Dorf to Dorf in the Wienerwald - Aug 29, 2001

The Viennese Dragon

Silly Sophie says, "I ain't scared of no dragon!"

St. George Church

Vineyards above Kahlenbergerdorf

No trips for Daktari this month. Instead I'll take you through time and space to Vienna in 2001. My wife Rena and I are traveling with out neighbor Bernadette Lucas, who is presenting our paper on African Salt at the International Congress of Nutrition.

While Bernie goes postering, at the I.N.C. convention hall, Rena and I take the “D” Tram from the K + K Hotel to Nussdorf. We trek through the 'dorf" (or village) until we come to the lower slopes of Mount Kahlenberg, all covered with vineyards. The grapes are ripe and I surreptitiously sample a few on the way. After leaving the dorf, we are in the Wienerwald, which contrary to American popular belief is not hot-dog country. It is a nice forested park which completely encircles the city of Vienna. There are two largish hills in the Wienerwald which overlook the Danube (the Kahlenberg and the Leopoldberg). These are the last two peaks of the European Alps. At 480 and 510 meters, they are also the world’s smallest Alps. Unlike most Alps, they have Kaffeehaus’s and Bierstube’s at the top of each. Hike then drink coffee; hike again and drink beer. We can see all Vienna through binoculars from the top. There is even shopping at the top of the Kahlenberg - we buy tee shirts and a book of photos of Vienna.

HAPSBURGS 1, TURKS 0
The top of the Leopoldberg is where the Austrians under King Leopold, the Hapsburg Emperor, turned back the last invading Turkish army from the gates of Vienna in 1683. This set the borders of Europe at the Bosporus. To celebrate, a young Viennese named Joachim Schwenig looted some odd looking beans from the Turkish camp, boiled them up and that is how coffee came to Vienna. Unfortunately, three more centuries were to pass before Franz Sacher, a 19 year old pastry chef apprentice concocted his first Sacher Torte, thus completing the Viennese “hat trick” of Coffee, Schlagobers, and Sacher Torte. This won young Sacher the 1903 Nobel Prize for pastry. Schlagobers is German for whipped cream - the special floaty kind that sits up on top of your cup and sticks to your mustache. It is said that another famous Viennese - Dr. Sigmund Freud - used to dip the end of his cigar in his Schlagobers and lick it off. Analyze that!

ANOTHER DAY, ANOTHER DORF
From the top of the Kahlenberg, the way down is steep through a forest of very interesting, tall, smooth deciduous trees of 30-40 meters height. At the bottom, tucked between the “berg” and the Danube is a cute little dorf called (what else?) Kahlenbergerdorf. The small church in Khalenbergerdorf dates from the 10th century but of the original structure, only the doorstop remains. The church was burned twice by the Turks and once by a monk smoking in bed after lights out. Shame on him. It’s last resurrection was accomplished in 1723 and the church is aptly named after St. George - an early opponent of smoking, particularly by dragons. The altar is backed by a gory painting of the patron saint slaying said dragon. The caption reads (I think) - “Only You Can Prevent Forest Fires” but my rudimentary German may have failed me here. The doorstop may also be a mis-translation, come to think of it.

The artist spent a lot more time on rendering the Dragon than he did on St. George. The result is quite terrifying. It must have served to put the fear of God into generations of illiterate Kahlenberger Kinder. The Churchyard is small, well-tended and features a variety of especially sweet-smelling roses. Delicious!

At the Danube we buy a glass of Mineralwasser mit Gas and lunch on bread, cheese, Greek sugar cookies and Toblerone. This finishes off the last of the emergency supplies as well as all that we had stolen from the K+K breakfast buffet. Tomorrow we visit Hundertswasser Haus.

Some useful phrases in German for hiking in the Wienerwald:

Your mountains take my breath away! Ihre Berge sind atemberaubend.

Or perhaps it is the lack of oxygen. Oder vielleicht ist es der Mangel an Sauerstoff.

I sighted several trees. Ehrspahte ich mehrere Baume.

We are lost. Haben wir uns verlaufen!

Oh Calcutta VII - Raghuviira's Guru: The Final Incarnation

Will the Real Guru Please Stand Up?

