5. Upanayanam

Gayathri Mantra

Rattan Mohan Sharma

There comes a time in every boy’s life, when he must cross the threshold into manhood. Many cultures have a ritual centered around this, such as the Bar Mitzvah among the Jews or circumcision ceremonies in Southern and Eastern Africa. The Hindus have the Upanaynam, or thread ceremony. Most of the time, such rituals are performed around the time of physical transformation, about 13 or 14, and sometimes younger than that. My rite of passage from boyhood to manhood occurred at the tender age of 29. So nobody gets to blame me if I’m still a bit juvenile…I got a late start!

While the Upanayanam is traditionally performed at younger ages, modern practice has moved it to later and later in life, often being performed just shortly before marriage. In addition to this, there is a belief in my family that if you perform the Upanayanam too early, it will be a long time before the boy becomes married. For this reason, my family waited on performing the ceremony for me. But finally, they couldn’t wait any more. My grandparents were very eager to host my thread marriage, and so on a February trip to India with my friend Nate and my family, I underwent the ritual.

The Upanayanam has a hallowed place in my culture. It marks the teaching of the Gayathri mantra from father to son. Its name, literally meaning “taking near,” reflects the act of taking the man near the Vedas and near spiritual and absolute truth. Completing this ritual confers upon a man the right to perform a puja himself. Before this, one cannot be the principal performer of a puja. As the marriage ceremony is basically a puja, the Upanayanam is required in order to go undergo marriage as well.

My Upanayanam occurred on a pleasant February day, with my friend Nate in attendance. He had accompanied me to India to explore the food, and got to witness my transition to manhood as a bonus. I performed the ceremony in my mother’s native village of Elurupadu. It was well attended, with several hundred people there. A member of the state legislature was there as well, through my uncle’s connections, complete with his machine gun-wielding bodyguard. Not sure exactly why my uncle asked him to come, or why he accepted the invitation, but in any case he did cause a minor stir and cement my uncle’s status in the community. Hmmm, I seem to have answered my own question…

On the morning of the ceremony, I was taken upstairs by the elder men of my family, who helped me wrap the pancha (or ‘dhoti’) around me. This is basically a silk sheet of high-quality fabric, wrapped around the waist and through the legs. Another silk sheet is worn as a shawl over the bare chest and shoulders. Dressed appropriately, I went downstairs to take my place on the clay platform my grandparents had arranged, placed in front of their home. A giant canopy had been erected to protect us and our guests from the sun. My parents sat on the platform as well, accompanied by our family priest. Here, the ceremony began, with my parents and then myself making offerings to a small sandalwood paste representation of Ganesh as the priest chanted in Sanskrit.

I won’t pretend to remember all the details of what transpired. What often happens is that you take instruction on the puja as you go. The priest chants while you fold your hands in prayer and, when it comes time to do something, he breaks his chant and gives you instructions. Offerings were made to a fire in the center of the platform, consisting of ghee, colored powders, and various other things. At one point, my mother finished her portion of the ceremony and left. It was then that my father moved to sit across from me, handing me things to pass into the fire. The three of us, me, my father and the priest, then huddled together, a white shroud held over us to cover us. It was then that my father chanted instructions to me in Sanskrit, teaching me the words to the Gayathri mantra:

Om Bur Bhuva Suvaha
Tat Savitur Varenyam
Bhargo Devasya Dhimahi
Dhiyo Yona Prachodayaat

Translations abound, no two seem exactly alike, but the gist is that you are invoking the earth and the heavens that the light and wisdom of the god Savitur may enlighten our minds. It is to be repeated three times daily, to focus the mind and attempt to attain understanding and connection to Supreme Truth. It is considered the most powerful and essential of mantras. The shroud that enveloped us was to prevent those who are unworthy or unready from hearing the teachings my father was imparting to me. After this instruction, the shroud is removed, my father and I walk around the fire, and a loops of thread composed of three strands is placed over my left shoulder and across my chest. This is the thread that I am to wear in any future pujas, and it is to be worn at all times over the next three days, when I am to observe piety and austerity.

After this portion of the ceremony, I must show humility and quell my ego by begging. Walking with the aid of a stick and holding my shawl out between my two hands, I must beg each guest who is older than me, uttering the phrase “Bhavati bikshan dehi.” It is essentially asking an exalted person of high status to please spare something for someone who is unworthy of it. The person I beg from then places some money into my outstretched shawl, and I move on to the next elder. It is hard to convey the exact power of the phrase, and I don’t think I quite understood it myself until I got to my great-aunt. As I bent down to touch her feet, uttering the phrase “bhavati bikshan dehi” she grabbed my shoulders and pulled me up. She looked at me, tears in her eyes, and said “Please…don’t say that. You don’t need to say that.” She placed an offering into my shawl, and I continued. I must have begged from over a hundred people. In the old days, this used to be done by going door to door in the neighborhood and asking for grains of rice, cementing your role in the community as all those who had undergone Upanayanam before you had a responsibility to give you alms. I am sort of sad I didn’t do that, but knew that in this day and age, that might be looked at as strange.

