presence to bless and protect those in attendance. In one sense, this is the ultimate protestantism -- the devotee himself can "create" his object of worship, removing (in effect) all intermediaries between god and worshipper. Like

the simple alleyway Mother Goddess shrine discussed on January 2, Lord Ganesha is as present in this fading old wall painting as in the ornate murtis of Banaras.

January 6
outside Eklingji

Until this trip, I hadn't realized the prominence of Hanuman among the deities who are objects of daily worship in India. But in the parts of India I visited, while I never found a large temple -- the kind of full-size building that you can walk into and around, as opposed to the small road-side and hilltop structures which shelter an image of the god but are too small for one actually to enter (see December 28) -- small temples of Hanuman were quite common.

Maybe temple isn't quite the right word for this particular image. I spotted it from several hundred yards away, shining in the morning sun. I didn't know what it was at the time, but Khyati's aunt glanced out the bus window and said, "Oh, Hanuman." (I learned on this trip that whenever you see something orange that's partially covered in tin foil, chances are it's Hanuman. Unless it's in your refrigerator.) The climb was rocky and unmarked, but as I got closer it became clear that it was not an old or abandoned image. Coconut husks at the foot of the murti indicated that an offering had been made within just a few days before my visit, and perhaps even that very morning. The image itself seemed to have been carved from a large, flat piece of rock. The back of the image is featureless and lacks the sindoor (orange powder or paint) that adorns the front. The terrain in this part of southern Rajastan is all sedimentary shale rock, so it's easy to imagine

that this particular slab had broken off a nearby hill or had been churned up during spring plowing of the surrounding fields. Perhaps some local farmer decided it was it was shaped like Hanuman, and an enterprising craftsman chiseled out the god's features. It's impossible to tell exactly how old the image is. Because it's made from natural stone, and because the sindoor and aluminum are kept in good repair by devotees, it could be any age. It sits on a concrete platform, however, which presumably dates from sometime in the past thirty years or so. This seems like a site of local importance and nothing more; one can imagine that the four-foot square, six-inch-thick slab of concrete was poured from concrete left over after the construction of one of the half-dozen or so simple homes that are visible from the top of the hill. In this location, Hanuman faced east, into the rising sun

and toward the central-Indian region of Braj, which is associated with Lord Rama (to whom Hanuman was so devoted). I did not think to note what direction other Hanumans were facing. It would be particularly interesting to know about those we saw in the Delhi-Agra region, which is north of Braj; if they faced south, my theory would be confirmed. Or perhaps not. One of the things I've discovered in all my travels is that traditions which begin for religious reasons end up being followed even when the religious reason is contravened. For example, synagogues all over the world face east, "towards Jerusalem." (So do many churches.) In Europe, this made sense, because the way to Jerusalem was to the east. But synagogues in India also face east... and it is a LONG way to Jerusalem when you travel east from India! It seems like synagogues there ought to face west-northwest. The same is true of Indian mosques. To face Mecca, they should face west. But if I recall correctly, they too face east across the Pacific. Perhaps all these traditions can be traced to the pagan religions of east and west alike -- where worshippers faced the rising sun. Perhaps it's just too much to expect every ancient temple's builders had a compass or map to work with, and that instead they just used an easily-verifiable shorthand. Which was is Jerusalem? East, where the sun rises. Which way is Braj, or Banaras? East. Finally, then, why the hilltop? We find hilltop temples of all sizes all over India. Hanuman, of course, has an association with mountains (see December 26), and every god likes to have a good view of His surroundings. But the simplest explanation is perhaps the most

An example of the typical hilltop shrine. (The unknown southern-Rajastan shrine pictured here from about 100 yards away, is probably about five feet square.)

likely: virtually every religion incorporates that idea that God is somehow "above" us. Ascent towards God, then, can at least be begun by climbing a tall hill. Theological precedents abound: from God's revelation to Moses on Mount Sinai to the importance to Jews and Muslims of the Temple Mount in Jerusalem, to the Mount of Olives where Jesus was betrayed and captured to Golgotha or "skull hill" where He was crucified. Religious structures are built to mimic mountains. This is true of Hindu temples, whose tiered spires represent foothills rising to mountain peaks. It is true as well of the church spire, the Egyptian or Aztec pyramid, even the B.C. comic strip image of the guru's mountain lair.