The trip home from Calcutta to Amesbury was long but uneventful. I remember an interesting conversation with my seatmate – a woman obstetrician who grew up in India but now practices in Wales, U.K. We debated the virtues of arranged marriage versus marrying for love. Her opinion was that love is blind whereas parents know their child so well they are more likely to identify a good match. Hmmmm.

I arrive home jet lagged by 10 hours and in need of a shower. The next day at breakfast (about 2 PM local time) I finally am alert enough to talk coherently.

“So how was the meeting with your Guru?” asks Rena.

“Indescribable,” I reply. “but I’ll try.”

As I go through the recital of my contact with Shri Anandamurti (a.k.a. P.R. Sarkar), I become increasingly enthusiastic. I re-experience that mixture of awe and weirdness that comes from meeting another human being who has achieved his Calcutta ‘all-in-one’ moment with the entire known universe. As I tell about the pinnacle of personal contact, my face lights up.

“. . . and then the Guru gave me a new spiritual name.”
“A new name – what is it?” asks my wife.
“Rhaguviira,” I enthuse.
“Hmm – you mean Ragu, like the spaghetti sauce?” she inquires skeptically.
“At the time, I was actually thinking of Carmine, the Big Ragu, from Laverne and Shirley,” I remember. “But I didn’t say anything to him.”

Patiently, I explain to my doubting spouse about King Rhaghu, the warrior king who was the grandfather of Rama, etc. (see Oh Calcutta VI for details)

“Well, I understand,” says Rena. “But practically speaking, if you tell anyone around here your new name, they’re going to think spaghetti sauce. So then what happened?”

I feel a spritzel of figurative cold water dampening the unalloyed enthusiasm I take in my new spiritual name. However, I soldier on:

“So then,” I continue, “the guru gave me a special blessing – personal spiritual advice which I am to remember for the rest of my life.”
“Wow,” says my adoring, if somewhat down-to-earth wife. “What did he tell you.”
“Actually he whispered it to me. Do you want me to whisper it to you?”
“No, just spit it out.”
”Ok, here’s the short version: Baba says that I should ‘always try to be myself and nobody else.’”

“Somebody else says that, too,” Rena says musingly. “If I’m not mistaken, I think it’s Mr. Rogers on T.V.”

I am rocked back on my spiritual heels. By golly she’s right. Mr. Rogers does say that!
All this time and expense to go to Calcutta and I could have received the same advice from my childrens’ favorite TV show. Rena and I look at each other and start to giggle – then we bust out laughing.

“You win,” I say. “My spiritual life is changed forever. From now on I’m going to eat spaghetti and red-sauce while watching Fred Rogers on Channel 2 with Ali and Dan. I’ll be the one in the lotus pose.”

“Onward and upward,” chortles Rena.

“Imagine that,” I think to myself. “I have met the Guru and he is Fred!

Nevertheless, I wouldn’t trade my pilgrimage adventures in India for anything. As with many spiritual adventures, the enlightenment you seek in unlikely and exotic places is often in plain sight, waiting for you in your own backyard.
As my new Guru says, “It’s a beautiful day in the neighborhood.” We should all be more appreciative of that simple fact!

Oh Calcutta VI - The Guru Speaks!

Guru Anandamurti

Pratik

This is it! Personal contact with my guru.
I awake early and bathe in a basin of water, but take no food.
Fasting keeps the mind sharp. I repeat my mantra over and over- I am ready.

About 3 PM, I am led to a small, quiet room. It is cool (relatively speaking), dim, and smells of sandalwood incense. In a few minutes an orange-robed sanyasin (monk) conducts me from the antechamber into the inner sanctum. I nervously rub my ‘pratik’ for good luck. The pratik is a brass disk engraved with the Star of David. Inside the star is a rising sun and inside that is a swastika. I wear it around my neck.

The ‘pratik’ works on many levels. Combining three powerful religious symbols sops up tons of bad karma. Rubbing it calms my chakras. Wearing it protects against the stink-eye. Other lesser effects of pratik-wearing are: 1.) the brass turns my chest green and 2.) the swastika drives my Jewish mother-in-law crazy.