And then the ceremony was over. Our hundreds of guests were fed, and I gave the money I had collected to my mother, to be earmarked for charity. The next three days were spent living in an austere way. I performed the Gayathri mantra three times a day, wore my thread at all times, ate a special diet that eliminated meat, garlic and onions, and slept on a thin straw math with no pillow or blanket. The one benefit of doing this in later life, was I found myself able to appreciate the beauty of this. The virtue of humility and the realization that you are a part of a tradition from father to son was not lost on me.

I remember my Upanayanam fondly. While my family may say “See, we were right, he is still not married,” I see that I am lucky to have experienced the ritual on its own, independent of a marriage. In the interest of full disclosure, however, I must say, I had a great deal of trouble memorizing the words to the mantra. They are in Sanskrit, and thus do not hold individual meanings to me, nor was there a song I could set it to to remember it. Each person who recited it for me recited it differently, with different pronunciations. Thank God the new Battlestar Galactica series uses it in their theme song. It may be blasphemous, but I am able to recall all the words to the mantra with no problem! =)

4. Bajaj Chetak

Oh Jean

The Proclaimers

It was marvelous. It was equal parts space shuttle and Dr. Seuss, a triumph of engineering, both powerful and…bulbous. It boasted a key lime finish and chrome detailing, with a 4-stroke engine that got 100 miles to the gallon. A two-wheeler which could accommodate up to 5 Indians, it was a monster hog.

My uncle’s scooter was a Bajaj Chetak, a popular model in India during the 1980’s. Named after the horse of a 16th-century Indian ruler, the scooter was the most common and practical means of conveyance on India’s choked roads. Pretty much every middle class family owned at least one. My mother’s brother was no different. On my biannual visits to India, he ferried me around on the back of this mean machine, and I saw many of Andhra Pradesh’s farms and people from its back seat, clinging to him.

My maternal uncle is a taller, lankier version of me with sunken eyes and black, wavy hair which he parted on the left. He never graduated high school, but that didn’t stop him from being elected President of our village of Elurupadu. Not as impressive as it sounds--the village was so tiny that his opponent was his next-door neighbor. When he was younger, he delighted in administering Indian burns to me and my cousins, and had a mischievous streak. We played cards, and he cheated whenever necessary. But he was also a skilled player, so he rarely needed to. As he got older, he became more stern and his smiles grew rare. But I remember him best for the times I was allowed to accompany him on the scooter.

As a child, I had the best vantage point. I was small enough to stand up front. The scooter had a platform, between the driver and the handlebars. It was meant for the driver’s feet and the brake pedal, but in overcrowded India, all available space was valuable. And so he would scoot his feet to the edges of this little space, allowing me room to stand and hold onto the handlebars. From here, the wind whipped at me with no breaker. My eyes would squint against the flying dust, and the smells of India would hit me full force.

As I got older, I was moved to the back seat, and a parade of cousins began taking the coveted front standing spot. I never had to give up the back seat, though, even when the cousins got older. Seniority did carry some privileges. I started taking a Walkman along with me, and was roundly taunted for being a spoiled American, too busy listening to music to be Indian.

One summer I bought this Proclaimers album. It was trite stuff, but they had a hit with “I’m Gonna Be (500 Miles)” from the Benny & Joon soundtrack. I had heard that song long before the movie came out, when it was performed on David Letterman, and mocked it mercilessly for the unusual howls and the band's funny Scottish accent. But the song got a lot of airtime when the movie came out, and it proved quite catchy. So, in my nascent musical appreciation phase, I bought the album and listened to it continuously for about three straight months, during a trip to India. And while it was not mindblowing, it did teach me to appreciate the unconventional.

In particular, I grew to like “Oh Jean.” Not for its lyrics, its tired theme of sexual conquest and frustration, or its overlong coda. It really is a pretty lousy song. But what struck me about it was that it was not rock. It was, most decidedly, a country song, with the twang and rhyme scheme typical of such music. And for some reason, that comforted me, made me see the world as a smaller place.