January 7
Eklingji

Khyati and her family are Trivedi Mewarda Brahmins -- a sub-caste of Brahmins with last names like Joshi and Bhatt and Pandya who trace their family lines to the gentry of the Mewar kingdom in central Rajasthan. The Mewar dynasty was the longest-running independent dynasty in the world, beginning in the fourth century A.D. and continuing in an unbroken line (including, however, adopted sons at several points) until 1947, when the dynasty joined newly-independent India. The throne of the kingdom was at Udaipur, a city still famous for its fabulous palaces. The word trivedi indicates that the subcaste is responsible to obey the first three Vedas; dwivedi Brahmins would be obliged to obey the first two. "In fact," comments my father-in-law, "we're all Hindu, and we all try to obey all the Vedas." As he was showing us around our boarding house near the temple, Dada proudly informed me that no on in his family line had ever married someone who was not a Trivedi Mewarda Brahmin. His pride, and the pointed way he had leaned toward me as he spoke, took me aback at first. Did he realize who he was talking to? I am, after all, the white guy who married his granddaughter -- no TMB, that's for sure. Just days before, he had introduced me to Isund as his Jamai-Raj, the son of his eldest granddaughter. Was I supposed to take his comment as an honor -- that is, take it to mean that I had in his eyes become an "honorary" Trivedi Mewar Brahmin? Or should I be watching my back?

I was also troubled from a moral standpoint. I had read King Daksha Prajapati's comments about Lord Shiva in the Skanda Purana, and they seemed to me to be critical of man-made distinctions of caste. The King spoke derisively of the supreme Hindu god, asking,

"What is his lineage, what is his clan? What place does he belong to and what is his form? What is his livelihood and behavior, this fellow who drinks poison and rides on a bull?"

Daksha Prajapati was ultimately punished for his disrespect; I saw this as a vindication of thet misfit and a lesson against prejudice. But in interpreting the story that way, was I projecting my western "social justice" mindset onto the story? Was Daksha's comment meant not as a caricature of injustice but as a frank expression of destiny? Later in the trip, my own father would gaze out on the squalor of the Indian street, with its still human forms crouched over smoky piles of burning paper and dung, and make this comment about Hindus' belief in reincarnation: "Who could bear this without believing that they would have better in the next life?"

My answer to any of these questions would be so subjective, so shot through with my western and Christian mindset, that I hesitate even to offer one. You see, Lord Shiva -- who drank poison to save the gods, and caught the Ganges in his hair to save humanity -- also embodies sacrifice. Dada was a jailed freedom fighter at my age, the village boy who went to the city and made good and came back to share it; and my father-in-law came to America with seven dollars and the clothes on his back and built an Indian community in Georgia and a suburban palace for his wife and daughters. Who am I, the Ivy League son of "Boston Brahmins," to speak to them of justice, or of sacrifice?

January 8
en route from Eklingji to Srinathji

By this time my family had gotten used to making frequent stops so John could take pictures of temples and shrines. So when our mini-bus rounded a corner this morning, en route to Srinathji, few were surprised to hear my cry of, "Wait, wait! What's that?" Only in this case, it's now a month later and I am still asking that question. What I found was a stone platform on a hillside, creating a small worship area in front of a whitewashed piece of exposed rock on the hill. I suspect worshippers consider the rock wall to be a svayambhu or "self-manifested" image or shrine. Fifteen small, egg-shaped protrusions from the rock, each between three and five inches in length, are adorned with orange sindoor and square pieces of foil. None of them have indentations or protrusions that indicate who or what they represent. A small cabinet has been made from concrete and closed with a large, flat stone; it
probably holds the tools of worship. The irregular distribution of the adorned protrusions and of the shrine itself, and the absence of any other carved or painted symbols -- such as a Shaivite trident or Vaishnavite sun-disk -- thus offer no clues as to the nature of the shrine. The shrine does not seem to be in regular use. A few weathered coconut husks lay on and around the platform; they could have been there for months. The shrine is visible from the road and accessible by a fifteen-foot climb up steep rock without steps. It faces east and must shine brightly in the morning sun. I asked Khyati's cousin, who had climbed up with me, what he thought the site represented. He
shrugged, mumbling, "Something Hanuman, or something." Perhaps the Hanuman association comes from the orange sindoor and silver foil. The egg-shaped protrusions could be seen as svayambhu Shivalingas, or -- as part of the rock face itself -- as a self-manifest image of Vishnu like the rock face hundreds of miles away that inspired the Srinathji temple and its angular, bejeweled namesake. Or perhaps the shrine honors a local god or gods, or even some ancient, proto-Hindu deity of the area. The bottom line: I have no idea, but I made us late for aarti in Srinathji by trying to figure it out.