The Guru is in! Shri Shri Anandamurti, all in white, sits cross-legged on an orange cushion. He is garlanded with matching orange marigolds. Incense burns in a rough clay bowl and Baba’s thick eyeglasses rimmed in heavy black plastic reflect the light of candles. For a moment, I flash on superman’s alter ego- Clark Kent. Different clothes – same glasses. I wonder, “Are the glasses for my protection more than for the guru’s vision?”

“Namascar,” I bring my hands together in prayer and touch the thumbs to my forehead.
Then I kneel and bow my head to the floor with hands outstretched toward the master in the asana called “The Child’s Pose”. I actually feel like a child.

“Arise, boy.” The Guru has a very mild voice and speaks perfect unaccented English.
We gaze into each other’s eyes. I am grinning like a monkey. I feel very young and foolish.

“I’m glad to see you,” says Baba.
The feeling is mutual. We do the eye thing some more.
“Do you know who King Raghu was?” he asks.
I feel tempted to mention Carmine, the Big Ragu, on 'Laverne and Shirley' but I’m not quite that foolish (yet).
“No Baba, I don’t.”

“You should know more because henceforth you will carry his name,” says Anandamurtiji.
“From now on your Sanskrit name will be Raghuviira which means follower of Raghu. Raghu was the King of all India and he had to prevail as a warrior against many enemies. He was also the great-grandfather of Rama.”

I feel my chest swell! I now have my Sanskrit name.

“Raghuviira is a very powerful name for a small boy, don’t you think?” asks the Guru.

“Yes, Baba,” I say.
I am pretty tongue-tied by this point and regressing rapidly. I have to curb a tendency to switch to baby-talk.

“Well it is a powerful name,” he pauses and his eyes close and then slowly open again. “Like Raghu you will struggle against many enemies but each time you will prevail, even to that point where you will achieve spiritual victory.”

“The word Raghu is made up of ‘Ra’ or light plus ‘ghu’ or moving,” he continues. ”So you are ‘moving light’ or ‘light moving’. They say King Raghu was a very fast chariot driver.” Baba eyes me again. “ Maybe you are a very quick student.”

“I try,” I say.

“Well, when you try you must promise me one thing,” Baba demands.
“What is that babaji,” I ask.
“You will remember what I say now, eh boy?” he queries from behind his thick, thick spectacles.
“Oh, yes Baba.”

“OK remember this,” Baba pauses and leans forward. “When you try, you must always try as yourself – and you must not try to imitate any others.” He leans back again.
“Do you understand,” he looks at me and smiles.

“Yes, Baba,” I respond. “ I will only try as myself and not anyone else.”

With that I bow and touch the feet of the Master. He gives me Namaste – and nods to me. “Go now, Rhaghuviira, but remember – try only to be yourself, no one else.”
Still facing the Guru, I back out of the room.

Personal contact is ended. I now bear the name of the great King Raghu, but on the mundane level I still must try to be myself. This is going to take some thought!

The Duncan

f/Silly Sophie/f

THE DUNCAN

AL the BELLMAN

Mario Lanza

FLASH! Stop the presses! Enlightenment can wait.

I have to tell you about our latest trip to New Haven and our new lodging fave – The Hotel Duncan on Chapel Street.

Silly Sophie is two months and one week old. We had a fine visit with her and her parents on Saturday. Sophie’s Great Aunt Josephine (Auntie Jo) joins us for the day. About 9 PM Rena, Jo and I drive to the Hotel Duncan where we have a reservation for the night. Christopher has warned us in advance, “It’s not your average hotel, but I think you guys will like it.”

Following a contest for a parking spot with a lithe but buxom six-foot-tall African-American woman in a blond wig, skimpy tank-top and white short-shorts (Rena’s Suzuki eventually loses to the lady’s Camaro), we enter the lobby of the Duncan and register at the desk. The lobby is dark wood with a black and white harlequin floor –1940’s vintage.

“The bellboy will be here shortly to escort you to your room.”
The desk clerk dings his bell.
“Ah,” he says, “and here’s the bellboy now.”
An 85 year old gent wearing a black tie and white shirt ambles up to the desk.
“That’s bellMAN NOT bellBOY!” Al, the bellperson, admonishes the clerk.

