predictably random musings, sublime and mundane
Gaze merging into this vast expanse
Of sea and surf, sun and sky
Who art Thou that gazes
From all embracing, immaculate purity.
Who hides there in that Heart essence,
Secret strummer of my heart strings
Is it me inside You
Or You inside me.
Will sea and sky last forever
Or will You last forever,
In this dance of boundless forms
All achingly sweet
And ultimately heartbreaking,
Providing forever fleeting glimpses
Of Timeless Being.
Ask anybody with even a smattering of familiarity with India, and the name IIT is likely to evoke positive recall. The Indian Institutes of Technology have indeed carved a glorious niche for themselves in the annals of higher engineering education. In this modern world of all pervasive technology, the IITs are a matter of pride for India, with many of their alumni counting among the who’s who of business, industry and academia worldwide, adding to India’s growing soft power and prestige in the global arena.
The topic though is a different IIT, granting for some poetic license with the acronym. This is not the venerable institution, but it might well be one, in a manner of speaking, for it enjoys a similar eminent status in discerning international circles. This other IIT has also risen to prominence with India’s growing soft power. In so doing, it has made waves for India in the world of global cuisine. This is India’s International Tiffin. The Dosa.
The Dosa needs no introduction really. Its reputation precedes it, and naturally so. Sure, there are several other Indian snack foods, like the chaat dishes and the mithais, all deservedly popular. Amongst them all though, the unobtrusive dosa is arguably numero uno. It’s international stature only continues to swell with every passing day.
The dosa has certainly come a long way from its humble origins in the kitchens and tiffin houses of South India. It is the Indian analog of the Western crepe. The batter by default is usually made of fermented rice flour and black gram. You also have the rava dosa, made from semolina batter, and healthier alternatives with other grains, like millet or amaranth dosas. The dosa can be made crisp or soft, plain or with a variety of fillings (masala). It is usually served with piping hot sambar, a thick tangy stew flavored with vegetables, and one or more chutneys, fresh grated coconut chutney being the most popular.
Growing up in Tamil Nadu, there was no dearth of this most delightful of foods. You could have dosas for both breakfast and the evening tiffin, and even for lunch or dinner come to think of it. Eateries in the remotest towns and villages would serve the most magnificent dosas. In fact, the popularity of a restaurant had frequently to do with the quality of its dosa, and the dosa’s cousin, the idli. Several South Indian restaurant franchises, like the Udupi chain, would pride themselves on their dosas, which you could expect to be of consistently high standard. The quality depends on the batter of course, but the chef makes the final difference, for the dosa, ultimately, is a thing of delicacy. While a good dosa can be replicated with the right batter by a reasonably competent cook, the truly excellent dosa needs the kai pakkuvam, that spontaneous touch of hand innate to all chefs of fine standing.
Not too long ago in India, good dosas were generally to be had only south of the Vindhyas. North Indian eateries would almost always have a harder time serving up the same quality, and even if they managed to get the dosa right, the sambar or the chutney presented formidable challenges. Outside of major metros, dosas could generally be found in small town North India only if the place had a cosmopolitan population, like the steel city of Jamshedpur. But starting with the mid-eighties, and continuing into the 1990’s, the dosa’s fortunes began to climb. As more Indians began to travel and explore more of India, the dosa acquired the status of national tiffin.
Even remote hamlets could now serve up a dosa surprise, and among these, several were at travel hubs, like the canteens at stations on the Indian railway network. I recall distinctly the masala dosa at Rangiya, a sleepy town in faraway Assam. The dosa served in that lovely little rail cafe, after a journey of 60 hours from Bombay en route to Guwahati, was simply fabulous. Equally vivid are my memories of a small restaurant in the temple hamlet of Gaurikund, in the midst of a pilgrimage trek high up in the Himalayas. Lower down the hills, Mussorie and Rishikesh have been good dosa destinations for a while. But tasting the superb dosa in Gaurikund was a welcome change from the ubiquitous local breakfast staple, the aloo paratha. It lifted my travel weary spirits like magic.
Prime Minister Rajiv Gandhi certainly helped boost the dish’s popularity by mandating soft dosa and chutney on the in-flight menu for every one of his numerous foreign junkets. And then one fine morning I read in the newspaper that masala dosas were a big draw at the National Stadium in Karachi, venue of an ongoing test match between arch cricketing rivals India and Pakistan. The struggling Indian team may have found the Pakistani spectators partisan, but the crowd certainly showed no such prejudice against this appetizing snack of South Indian origins, which for many of them was a first. Merit, inevitably, is always applauded! Whoever was the smart entrepreneur at Karachi had certainly broken fresh ground for the dosa.