January 9
Srinathji and Udaipur

At first glance, I thought it was a phone booth. "STD/ISD" booths are everywhere in India; it's where you can go to make long-distance or international phone calls if you don't have a phone at home. (Or if, like us, you're on the road.) So this is what I saw . Can you blame me for thinking it was a phone booth? Of course you can. Even for someone like me who can't read the Hindi on the transept, the orange color and the Ganesha tile above the door was the give-away. Inside was one of the most ornate Hanuman statues I saw while in India. The silver foil over the image -- which could have been carved from wood or stone -- was colored in places to give Hanuman a loincloth and an ornate necklace or garland. On his forehead, a stylized V-shaped symbol marks his association with Rama, an incarnation of Vishnu. In his left hand he carries a mountain

or mountain of herbs, as discussed above. Note the similarity between how the artist has rendered this "mountain" and the shape of the spires of temples themselves: both are made up of rounded tiers. (It's findings of continuity like this that can help make sense of otherwise puzzling Hindu images.)

The murti is garlanded with marigolds, and additional marigolds are strewn at his feet. These offerings, plus the aarti flames in front of and to the left of the platform are part of the worshipful upkeep of the shrine. The brass bell is rung during worship, and the steel canisters probably contain sindoor, ghee for the aartis, or foodstuffs that can be offered as prasad. On the right side of the picture, we see a foil-covered club, Hanuman's weapon. Perhaps this club is used in worship as well. This would be in keeping with Hindu traditions of worship that incorporate objects associated with the god, or even mimicry of actions attributed to the god. One of Khyati's favorite stories is when she visited a temple to Balakrishna (Lord Krishna as a baby): At the temple, the very serious-looking priests took out children's toys and played with them in front of the god, to entertain and flatter the baby Krishna by imitation. Perhaps devotees at this shrine wave Hanuman's club in front of him, or hold it aloft while incanting a prayer that incorporates the story of his heroism. Clearly, the club itself is revered: not only is it covered in silver foil and sindoor, but also it has been blessed with an offering of marigolds.

Also today, we saw a huge and expensive attempt to earn the beneficent attention of Lord Ganesha. At the main palace in Udaipur -- seat of the Mewar dynasty -- a huge stone Ganesha looks down from just beneath the parapets. His view from the hilltop site looks out over the entire city of Udaipur and the surrounding countryside -- the Mewar kingdom.

January 10
Banaras

It was our first full day in Banaras, and time to do some shopping. Khyati was browsing bangles, dad was trying to fix a price on a brass ornament for his brother, and I was itching for some theological sightseeing instead. While dad was haggling, I wandered off down an alley -- actually, not even an alley. More of an alcove between two little shops. But when I rounded the corner, I came upon this collection of massive stone murtis. The Hanuman on the left is as tall as I am.

The effect is not one of reverence, but one of storage. This temple, if you can call it that, is a true after-thought. I first thought these images must be waiting here while their temple is renovated, and that's possible, but they're also all facing outwards, and are not covered in anything, and are being actively worshipped (note the fresh flowers on Hanuman). Still, the presence of an out-of-place chair on the floor, an old wooden box leaning against the wall in the corner, and the apparently haphazard placement of two Shivlingas alongside these huge murtis gives the whole room a certain effect which cannot be entirely conducive to focusing one's mind on worship.