I grab the bags as Al escorts us to the elevator.
“Don’t want the old boy to pop a hernia,” I whisper to Rena.
“This is the oldest operating passenger elevator in Connecticut,” says Al proudly.
“And this must be the oldest living elevator operator in Connecticut,” I think to myself.

Al slides back the folding metal door and hops down into the driver’s seat.
“Wait while I adjust it,” says Al.
He deftly raises the elevator about 9 inches so we don’t have to jump down after him.

“This elevator has been in the hotel for 85 years,” says Al brightly.
“And how long have you been working here?” I ask.
“Thirty two years,” answers Al.
“How’s it going so far?” I inquire.
“Not bad. Some nights are better than others.”
“I hear the elevator business has its ups and downs,” I chortle.
Al gives me the stink-eye and mutters to himself.

As we ascend slowly, I try to calculate whether thirty two years in the elevator at the Duncan Hotel is the same vertical distance as a trip to the moon and back. I conclude, it’s a definite maybe.

We exit after two floors and walk down the hall to our room. Al fiddles with the key for a while but the door is stubborn. I try. Still no luck. Then I look at the key.
“This is the wrong room,” I exclaim. Al takes a look. “We’re not even on the right floor,” he groans.

Al leads the way, as our troupe of adventurers nudges and giggles its way back to the elevator cage. We get in and ascend two more floors. As we walk down the 5th floor hallway, Al observes perspicaciously- “So there’s three. You, the Mrs. and her.” He nods toward Josephine.
“Good thing I brought an extra girl for you, Al.” I observe.
Al shakes his head – “No thanks,” he deadpans. “I love my wife more than anything.” He pauses and cogitates for a second. “Except, Mario Lanza. My wife thinks I love Mario Lanza more than I love her.”

I do a double take. How did Mario Lanza get into this?
“You mean Mario Lanza – as in The Student Prince?”
This bellman explodes. “He was robbed! They didn’t let him act. He did the soundtrack but they gave the part to another actor.” Al fumes in righteous indignation.
“Sorry I touched a sore spot.” I apologize.
“Never mind,” says Al dourly. “I’ll get over it . . . . someday.”
He opens the door to room 510.

“Name another Mario Lanza movie,” blurts Al as we enter our room.
“Um, ‘Bells of St. Mary’s’, ” I venture.
“Come on -- that was Bing Crosby,” Al sneers. “Try again.”
“I give up,” I say turning to face our bellman.
“Hah,” he harrumphs. “If I had a dollar for every time I’ve watched ‘The Great Caruso’ I’d be a wealthy man.”
Al pulls out his wallet. “Look at this.”
He opens the wallet to a well-thumbed black & white photo of Mario Lanza singing in front of a group of white-robed choirboys.
“Do you know what movie THIS is?” he demands.
“Can’t say that I do.”
“Neither can I,” says Al regretfully. “It’s been bugging the hell out of me for years. I’ll go and get you more towels.”
Al exits the room.

Room 510 is almost as quirky as the elevator. (Not as quirky as the bellman though!)
I’ve seen hotel rooms with two double beds and I’ve seen rooms in pensions in Europe with two single beds, but never before have I seen a room with a double bed and a single bed. Above each individual bed is a print of an English hunting scene. Only it’s the exact same print over both beds. “I bet there’s another room in the Duncan that has duplicate prints over its beds,” I surmise.

“Hey, look you guys,” I exclaim. “The television is a Philco. Can you believe it?”

There’s a knock on the door. It’s Al with the towels.
“I brought you towels and soap,” he explains. Al comes to a halt and looks puzzled. “And something else but I can’t remember what. But if you need anything just push the buzzer.”
That’s the last we see of Al.
I head for the bathroom while the girls switch on the Philco.
Surprisingly the picture and sound aren’t bad!

Despite its age, the Duncan bathroom is exquisitely clean. There are lots of towels and soap. Oh yeah, and plenty of plastic water glasses too.
“Good old Al,” I think to myself. “He remembered.”