In the spring of 2001, I journeyed through Nepal and Tibet, in the course of my first ever visit to sacred Mt. Kailash. At that time, Kathmandu’s Thamel district featured delicious dosas, courtesy a restaurant run by a most lovely Sikh gentleman. Upon entering Tibet next, we were surprised by a delectable dosa breakfast in the hill town of Zhangmu. The dosa had clearly conquered the subcontinent.
Beyond India, Singapore, with its long-standing populace of Tamil origins, and innumerable Indian restaurants, has always been a dosa happy hunting ground. You could also find dosas in the UK, with perhaps links dating to pre-independence days. But the surge in the dosa’s global popularity in recent times, especially in North America, might well be attributed to the growth of India’s IT services sector. A good bit of the software boom was fueled by South Indians, who in the course of their increasing travels within and beyond India, brought with them both their fondness and their insatiable demand for the dosa.
Today, you can find a dozen dosa outlets in places as far apart as Dallas and Seattle, Atlanta and Toronto. Chains like Anjappar’s and Saravana Bhavan, of course, can be found serving dosas in New Jersey and San Jose. Purists might well frown, but the American penchant for innovation has led to fun new adaptations like the chocolate dosa, the corn dosa and the spinach and cheese dosa. Much like Pizza Hut, there’s the Dosa Hut chain, with one of its outlets right next door to the venerable Ganesha temple in Queens, New York. The temple canteen itself is justly famous for its outstanding dosa delights, and home quality food in general. And not surprisingly, in the San Francisco Bay Area, we have a restaurant chain named for the dish itself, the Dosa, with locations in Fillmore, Valencia and Oakland. Beyond the scores of South Indian restaurants in Silicon Valley, there are Dosaterias now at Whole Foods Market, and then there’s also Vik’s market in Berkeley, a rare North Indian jewel whose dosa treats can give most South Indian dosa houses a run for their money.
Back in my college days at IIT Bombay, the affable Prof Chandrasekhar, Dean of Student Affairs, was fondly referred to as the Dosa, not merely by us students, but I suspect, by his own colleagues as well. It only served to reinforce for us the excellence of IIT, both of the institution and the tiffin. No IIT alumnus will grudge the dosa this sharing of appellations!
I sometimes wonder if we could have a sequel to the likes of A. L. Basham’s extraordinary tome of the 1950’s, ‘The Wonder That Was India’. If Basham had to extend his time horizons to cover modern India, there are several things he would find worthy to write about. For sure, both types of IIT will feature prominently, the institution and the dosa. Both are stellar global ambassadors of today’s Wonder That Is India.
Tomatoes are a perennial favorite, especially in summer time, and there are of course several delicious ways to savor their bountiful goodness. For long, all I thought possible with tomatoes were grills and sautés, stews and soups, purees and ketchups. Till one fine day in Spain, when an encounter with tomatoes turned out, to put it mildly, beyond culinary.
Several summers ago, a group of us friends caught the European travel bug. Spain and Portugal, by popular consensus, was where we would peregrinate. Itinerary planning was given over to our ever-resourceful Hari Sathianathan, who set about poring over the maps to chart the course for our trip. Our jaunt was to last just over a week.
A quick glance at the itinerary revealed the names of several familiar places. Next to Valencia in Spain, though, was earmarked a day’s outing to Buñol. The next time I met Hari I probed him on what the side-excursion to Buñol was all about. His response was a mischievous smile, and then to evade the question, by deftly changing topic. I let it go, thinking best not to prod further, for it might just be that some places are best encountered sans any preamble and expectations.
Shortly after, our trip got under way, crisscrossing the Spanish countryside, touching Madrid, Seville, and beautiful Lisbon in Portugal. My Spanish vocabulary stayed confined to two magic words, ‘aqua caliante’, to help with my daily herbal tea regimen. After several such days of hot herbal tea, and evenings of fruit sangria, our road journeys brought us to Valencia, home of famed Valencia oranges. The next day was to be our outing to Buñol, and in the evening group briefing I finally heard the program. It was Tomatina, Buñol’s famous annual tomato festival. We were told the plentiful summer tomato harvest would bring thick crowds to indulge in a mass tomato throwing spree, and therefore to dress for any and all eventualities.