The other images, from left to right, are a seated Shiva, a Shivlinga, Ganesha, another Shivlinga, and Vishnu. The small orange figure between Shiva and Ganesha is Ganesha's mouse. Each of the anthropomorphic figures, apparently carved from poured concrete, is encrusted with a thick layer of orange sindoor. All are in one of their traditional poses, holding the weapons or objects by which we know to recognize them. Notice Hanuman's eyes: The ceremony of "opening" the eyes -- often, actually, a ceremony of painting them onto a new murti -- is what makes darshan possible. (It's only after its eyes have been "opened" that the god can see the worshipper.) Yet the other murtis, whose eyes are covered in sindoor, seem to be worshipped regularly as well.

Notice that the figures are sitting on a low bench or dais that is covered in white tile. This fact, combined with the site's location around the corner from a busy commercial street and at the base of a set of stairs that apparently leads up to the second-story homes above the shops, makes me wonder if this location was not at some time a public washing area or even a public toilet. It's plenty clean now, of course, but it's another example of the "anywhere" quality of shrine placement in India. Someone apparently thought nothing of turning an old washroom into a makeshift shrine. When I was growing up, my mother equivocated for a week about whether or not it was sacreligious to hang a picture of a church in our newly-renovated bathroom at home.

January 11
Banaras

As discussed in the introduction, a major function of religious images on and in temples is that of the teaching tool. For a world -- modern India, medieval Europe, etc. -- where many are illiterate, the image is the starting point for story-telling that can build faith even in those who cannot read the holy books. It's almost certain that this is the origin of the tradition of pradakshina or worshipful circumambulation (walking around) of a temple.

That's how it was at the Shri Ram temple in the center of Banaras. This temple is laid out like a museum gallery on the inside; instead of circumambulating the temple on the outside, which would be difficult in the densely-built city, one can walk around its inside and view alcove after alcove containing stone or plaster images of the gods at certain crucial moments in history. When the three of us stopped at an image of Narasimha, the fourth avatara of Vishnu, who came down to save his devotee Prahlada from the demon-king (asura) Hirankasipu, I told my father the story. Hirankasipu had received a boon from the gods that he could not be killed by day or by night, by man or by beast, indoors or outdoors. Angry at his son Prahlada for being devoted to Vishnu instead of to him, Hirankasipu plotted to kill the young man and destroy the universe. Narasimha -- Vishnu in the form of a half-man, half-lion -- materialized from a pillar in the palace, picked Hirankasipu up, and carried him to the threshold of the palace (or, in some versions of the story, a veranda). It was dusk (neither day nor night) and Vishnu/Narasimha (neither man nor beast) slew the demon king at that spot (neither inside nor out). I stood in front of the image and told dad this story -- exactly as the artist probably intended. (Indeed, the priest tending the temple seemed awfully pleased at my detailed telling of the tale.)

Another example: At the Tulsi Das temple in Banaras -- named for the 16th-century author of a locally-popular version of the Ramayana -- circumambulation serves the illiterate and the literate alike. For those who can read, the full text of Das' Ramayana is carved into the marble walls. It takes two laps around the building -- first on the lower floor and then on the upper -- and the ability to read the small text way up near the ceiling of the 12-foot walls to read Das' complete work. But for the illiterate or those looking to skip to a familiar section, the text is punctuated by drawings on glass of the major stories. For the convenience of those who cannot read Sanskrit, these drawing are captioned in English and Hindi.

The Tulsi Das images are similar to some I found on the outside of a temple in Ahmedabad. The picture at right is an example; this three-foot-wide bas relief carving shows the story, from the Mahabharata, of Lord Vishnu's descent as a charioteer to advise the faltering hero Arjuna. The image gives all the elements of the story: two huge armies poised for battle, the chariot, the startled Arjuna, his bow and quiver beside him, kneeling when he realizes his charioteer is Lord Vishnu himself, and the benevolent god. Vishnu's hands are held in positions typical of a benevolent, instructive interaction. His left hand, with thumb and forefinger touching, reaches out towards Arjuna; this is a traditional symbol of teaching. (Note also its similarity to the hand position used by eastern Orthodox priests

when making the sign of the cross, and to the hand position -- thumb touching ring finger -- which is typically used in orthodox icons of Jesus and the Saints. Jesus and Vishnu: the benevolent teachers!) Vishnu's left hand is raised with his palm facing Arjuna; this position represents the god's goodwill, and his (or her) bestowing of a boon on the worshipper. (Compare this to the hand-down/palm-out position of the benevolent Lakshmi seen on December 28.) The whole story is there for the telling.