As I brush my teeth for bed, I muse on a change in retirement plans. Maybe I won’t be a Walmart greeter after all. Maybe I can get Al’s job as bellMAN at the Duncan instead! Why not? He’s probably about to drop in his tracks any day now. We’ll be near to Silly Sophie, I can make extra money on tips and I’ll have a captive audience all the way to the 5th floor. I can tell tons of awful jokes to your tired, your poor, and your tempest tossed yearning to be free (of my 90-year-old elevator cage with its gracefully aging elevator operator). Yes indeedy, just think of it!

Daktari

P.S. To see the great American tenor Mario Lanza singing Ave Maria in front of choir boys go to:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CULVjKTl6cE

Oh Calcutta V - The Return of the Guru

Calico Jack Rackham

Calico Cloth

Victoria Memorial - The Maidan, Kolkata

He, inquiring: “Do you enjoy Kipling?”
She, blushing: “I’m sorry but I don’t believe I’ve ever actually kippled.”

We last glimpsed my Guru, P.R. Sarkar, embarking from his compound in the back of a 1952 Packard, whisked away to parts unknown (see Calcutta Day 3). As a good chela (or devotee), I have been dogging his tracks ever since. I now learn that he is back home! Only two days left of my trip. It’s bliss or bust! My quest for personal contact with Guru Shri Shri Anandamurti resumes at full intensity. But not without the requisite detours, diversions and perambulations associated with the pursuit of enlightenment.

One of these is calico – a cotton fabric, and another is Jack Rackham – a part-time pirate hanged and gibbeted in Jamaica in 1720. I found out today that calico is not named after Calcutta, Bengal, India as I had always thought. Calico (or muslin) is a type of cloth produced by traditional weavers in Calicut, Kerala, India. It is thick cotton that is less coarse than denim and very cheap. In 1700, colorfully printed calico from India was a big hit with certain lower-class ladies of London who were called “Calico Madams”.

Two of these women were Anne Bonney and Mary Read, who made their way to the West Indies and joined a group of 11 pirates led by Jack Rackham. Anne and Mary took to wearing pirate clothes and Jack took to wearing the colorful Calico cloth of the London working girls. Hence his nickname – Calico Jack Rackham. After stealing a small sloop, this cross-dressing band of buccaneers terrorized small fishing boats near Jamaica, until they were captured and imprisoned in Port Royal, Jamaica. Jack was hanged but the ladies pleaded pregnancy and escaped the noose. (I have a hunch that Jack Sparrow of the film Pirates of the Caribbean is modeled after Calico Jack Rackham but it’s only a hunch.)

Incidentally, calico cloth also was responsible for one of the major public health coups of the 18th century – i.e. cotton shorts. The nobility of England had long ago taken up the French fashion of silken “small-clothes” worn next to the skin to prevent good English woolens from irritating the hell out of their noble privates. Cheap cotton muslin from India made possible underwear everywhere for everyone. The new calico cloth was snatched up by English tailors, who fashioned affordable undergarments for the lower classes. Washable undergarments reduced the transmission of parasitic diseases, drastically improving public health and longevity 100 years before the industrial revolution. As my old high school Latin teacher, Dr. Flowers loved to say, “Semper ubi, sub ubi.”

Like a shipload of drunken pirates, this narrative has managed to drift from the East Indies to the West Indies, from the late 20th century to the early 18th and from ladies’ dresses to men’s underwear. It is now high time to return this blog to Calcutta for another glimpse of the guru.

I hear the rumor that Shri Anandamurti is back in town from a fellow devotee while dancing Kirtan on the Maidan late this afternoon. The Maidan, a 5 square km open field in downtown Calcutta, is Kolkata’s Central Park. It is home to the Victoria Memorial and many other public places – including a racecourse and a golf course. The park was originally a drill field for the British and is still owned and operated by the Indian Army. On weekends, military parades compete with political rallies and cricket matches for the public’s attention.

From the Maidan, I hop into a cab and prepare to rush back to the Guru’s bungalow. Unfortunately, rushing and Kolkata are not compatible at this time in the afternoon. The cabbie and I are stuck in traffic for hours. By sunset we are hopelessly enmeshed with hoards of diesel farting auto-rickshaws. My driver, Rasik, and I have exchanged our life stories. He is a retired military officer who served in India’s tribal areas in the Northwest Territories. We decide to knock off and await brighter vehicular prospects after dinner. I am escorted by Rasik’s cab to the Hoogli Hamburger Haven. (Unfortunately, I have neglected to inform Rasik that not all Americans are carnivores.) The Haven is on the riverbank with a beautiful view. The burgers are only so/so. Rasik insists on paying for my repast. I can’t believe it. By 8 P.M. he deposits me at the P.R. Sarkar compound where I spend the night. Fare - $8 with tip. The experience – priceless!