Early the next morning we took a cab to Buñol, reaching there in under an hour. It was just dawn, and we could already see swarms of people buzzing about the visitor drop off terminal. The streets wore a carnival look. To weather a tomato deluge, I wore a bright cherry red T-Shirt and a flimsy pair of red shorts, sans underwear. Best, I thought cleverly, to save my dwindling trip stock of all white underwear for after the festival. In retrospect, it proved to be a rather brave, though prudent decision.
We sauntered down a long downhill stretch of road, at the end of which there was a roundabout from where you could turn in to the center of town, with its narrower streets. As we came to the roundabout, we were witness, much to our amusement, to some spankingly good morning entertainment. Strutting about were two burly bare-bodied blokes, in pointed headgear, tight briefs and spiked boots, their outfits a bright tomato red. Their skimpy costume looked part Roman soldier, part Phantom. One of them read out orders from a scroll, while the other milled about submissively, tidying up odds and ends.
All of a sudden, perhaps to reassert authority, the scroll reader cracked his little whip for a tight slap to his companion’s not insubstantial bottom. The latter yelped in feigned surprise, proceeding to give his wide derriere a manly recovery rub. His booty cheeks blushed crimson, matching the solar orb just risen on the horizon. The scene was so extraordinarily comic we could not help but burst out in guffaws. Ignoring our irreverent bunch, the brawny duo went back to their show of order barking and subservience. Our excitement at the naughty spectacle of an enormous pink bum slapped red was utterly beyond limit.
The crowds gradually grew thicker as we made our way towards the center of town. As we crossed over a small bridge, somebody called out saying no T-Shirts allowed for men. I paid no heed, but as soon as we came to the next street intersection, there was a line of young men tasked with enforcing the rule. Even as I tried to duck and dodge, two of them came up, one from each side, to rip my T-Shirt off in a flash. In less than milliseconds, my bright red T-Shirt was history. As much as I mulled over the loss of it, the dexterity of the act left me hugely impressed. A feat such as this would have taken hours of practice to be able to execute so flawlessly. I was now bare-chested and free to celebrate. We were soon amidst a crushing crowd, very close to the center of town. The heat was turning up, and at one point we almost had the beginnings of a mini-stampede, but thankfully everyone stayed put without triggering further panic.
On both sides of the streets were apartments packed with tourists awaiting the beginning of the fest. Elegantly dressed ladies, perhaps on a package tour, peered curiously from the safety of the balconies, as the throngs from below exhorted them to come down and join the fun. There was even a Bollywood film crew, camera all set up and ready to capture live action. Soon enough, the first truck piled high with tomatoes rolled in slowly through the center of town, its helpers tossing tomatoes generously into all sections of the waiting crowd. Like thick pellets of rain before a summer shower, the first tomatoes whizzed about in the air and burst on us with a pronounced pop. Their speed through the air was surprisingly fast, enough to sting, leaving you little time or space to duck. Before long, the truck came down the street past us, and we were bombarded by a hail of tomatoes.
A second truck came, and then a procession of trucks unleashing a continuous barrage of the red missiles, with people trying futilely to fend off the zippy projectiles before they landed. It was soon a complete free for all as everybody turned to pelting squishy red blobs and peels at each other, while effectively scrubbing chests and arms and legs with lycopene, the healthful ingredient released from all that tomato pulp in the heat. The streets were soon flowing streams of tomato mash, as scantily clad hordes of men and women made sure there was not a patch of skin on anybody that wasn’t tingling red. Excitement touched peak. Everyone was going to smell of tomatoes for at least a day or two.
About an hour and more of the tomato volleys later, the last truck made its way down the streets, and the sun smiled bright from blue skies on the red bodied mass of frenzy below. Ingenious humans had managed to put tons of tomatoes to massively cosmetic purpose in a riotous street celebration. If this had been in India, you might have been excused for thinking it was a religious fair or mela, where everyone had been showered with vermillion dust from above.
India is indeed known for its grand Kumbh Mela festivals, where millions dip in the confluence of sacred rivers like the Ganges to cleanse themselves spiritually. As much as it is a cleansing time, it is also a time for celebration, attracting devout throngs, curiosity trippers and every kind of tourist in-between. Buñol’s annual Tomatina with its packed streets is verily a kumbh mela as well, except that the communal scrubbing that ensues is not so much of souls as of bodies. The crowds are however no less enthusiastic, with a frenzy of fervor to match and exceed. Not all of them may be up for a sobering dip in the holy waters of the Ganges. They certainly know however, how to revel in this unique tomato kumbh mela, with immersion in a Ganges of lycopene.