Today I see my uncle withered by Parkinson’s, and see the empty space where our Chetak used to be parked, and I think about the times that I rode on the back of that scooter. Watching the red sun set over the Indian country, riding an Italian-style scooter, listening to a Scottish band play uniquely American music. It made me realize labels like Indian and American were really arbitrary…every part of this world was influenced by every other part of it, and I was no different. I didn’t need to choose American or Indian. If the Scots could sing country, then dammit, I can be whoever I want.

3. Valentine's Day

Funny Little Frog

Belle & Sebastian

In junior year of high school, I learned the purpose of literature. Indeed, the purpose of all great art. The lesson came to me at the hand of Mr. Fremuth, a gray-haired, bespectacled embodiment of Ivy-Leagueness, right down to the suede patches on his elbows.

"So, class, I propose this," he intoned during lecture one day. "I propose that the author's intention...doesn't matter." He stated this with a breathless sense of drama. "I know that a lot of time is spent studying an author's biography, trying to find some key with which to decipher an author's 'true intention.' But I believe that's a fool's errand. The true value of art is gained by first identifying how the piece affects you. Second, you must ask yourself why you react this way. It is supposed to challenge you, to help you understand yourself."

The lecture was followed by an assignment. Read a story, critique it, then offer an explanation as to what about yourself inspired that reaction.

I chose a short farce, a snarky tale of imbecilic lovers, too caught up in their emotions to understand how ridiculous they were. I was delighted by it, but that delight had a dark edge. It was a squirmy, smug feeling of self-satisfaction. Probing this reaction, I came to a harrowing conclusion, that I must be afraid of love. Why else would I react with such glee when the lovers met with tragedy?

There was no escaping it. Years of warnings, frantically imparted by my mother, and familial examples of love's tragic consequences had taken their toll at a young age. I had seen the suicide attempts, the shame, and the alienation of family that love could bring in my culture. Anything with that kind of power needed to be feared.

It would take me twelve years to fully understand that this was a poisoned Kool-Aid I was drinking. Twelve years of timid explorations, truncated experiences, and missed opportunities to realize that I had been misinfomed. But at the end of it, I threw off the yoke of fear.

Not even two years later, that act was rewarded in a way that I could never have imagined.

Meeting my girlfriend was pure serendipity. A chance occurrence, at a time when I was very unhappy and unfulfilled. I wasn't really looking when I found her, but even during our first e-mails and meetings I was experiencing something new. I became a different person, confident, empowered, and capable of more than I knew. I finally felt able to trust my instincts. And so I did.

Now, for the first time in my life, I feel what it is like to love with abandon. And I can see why it inspires fear. It is so powerful, and so awe-inspiring, that to experience it and then lose it may seem unthinkable. But while such highs come with risks, to actually experience love, to feel it, is to know that it is the opposite of fear. The two do not coexist. Whatever happens in my life, I am better for experiencing this.

And so I offer this song. There is no fear in it...it is a simple bauble of a tune, joyous and unabashed. But it reflects how I feel about my girlfriend...that wonderful person who is light where I am dark, woman where I am man, yielding where I am inflexible, open when I am reserved. And while we complement each other and fill each other's shortcomings, we share the same dreams in our heads, and the same songs in our hearts. I love you, honey. Happy Valentine's Day, I can't wait to hold you!

2. Good Grief

Linus & Lucy

Wynton Marsalis & Ellis Marsalis

            Everyone from my generation can appreciate this song and the sense of comfort it conjures up.  It comes from a time when watching cartoons during a weekday evening was rare and special, and it wasn’t the holiday season until Snoopy and Charlie Brown said so.  A time when we were all innocent, and adults were incomprehensible.  The opening bassline of this song never fails to bring forth memories of kids with big heads and hard luck and the evenings I spent with them.

            The Great Pumpkin was usually the first of the Peanuts specials to air, signaling Halloween.  Its airing coincided with the time that Halloween decorations started to go up, and teachers and doctors would have bowls of candy out on their desks.  Then, Halloween night would come, and I would don a plastic smock/mask set made by the good folks at Ben Cooper, almost invariably purchased at Toys R Us.  I dressed as He-Man,  Luke Skywalker, Spider-Man, and while the costume might change, the experience of wearing it didn’t.  I was always a little lightheaded from the PVC fumes, and my upper lip was always sweaty from the moisture of my breath as I tried to breathe through the tiny hole in the mask.  And always, my ears would be chafed from he rubber band and staples holding the mask on.  It was an uncomfortable experience, made worthwhile by the candy and the opportunity to use that chemical and technological marvel, the glow stick.  These were little plastic tubes with smaller glass tubes inside, and when the tube was bent to break the inner glass tube, a chemical reaction occurred allowing the stick to glow for up to an hour or so.  So cool, and so much fun for a 10 year old—truly, I lived in an age of marvels!