Oh, Calcutta, what a wonder you are! Taking a break during a cab ride to eat imitation American hamburgers in a vegetarian country while the sun sets behind the burning ghats on a tributary of the sacred Ganges is a very weird experience. “Holy smokes!” I haven't achieved Nirvana yet, but I’m definitely not in Kansas anymore.

Oh Calcutta IV- Not your Mother's India!

Mendicant Monks meet Regular Beggars

Mother Theresa

Mother Ali & Baby Sophie

Readers of a certain vintage will remember the time when all good American mothers would remind their offspring over dinner about “the starving children of India”. This was usual when a kid balked at chowing down fried liver, canned peas, lima beans or other unappealing staple foods of the 50’s.

Well, do I have some good news for you!
As I passed the docks on the Hoogli River this morning I noticed freighters taking on loads of rice from the Bengali countryside. A passerby explained that India, thanks to the green revolution, not only is self-sufficient in food but is also a net exporter of grains to other countries! That makes me feel happy for the starving children of India. Although I must admit I still resent Mom for all those wasted hours I spent staring at bits of rapidly cooling liver on my plate, long after everyone else was excused from the table.

Another marvel of the ‘new Calcutta’ is the subway system which is being constructed downtown. It is fascinating to watch a modern engineering project being built by hand. In the U.S. everything is moved into place by cranes and bolted or riveted together with power tools. In India most of the work is done by hundreds of men in loincloths and turbans dangling precariously from bamboo scaffolds while hauling on thick ropes attached to large pulleys. Rivets are heated on charcoal braziers and banged flat with mallets. Bolts are seated by young boys and men hanging off the ends of wicked long wrenches. It is fascinating. The 19th century meets the 21st century on the new Calcutta Metro construction site. I’ll take bets from anyone that the Kolkata Metro will outlast Boston’s Big Dig by a century or two.

(An interesting thing about the Metro is that the laborers sleep with their families in the sections of tunnel they work on during the day. Yet another example of the ‘all-in-one’ philosophy that characterizes the Bengali mind-set.)

In the new Calcutta even Mother Theresa is no longer sacred. She is considered rather old hat by your average Kolkata man-on-the-street. Although still revered by Catholics all over the world, this diminutive Albanian nun is only tolerated by the average Calcuttan. They consider her a harmless old relic who does a lot to perpetuate the myth of their city as a place chock-full of dying beggars. “Why does every visitor come to see Mother Theresa and no one visits the Calcutta Heart Institute?” is what my informants ask me. They are also proud of the fact that satellites are now being launched into earth orbit via the Satish Dhawan Space Centre near Chennai.

The beggars in my Calcutta neighborhood are clean, well behaved and not evidently at death’s door. They politely line up in the morning near a bridge over a small tributary of the Hoogli where people walking on their way to work dutifully drop coins in their outstretched hands. Higher caste people with jobs are expected and even obligated to provide charity in this way. The beggars are usually greeted by name by their benefactors. In return, they give a ‘namaste’ blessing to their usual patrons. So in traditional Bengali fashion, giving to the less fortunate is part of the daily round.

It’s interesting that in India wandering sadhu’s (or holy-men) are beggars too! They present a small wooden bowl into which people put alms. Somehow this ‘holy beggar’ archetype sanctifies the entire profession. Beggars in America have no such sanction. Their degraded condition contrasts sharply with the lowly but respected position of beggars in Indian society. One difference is that alcohol is readily available in the U.S. In India it's illegal and mostly restricted to fine tourist hotels.

Unfortunately, airport and tourist-hotel beggars in India are just as annoying as anywhere else in the world. I wonder if I offer one of them a case of lima beans will he give me ‘namaste’ or not – somehow I doubt it.