Think of Chennai, and several word and image associations can spring to mind. City of Temples. Carnatic music. Bharatanatyam. The Marina. Culture. Idli, Vada and Pongal. All of this, and some more, can be encapsulated in a single word, Mylapore. All of 8 square kilometers, this oldest of Chennai’s neighborhoods is surely the cultural and intellectual hub of the city.
Mylapore owes its name to the peacocks (Mayil, in Tamil) that once roamed the area freely. Historical references go back to at least the 7th Century AD, the time when the famous Kapaleeshwarar temple was built here by the reigning Pallava kings of the area. The towering temple to Shiva and its sacred tank (Mylapore Tank), with the famed mada veedhis (streets) and busy shops surrounding it, is the center of Mylapore’s many attractions. Inside are the shrines of the Divine Mother Karpagambal, and Shiva as Kapaleeshwarar. Traditional belief has it that whoever visits Karpagambal would never have to go hungry. The temple celebrates its famous nine day Panguni (Spring) Festival in March/April every year, when the streets stay jam-packed for days on end. Present day Mylapore is a bustling residential neighborhood where much of this old-world charm and religious fervor remain preciously intact.
Speaking of temples, in a lighter vein, it is said that you only have to trip and fall on a Mylapore street, and get up to find yourself at the doors of a temple. You may not have to walk more than a few minutes on most streets here before you can find a shrine to your favorite god or goddess.
One way of getting to know Mylapore, and a delicious one, is a food walk, which can tantalize with a fascinating range of assorted vegetarian treats. Several of Mylapore’s famous eateries (messes) roll out patently traditional items, like the kozhukattais, beloved treat of Lord Ganesha, made as rice dumplings with a sweet (coconut and jaggery) or savory filling. The seventy year old Rayar’s Café on Arundale Street is a must stop as well. This hole in the wall is famous for its idlis, vadas and Mysore bondas, not to mention the coconut chutney. I remember eating here with my dad one summer afternoon as a boy of five, maybe less, where I couldn’t decide which was hotter, the dosa or the weather!
Then there’s the Jannal Kadai (the Window Shop), right next to Kapaleeshwarar temple, where food is served out through a window. After morning devotions around the temple during the sacred Tamil month of Margazhi (December/January), it makes superb sense to fight the morning chill with Jannal Kadai’s delicious breakfast menu of bajjis, pongal and dosa. Not far from here is the Kalathi Stall, famed for its rose milk. And of course, one can always find plenty of places for a cup of traditional filter coffee, served in tiny steel tumblers and davaras, to heighten the experience.
Should you go overboard with all the food, a visit to Dabba Chetty Kadai is in order. This 100-year-old shop on Kutchery Road is your ready resort for all kinds of native herbal and country medicine, stacked in neat tin containers (or dabbas). Old timers in Mylapore can swear to its efficacy in combating all common ailments, and thanks to its formulations, report never having had to take to Western medicine. The dabbas may not be labelled, but the shop staff know how to reach out blindfolded for the exact medicine you need. Their Diwali leghyam, a concoction to correct the imbalances from festive eating around Diwali time, is sold only for a couple of weeks around the festival, but is arguably their hottest selling item of the year.
The December music festival is another of Mylapore’s (and Chennai’s) landmark events. The venerable Music Academy hosts some of the top artistes of the Carnatic music pantheon, but is by no means the only venue in town. In the vicinity of Mylapore are perhaps a dozen or so music sabhas (clubs) to cater to Chennai’s famed musical cognoscenti at this time of year. Much of the music is devotional, and it is a known fact that crime rates dip to near zero at this time of year. It’s perhaps got to do with the many gods and goddesses who descend upon the city to hear all of the divine music!
Mylapore wouldn’t be half as interesting though but for its amazing shops and bazaars, teeming with people, where you can find everything under the sun to never have to leave Mylapore your entire life. There’s rows of stalls selling bindis, bangles and other trinkets. Flower sellers and vegetable vendors line the sidewalks. Saree shops famous for their silks, like Rasi’s and Nalli’s, are perennially popular, as are jewelry stores like Nathella’s and Sukra’s. There’s Ambika Appalam for spice powders and papadams, Sri Vidya Manjal Kumkumam store for turmeric and vermillion, Vijaya Stores for school books, and Grand Sweets for snacks and tiffins. The shops at Luz Corner purvey clothes and cosmetics, and gift items and articles of everyday use. Nehru News Mart is a popular newsmagazine store, while Giri Trading is famous for books and religious items, and Sapthaswara Musicals sells traditional musical instruments. All of these, and several more, have carved a permanent niche for Mylapore, drawing locals and tourists alike.