            The next Peanuts special was the Christmas one.  Possibly one of the most emotionally stirring cartoons, even today.  Its airing heralded an onslaught of Christmas specials, including large blocks of Saturday morning cartoons and the beloved Rankin Bass stop-motion specials.  Christmas was always my favorite as a kid.  From the treats and happiness, fun songs to be sung at school, and copious use of construction paper, Elmer’s glue, cotton balls and glitter, the season was full of fun things for the senses.  Growing up on the western side of Michigan, the lake could always be counted on to provide tons of snow for the season, and usually a snow day or two.

            I really like this version of the song, by Wynton Marsalis and Ellis Marsalis.  One of the things it does illustrate for me is how mercurial music is.  Being technically proficient does  not make you a great musician.  In fact, I think this is where Wynton Marsalis fails in this song.  While his trumpet solo (at 0:58 into the song) is perfectly serviceable and technically sound, it’s sort of…cold.  It follows the scales, and is on-key, but it really doesn’t stir me.  Contrast this with his brother Delfeayo’s trombone solo (at 1:45), which starts off laconic, not worried about keeping up with the rest of the band.  It’s full of life, and very playful, much more in keeping with the spirit of the piece.  It brings a smile to my face, it’s so effortless and breezy, and therein lies one of the mysteries of music…as proficient as someone can become in the language, theory, and performance, some of the best music can be made by people like B.B. King, who never studied those rules and focused purely on the emotion of music.  A complex piece by Wynton may fail to move me, but three notes from B.B. King can break my heart.

1. Introduction

Something people notice about me, sometimes even the first time we meet, is that I have a deep fascination with music.  I am hardly alone in this, music geeks are a dime a dozen.  But most I’ve come across are gleefully elitist.  Snobs in a game where only they are keeping score.  These people funnel their social ineptitude into a seething contempt for people who do not agree with their muisical taste.  Me, I’m content to let people like what they like—expecting someone to have the same musical taste as you is just as ridiculous as expecting someone to have the same favorite color as you.  I’m passionate about music and appreciate the cutting edge, but I also have a soft spot for Spin Doctors, and may occasionally hum Hootie and the Blowfish while driving alone.

Okay, okay, okay, so maybe I’m lying.  MAYBE I’ve judged one or two people based on what music they like.  And MAYBE I’ve given a friend or two a hard time about their taste (Maroon 5, Adam?  Really?!?!).  But still, I just admitted to liking the Spin Doctors and Hootie and the Blowfish.  I have forfeited the right to mock anyone, ever.

I’m getting off topic.  I was saying that I love music.  I have for as long as I can remember.  Yet one question I’ve wrestled with is why.  Why do I continue to seek new music, and new bands, despite the fact that most of my friends outgrew this long ago?  Why do I feel the need to listen to music during any downtime of the day?  What need does music fulfill in my life?  I’ve thought long and hard about this.  And I think the answer relates to two things:  spirituality and history.

In the past, when people have asked me why I like music, my answers have varied.

“I love going to concerts.”

“I like playing, and admire the skill and talent it takes.”

“It’s just fun.”

But the true answer?  The answer I hesitate to give because it may seem too intense or overblown?

Music makes me believe in God.

What other art form is so universal, and speaks so directly to our emotions?  No person in the world can mistake the response a song is trying to evoke.  Joy is joy, and sadness is sadness, in spite of any difference in culture or religion.  The fact that our sense of hearing can tap directly into emotion amazes me.  No other sense has that power—when was the last time you tasted something that made you sad?  But with a few simple notes someone can be made to feel happy, melancholy or lustful.  Hearing a song which effortlessly speaks to my emotions and highlights this human oneness is a spiritual experience for me.

The other thing I love about music is the memories that it can conjure up.  Science supposes that smell is the sense most closely linked to memory, but I feel that a short musical refrain causes a stronger sense of nostalgia than the smell of baking cookies (or curry, as the case may be).  Television theme songs, pop song choruses, and jazz riffs all have colored my life, and to this day a song can vividly recall an experience I’ve had.

These are the two reasons I write this blog.  First, to catalog some experiences I’ve had, which are linked inextricably in my memory to certain songs.  In some cases the music was present during the experience, in others the music or lyrics of a song call forth an experience I had by evoking a related emotion.  By writing about these, I hope to maybe jar a memory for someone else that the same song may have, or to at least share some good music.  Hopefully this will be entertaining.  Comment away, whether you like something, hate it, or want to offer your own experiences.  And yes, there will be a post about Spin Doctors.