Daktari

P.S. As of this blog date, the Indian space program is still going strong. The launch date for the first Indian lunar orbiter is scheduled for July 2008, to be followed by an unmanned lunar landing in 2010 or 2011.

P.P.S. It’s OK Mom. I forgive you!

Oh Calcutta III - Guru Puja

The Goddess Kali

Daktari meditates in younger days

The next morning I am allowed in at Baba’s compound for his once a week ‘guru puja’ – devotions at the feet of the guru. An event not to missed on my short stay in India.

First I devote myself to the “All-in-One” personal hygiene station from whence I emerge ‘clean clear through and deodorized too’. I note that I have picked up a disturbing cough. Initially, I attribute this to a virus from the flight. But then I cough a loogie of dark black phlegm. Yucch! Later, I realize that the air in Kolkata is so polluted with soot that coughing black sputum is a normal morning event like brushing one’s teeth. “Too many diesel farts from too many auto rickshaws,” I surmise. Even one’s boogers are black in Calcutta.

This seems appropriate since the city of Calcutta is named for the goddess Kali. Kali, in Sanskrit, is the feminine of Kala or black. She is the Hindu goddess of death and destruction. In union with Lord Shiva she creates or destroys worlds. The Tantric approach to Kali is to display courage by confronting her on cremation grounds in the dead of night, despite her terrible appearance. Meditation in cemetaries at midnight is one of the spiritual practices recommended by my guru. Needless to say, I have never had the courage or the opportunity to actually confront Kali on these terms.

All the people I meet tell me it is too bad that I have missed her annual festival – the Kali Puja – by just one week. However the decorations are still up and everywhere one sees statues of Kali – her open mouth dripping blood, a necklace of human skulls round her neck and covered by her devotees with garlands of marigolds.

As I walk down the main thoroughfare away from the Hotel Bliss, a Bengali tradesman beckons to me. At first I don’t think he means me. So I point to myself in the universal gesture for, “Who me?”
He gives a vigorous Bengali head nod and I stroll over to his roadside ‘duka’ (informal stall or shop). As I approach he reaches under the counter and proudly brings out a battered brown plastic water bottle. Sure enough, it’s my canteen! He must have seen me drop it and he has kept watch over it until I returned. I offer to give him something but he refuses any reward. I perform ‘namaste’ greeting and shake hands vigorously to show my gratitude.

Believe it or not, Calcutta is one of the friendliest and most polite cities I have ever visited. The streets of Calcutta seem to offer up examples of caring to visitors on every corner. My ‘canteen miracle’ seems to be just one of the many daily miracles in this municipality of the miraculous.

I arrive at the guru’s house just as the ‘guru puja’ ceremony begins. An intimate gathering of as many followers as can be crammed in a small gymnasium listens to Shri Shri Anandamurtiji give a lecture followed by his blessing. Baba is a small white-robed figure at the front of the assembly. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen him in person. How exciting. Unfortunately, the lecture is in Bengali and about two hours long. This combined with the body heat of a couple hundred attendees and my residual jetlag induces torpor and then sleep. Luckily I am not the only worshipper to conk out!

I do wake up in time to receive the guru’s blessing or ‘prasad’. This is a twist of newspaper holding a dollop of rice crispies blessed by the guru himself. (I was hungry but didn’t eat the prasad. Instead I saved the blessed rice crispies for two decades, then lost them when we moved to our new house about six years ago. The moral of this story re: rice krispies – if you got ‘em, eat em.)

Afterwards, my guru exits the lecture hall. Anandamurti is helped into the back of his black 1952 Packard sedan and then is whisked from the compound for his evening drive. We all wave ‘bye-bye’. Then a group of saffron robed monks organizes a 24 hour ‘kirtan’. It’s a sort of devotional dance marathon to Indian music. Participants chant and dance in relays for a full day and night. Very fun but I don’t want to stay all night. As evening falls I clutch my canteen and my small packet of holy rice krispies and walk back to the Hotel Bliss. In a fog of devotional good feeling, I forget to gather up the red plaid wool blanket from Scotland that I sit on for meditation. No miracle this time – it’s gone for good. In the spiritual seeker game – you win some and you lose some! Next installment - life on the streets.