If Chennai exudes a conservative, erudite aura of learning, Mylapore has a large part to do with it. The TamBram community can be found in full fledged flourish here, its storied success owing as much to a natural penchant for academics as an inherited fondness for curd rice. The TamBram heritage places a premium on culture and intellect, aesthetics and brilliance. Every other family can boast of a relative who’s immigrated to the United States or some such cold destination abroad. But these migratory snowbirds are inevitably back for the December holidays, to relive traditional memories and revel in the mild weather.
Mylapore’s ethos might be primarily Hindu, but it is also home to old mosques, as well as Luz Church and the Santhome Basilica, two iconic churches that date back to around half a millennium ago. Furthermore, the splendid new Universal Temple of Sri Ramakrishna, adjacent to the century old Sri Ramakrishna Math, provides a perfect modern day amalgam of spiritual harmony.
In cosmopolitan changing Chennai, Mylapore is a microcosm for all things traditional, continuing to thrive and blossom as fine as ever. Its way of life draws gladly from the tried and tested goodness of the past. The old remains adaptable, but has never really had to make way for the new. Rather, it is inevitably the new, which with time, comes to acknowledge the resilient wisdom of the old. In this ever ongoing exchange and alchemy of old with new, Mylapore is an abiding home for several excellent traditions from the past. Be it with its temples or festivals, Carnatic music or vegetarian cooking, the environs of Mylapore are always ready to welcome you, ever so gently, to the finer nuances and joys of life.
The last week has been one of reminiscences and nostalgia. I was back in Kolkata, that great throbbing city of feeling and soul, the city of my carefree younger days with its enduring memories. Arriving late in the afternoon, we couldn’t have hoped for a warmer welcome than that which greeted us at the Taj Bengal, the modern landmark of Bengali hospitality in South Kolkata’s plush neighborhood of Alipur. Dinner that evening was a languid and leisurely affair at the Taj’s showpiece restaurant, the Chinoiserie. The delectable spread would have done the veteran chefs of Kolkata’s Chinatown proud.
Culinary pleasures aside, the larger quest of this sojourn in Kolkata lay in the realm of the spiritual. The Divine Feminine, especially in her manifestations as Durga and Kali, is a vital presence here, and in the broader spiritual and cultural life of Bengal. Our plans for the next day were to visit two of the city’s most iconic shrines to the Goddess. First would be the historic temple of Kalighat, from which, as the story goes, the city derives its name. Next would be the nineteenth century temple of Dakshineshwar, intimately associated with the life of Bengal’s greatest sage of the modern era, Sri Ramakrishna.
We were up and ready at dawn the next morning, and were rewarded with an incredibly lovely spectacle of dark green foliage, thick purple clouds, and golden pink sunrays. Sights such as this might well have inspired the imaginations of a Tagore or a Bankim Chandra Chatterjee. The latter’s Vande Mataram is in part an eloquent tribute to the beautiful monsoon moods of the divine painter.
Our hotel was just a few minutes from Kalighat, and we were thus at the temple even before it was 6 am. This turned out fortuitous, as it was a Tuesday, special to Mother Kali, which also meant heavy throngs of worshippers. Upon reaching the locale, we were met by a helpful priest, Krishnaji, and his couple of attendant priests, who showed our group to his home next door. Here, we assembled offerings for worship, including flowers, coconuts and sweets. Led by Krishnaji, we then set off briskly to the temple, ignoring insistent street hawkers and other local characters who offered various types of support and intervention for our visit to the Goddess. Krishnaji marched us through a set of entrances, and presently we were almost at the doors of the garba griha, also called the Nija Mandir, the inner sanctuary of the Goddess’s own home. The crowd at this point was quite thick, even for this early hour of the morning, and from here on our pace barely inched forward.
Entering in through the doors of the sanctum, we were joined by other lines of people, elbowing and crushing upon us as we squeezed and wound our way down the steps. The expert crowd maneuvering of several priests, including Krishnaji, who were actually smiling and joking through it all, eased the pressure, even as we looked askance at some in the crowd who tried to sneak their way forward. This was a real-time spiritual lesson in keeping your composure and letting go. Soon enough though, we were in front of the great Goddess, whose startlingly alive image was clearly the compelling force at the center of it all.