Even a simpler image, like this two-foot carved icon of the flute-playing Lord Krishna situated about six feet off the ground on the outside of a temple in southern Rajastan, can be the starting point for story-telling. Four basic elements of the image -- Krishna's flute, the stylized peacock-feather crown on his head, the adoring female figure on the right and the festive, lute-playing male figure on the right -- give rise to a virtually unlimited number of stories about Lord Krishna. One might tell the story of how he played his flute to lure the gopis (cowherd women) out at night to dance with him, which can lead to the story of his courtship of Radha. Or one might tell of his camaraderie with the gopas (cowherd boys), and go on to tell the story of how Krishna lifted up a mountain to shield the gopas and their cows from a terrible rainstorm. Notice also the stylized lotus-flower pedestal on which Krishna stands; a little girl could find herself getting a lesson on the holy lotus, its role in creation (see December 31), and why we offer lotus flowers to the gods on special occasions. For the literate and those worshipping alone, pradakshina is a time for quiet reflection. You can chant a simple mantra, or focus on your breathing or footsteps or simply use worship as a pause in the daily rush. In that sense, India has something which the west has largely lost: the house of worship as a place simply to "stop by." When we go to church, we do it on Sunday, when everyone else is there too, and we listen to

someone else talk about God. In India, where temples are everywhere to be found, and where (within certain limits of caste and personal preference) one need not worry if one is visiting a Catholic or Presbyterian or Pentecostal house of worship, it is very easy to take a few moments during the day -- on the way to a meeting, over lunch, or as part of an elderly person's daily constitutional -- to make a "circuit" of quiet worship.

January 12
Banaras

This polychrome image in a simple 5"x7" frame, which Khyati bought in Banaras for our home puja cabinet, shows two members of the "holy family" of Shaivite tradition. Lord Ganesha, the devoted son, gives a holy offering to a Shivlinga. One is reminded of the story of Ganesha's devotion to his parents: His fleet-footed brother Skanda challenged him to a race around the world. As Skanda dashed off to circle the globe, Ganesha ran one lap around his parents, Shiva and Parvati. They were his world, he said. And he won.

In this image, even Ganesha's steed, the mouse, is in a devotional pose, offering a flower to the nirguna, or abstract, form. The pair are surrounded by the tools of worship: an aarti lamp, incense pot, and offerings of food and flowers. Gold foil accents -- in a sun-like halo around Lord Shiva, on Ganesha and his offerings, and in the large trident that seems to form a crown for the elephant-headed god -- make the image sparkle in the light. (When we burn aarti candles in front of the image, it glitters and gleams beautifully.) Lord Shiva himself, in his saguna or

anthropomorphic form with the moon and River Ganga in his hair, gazes into the distance, perhaps proud of his devoted son, perhaps mulling over some divine concern.

In the background we see the entire universe. The heavenly bodies and the vastness of space evoke the unlimited power of the Supreme. They also remind us of the story of the sage who wandered the universe and accidentally fell out of Lord Shiva's mouth. (In this story, Shiva is the universe.) He was overwhelmed by the vastness of Shiva and by the emptiness outside the universe, and Lord Shiva kindly swallowed the sage again. Cosmic images are something else that reappear throughout Hindu mythology. In one story of Balakrishna, for example, he swallowed something and his mother reached into his mouth to get it out. When she looked into his mouth, she saw the entire universe in there; this is how she knew her child was a god.

January 13
Banaras

Hindu tradition says that Banaras is Lord Shiva's home, the place where the mountain ascetic settled down after taking Parvati as his wife. It is also believed to be the first place to exist, the spot from which all the rest of creation radiated outward at the beginning of time. Finally, it is one of the twelve places where Lord Shiva's eternal linga of light pierced the earth at the beginning of creation. It's likely that Banaras is the oldest continually-inhabited city in the whole world. Upon visiting Banaras a century ago, Mark Twain described it as "older than history, older than myth, older even than legend, and it looks twice as old as all three combined."