A tall and articulate priest played head cop, standing directly in front of the deity, orchestrating crowd movement and issuing orders, even as he pressed upon us for contributions to an offering box for charitable initiatives. He bade us touch the image of the Goddess reverently, and prostrate at her feet, allowing us a few precious moments of imbibing Sacred Presence. A powerful maternal energy pervaded the sanctum, revealing Kali as a fierce dynamo of compassion, a perennial catalyst for the ultimate happiness of every struggling being. One needed little convincing that this was indeed how the great Mother of the Universe would manifest authentically, delighting in the surging waves of devotion from sincere hearts.
Persisting in his enjoyable Bengali accent, the priest now raised the pitch of his appeals, that our proximity to the Goddess enjoined us to give generously, and the giving would go to a credible social cause for children. We were aware that outside of this innermost sanctum, there were other lines with more distant and fleeting viewing access. His insistence toned down considerably however, and morphed to appreciation when we complied with a reasonable offering. He now made sure we could edge our way out without too much trouble, which could have otherwise been a real challenge, so fervent was the enthusiasm of the incoming crowd. I felt both relieved and distinctly fortunate.
We made our way out to a hall where we could finish up our puja, with the breaking of coconuts and the anointment of tilak marks on our foreheads. Then, past the ever insistent and annoying line of beggars that tested our resolve for patience once more, we were soon back at Krishnaji’s, stopping to pick up trinkets and memorabilia from the several stalls in the vicinity. We were happy to now offer him and his supporting cast a modest fee for their tremendous help, and were bid a grateful and genuinely warm goodbye. Our early morning darshan at Kalighat, with its accompanying spiritual transactions, was complete.
After a quick breakfast at the hotel, we now made our way northward, opting for a faster highway route on the Howrah side of the Hooghly, or Ganges river. This drive entailed crossing the Ganges and back over the famed bridges of Kolkata, driving through the verdant Bengal countryside rather than the inner traffic of the city, and in less than an hour, we were at Dakshineshwar. This sprawling complex was where the nineteenth century benefactor, Rani Rasmani, erected a beautiful temple to the goddess Kali, in her manifestation as Bhavatarini, the Mother who liberates her devotees from the fetters of worldly existence. The image of Bhavatarini Kali housed here was the great pivot for Sri Ramakrishna’s extraordinary life of spiritual mastery and universal realization.
The arrangements at Dakshineshwar were more orderly, with long lines of people waiting their turn for darshan of the Goddess. The sweet smell of incense wafted through the large courtyard, even as the sun alternated with the clouds to create a play of light and shade. Expectation was writ large on everyone who came in to view the goddess, and then happy smiles and contentment. The dynamic image of Bhavatarini seemed to radiate a blessing of safe passage through this transient world, if only we could bring ourselves to a space of inner trust. A century and a half ago, her intense presence took over the life of Ramakrishna, his consort Sarada Devi, and the illustrious band of close disciples they trained to actualize his teaching, of service to humanity as service to God.
A visit to Dakshineshwar is not complete without a visit to the Ganges, and after darshan of the Goddess, we made our way to one end of the grounds where a flight of broad steps descended to the river. The flowing waters were pleasantly cool, and even as we dipped ourselves, the overcast sky began a mild drizzle. The scene was ethereal, of a gentle curtain of rain enveloping this holiest of rivers. As we walked back up the steps and exited the vast courtyard, it began to pour with the familiar vigor of the August monsoon. Walking like little kids under this magic cascade of rain, we knew in our hearts this was a blessing from up above. Hardly had we reached our waiting cars though, than the showers abated, while cool raindrops continued to float gently, glistening in the sunshine.
Sri Ramakrishna would maintain that the Divine Mother was both male and female, for the nearer one approached the Divine, the more one would realize He has neither name nor form. Going beyond modern feminism, the wisdom of that transcendent equality has in many ways permeated the cultural mores of Bengal, in both family and social life. Under the ever-watchful gaze of the Goddess, the women of Bengal enjoy a freedom of self-expression and action, at home and in public life, perhaps unmatched by any other region of India. On the streets of Kolkata and the villages of Bengal, they are probably safer at night than women are in many other parts of the world by day. In the daily life of Bengal, Kali’s foremost influence is seen perhaps in this genuinely natural equality.