The river is lined with ghatts, stone steps that lead down into the water. Some ghatts are for washing, some are for doing laundry, and some are for burning the dead. All are bristling with tiny shrines, most of them Shaivite. In the alcoves near where you dock your boat, you'll likely find a linga. It may be dirty, even broken or tipped over or sinking into the mud, but someone has somehow crawled down there to adorn it with marigolds or red sindoor powder. As we traveled up the river by boat one morning, I observed a young man of perhaps 16 years who had just bathed in the river and was doing is morning calisthenics... in a beautiful, elaborately painted, ten-foot-square Durga shrine that looked out over the water. Right in front of the goddess, on holy ground just inches from the holy river this wiry young man was bending and twisting in nothing but a pair of bright red, Speedo-style underpants. Only in Banaras.

The Ganges is the holiest river in Hinduism. In purely geographic terms, it flows down from the Himalayas then east across the plains to the sea. At Banaras, the river loops back on itself so for a brief period the south-flowing river flows northward, a fact which is seen as part of the miracle of this place. But the Ganga, as it is pronounced, is more than its geographic self. It is the goddess in river form. In the beginning, the Ganga flowed only in heaven. Only by performing long and difficult tapas, or devotions, did the sage-king Bhagiratha convince the Ganga to flow down to earth. When it did, its force threatened to destroy the earth. So Bhagiratha prayed to Lord Shiva to catch the river in his hair -- in effect, "breaking its fall" and allowing it to flow on earth without destroying us. That's why Lord Shiva is usually pictured with the river flowing out of his hair.

There's a wonderful image of this story in the Shri Ram temple in the center of Banaras showing the moment of the Ganga's divine descent. A four-foot-tall, vividly painted plaster image of Lord Shiva stands straight as a rod. On his left, Bhagiratha stands with his hands pressed together in the manner of prayer, gazing at Shiva. On the god's right stands his wife, Parvati, and their sons Ganesha and Skanda appear in smaller plaster form at Shiva's feet. Above Shiva's head a tear-drop shaped blob of rippling blue "water" (also plaster) is suspended; a four-armed, feminine goddess image emerges from the center of this falling Ganga; thus we see both the nirguna (non-human) and saguna (anthropomorphic) images of the river goddess. (Unfortunately, photography was forbidden in the temple.)

Perhaps one of the most awe-inspiring sights we saw in Banaras was at sunset, when priests did aarti to the river herself. Draped in saffron-colored robes, they stood on a marigold-festooned platform near the main ghatt. As the sun set behind them and darkness crept in, concealing the far shore from view, the priests rang large hand bells and waved massive aarti lamps at the river. Each lamp had at least 20 flames on it; made from brass, the lamps must have been awfully heavy. The sound of the bells and the flicker of the lamps was overwhelming. That was when I understood that to Hindus, the Ganga is not merely a holy place or a holy river or a representation of the goddess, but in fact is the goddess who in her supreme benevolence has come down and brought life to the broad Indian plains. As the sun set behind us and the Ganga disappeared from view entirely -- the ghatts seemed to descend

down into a pitch darkness from which one could merely here the faint rush-rush of waves against the stone -- it also occurred to me that these priests, facing east across the river, might be asking the river and the sun, "Please return tomorrow, for without you we shall die."

January 14
Bombay

Three themes today: the old, the new, and another look at the "anywhere" quality of Hindu imagery.

The old. We went out to Elephanta Island today. Some ten kilometers off the coast of Bombay, Elephanta is the site of some of the most ancient intact Hindu sites in the area. No one knows exactly who created the elaborate caves and carvings, but they are a treasure. Even despite the damage caused by the Portuguese -- who used Elephanta's nine beautiful, ten-foot-high carved images of Lord Shiva for target practice -- the place's grandeur remains. All I'm showing you of it is a linga, however, to point out something interesting. This linga -- carved some 1500 years ago -- has no yoni. Instead of the round base with the spout that we see on all modern lingas, this linga sits on a square stone pedestal. If the yoni is a representation of the goddess, then this linga is "pure Shiva." Still, a crude trough encircles the base of this square pedestal and leads off one side of the platform, so the function of the yoni -- to catch and channel offerings flowing off the linga -- is achieved, but without the style and structure to which we're accustomed nowadays. It would be interesting to find some lingas from about 1,000 years ago, to see how and when the yoni (as it's now presented) developed. Perhaps it's a gradual trend which brings the linga down off its square pedestal and sits it directly on the platform. Or perhaps it's a sudden artistic innovation which changes all others. When I next visit India, I will try to return to Ajanta and Ellora -- sites in Uttar Pradesh where

Hindu cave temples were carved during the 8th century A.D. -- to look for an answer.

The new. Professor Eck would often speak of "calendar art," and now I know exactly what she was talking about. This Ganesha image is typical: Glossy, brightly-colored, these calendars are given as gifts to business colleagues. The images are modern, far more detailed and less stylized than the carvings or old temple paintings that are the subject of most of the rest of this project. This particular image shows not only a typical image of Lord Ganesha -- elephant head, broken tusk, sweets, mouse -- but also images of what might be described as the "eight jyotir-Ganeshas." Just as there are twelve jyotirlingas -- svayambhu or naturally-occurring lingas of Shiva -- so, many Hindus believe, are there eight self-manifested images of Lord Ganesha. These discovered murtis are scattered across India, each one now sheltered by an opulent temple and covered (as in this image) with a thick layer of orange sindoor powder. Art like this, as with the mandapa dome in Isund I described on January 4, is meant to allow the viewer to do darshan to all twelve holy images at once. Of course, one rarely actually does darshan to a calendar. While some people have hung calendars in their home pujas, or have removed the "calendar" part and simply hung the artwork, most of these calendars hang in people's offices. They are less objects of worship and more a pleasant reminder of God's continuing benevolence towards us. (Of course, one could offer a more sinister explanation as well. Perhaps business owners make and distribute these calendars to say, "I am Hindu. If you are too, then you should do business with me instead of with some Muslim or Christian or Sikh.")

"Anywhere," any time. This little Ganesha was easy to miss. He's a small stone image, barely three inches high, shoved into the knot of a tree in the middle of a parking lot in the upscale Werli Seaface neighborhood. I don't know who put him there, or why. There's no evidence that anyone worships or maintains this image as a shrine. But there we have it again: the "anywhere" image, the omnipresent Hindu deity, and yes -- again, the tree as a holy site.

January 15
Bombay

And so we reach the end of our journey. In a religion based on the idea of cycles -- within individual lives and epochs of history -- we have come full circle. So here I am, back at Jesus. This tile image is from a small Hindu temple near the Gandhi library and museum. We went in, did darshan, and took prasad. And on the way out, there was Jesus, keeping company with Parvati and gazing at us with the same benevolence found in a million Catholic school paintings. What's been most humbling to me as a Christian is that anything good can be part of Hinduism. The religion has grown and evolved through its encounters with other faiths. Many followers of the western faiths reject Hindus as pagan -- and therefore, if not evil, at least bound for hell instead of heaven if they do

not accept Christ as we define Him. Yet Hinduism has encountered Christianity and welcomed it with open arms. "There is something holy here," they said, "so this can fit into our theological world view." There is a popular strain of Hindu thought holding that Jesus was an incarnation of Lord Krishna. (Indeed, there are even some in the west who think Jesus traveled to India as a child and believe Hindu and Buddhist philosophy influenced Jesus' beliefs and teachings.)

If only Christians could be as thoughtful. It was just months before Khyati and I were married that the Southern Baptists announced a re-doubling of their efforts to convert Hindus. Baptists were the people who popularized the rhetorical question, "What would Jesus do?" ("WWJD?") I asked myself that question as I admired the ornate carvings of ancient temples in Gujarat, as I shivered barefoot on cold marble waiting for a glimpse of some particularly exquisite murti, and as I watched old women who have nothing -- not even a home -- wade into the chilly and polluted waters of Banaras' holy river. What would Jesus do? I cannot believe he would reject these people, would tell Khyati (as one of her high school classmates did) that there will be no place for her in heaven, or would find any offering of chickpeas and marigolds less worthy than the wafers and wine of my home faith. That is not the Jesus who spoke the Beatitudes, nor even the wrathful God we encounter in the Old Testament. Hinduism is so different as to be incomprehensible to westerners at times. But the sensation of being part of it, of doing darshan amid the incense and clamor of an urban temple or of gazing out across the waters of the Ganga, was very familiar.

It was the sensation of reaching out to God, and finding Him.