Moonbeams in Asia:

Spiritual Journey of a Middle Child

Most of these Links are Coming Soon!

Interview with a Saudi Woman    ~    "My Value Orientations"
Analysis of a Middle East Culture    ~    Asia Pictures 1982-5    ~     Asia Pictures 1994
Journals Asia 1982-5: India, China, Thailand, Burma, Kuwait
Journal Asia 1994: Nepal, Tibet, Vietnam, Indonesia
My friend from Vietnam    ~    My friend from Nepal
Buddhist Notes    ~    Hindu Notes    ~    Tao Notes    ~    Sufi Notes

Original Thematic Outline to Moonbeams    ~    Themes and Symbols of Moonbeams

Synopsis of Moonbeams in Asia: Spiritual Journey of a Middle Child

by Teresa Allen

In 1975, I came home from the Army and listened to Alan Watts on public radio. I became a Zen Buddhist, essentially, and went to college. Seven years later, after finishing my MA degree in English, I headed for my first overseas lecturing position in China. But first, I swung by India to attend a Hindu wedding in Calcutta. After China, I spent a year in Culture Shock Thailand. I ran between my job at Prince of Songkhla University and my bungalow investment across the Peninsula.

Thai professors resented me, Missionaries in the Malay Muslim community became my only allies. They saved me, for a pause. But soon I ended up teaching at Kuwait University (pre Gulf-War) where I suffered a new variety of culture shock. In Kuwait, a friend introduced me to the Tarot Cards, which have become my Spiritual Tool.

This book is my post-travel exploration of world religions and my own spirituality. The theme "middle child" concerns the Buddhist Middle Way, though I have an older brother and younger sister.

I labored over this book for five years (off and on with other projects such as In a Word -- To be Absurd). I invite you to explore with me, the elegance and irrelevancies of world philosophies: most notably of Taoism, Buddhism, Sufism, Islam, Christianity, Confucianism, Hinduism and Hegel's Dialectics.

Chapter 1

A Brahman Bengali Wedding

"Ulululululu..." tongues trilled and conch shells thundered. Guests swarmed into the silk-enshrouded dining hall, throwing rice at the bride. She sat cross-legged on a hassock that four men carried around the enormous room, like a princess from the Raj. Her red silk sari, trimmed in gold, floated and fluttered through the air. Her gold bangles jingled on slender wrists, fragrant jasmine garlands dangled from her shoulders. A white lace tiara secured the sheer red veil over her face. She was beautiful, slender, her life blessed with bountiful treasures.

Hundreds of women with long black hair braided and together with jasmine flowers flourished the room. Each wore her own brilliant pink, purple, green, or blue sari that rustled as we followed the bride around the room. Baby girls to old women, wore18- caret gold necklaces, dozens of clanging bangles, large finger-rings linked to thick bracelets. Some wore nose-rings connected to lace caps bedazzled with rubies, saphires and emeralds.

We followed the procession to the center of the room. Here stood a magnificent altar pavilion of silk draped over four pillars. In the center of the altar burned a stone hearth representing the flame of Agni -- the ancient god of fire who resides at Hindu ceremonies.

Sitting cross-legged on the marble floor, before the flame of Agni, were the bride's father, a Hindu priest in a loincloth and the groom, my friend Arya Banerjee.

Arya wore a collarless long sleeved kurta, and a dhoti skirt wrap, instead of the blue jeans and T-shirt he usually wore. He looked dazed. His eyes wide open, his thick moustache as straight as his smile. Gold and white dots glistened his brow. On his head towered a white lace headdress that resembled a tiered wedding cake.

I stood dazed and confused among hundreds of jubilant wedding guests. Like a lemming, I had been following the crowd around for hours -- from our bus across town to the bride's house in Calcutta, down hallways, up stairways and into the big dining hall where we now gathered.

For most of the evening, I had no idea what was taking place. I didn't know if we were about to eat. To walk someplace else. Or, if I had missed an event altogether. Everyone was very kind and friendly. "Oh," a jubilant guest would introduce me, "This is Arya's friend from America. Teresa. And she very much likes chilies." (The word had spread that I could eat very hot chilies).

For the event, Arya's cousins and aunts had robed me in a red silk sari. They also lent me bangles and earrings to wear. The bride herself had given me an anklet chain. I felt uncomfortable in all the excitement, as if my strange silk wrap might unravel and leave me exposed, without my knowing it.

I kept asking neighbor ladies if my sari had come undone in back. They always laughed with delight and told me not to worry. "Soon comes the Seven Steps," one especially jolly aunt would say. And I stood back by the pavilion eagerly awaiting the main event of the three day wedding.

I met Arya during sailing lessons on the Willamette River in Portland, Oregon, my home town. He and I had paired up that summer, because I was alone and needed a partner, and he was with two colleagues from Tectonics, who paired up together.

Sailng on the river that summer was a wind blown adventure in itself. A marvelous break from my graduate studies in English.

I was finishing up my Master's Thesis in using the computer to teach English. And, I had already accepted my first overseas teaching position at at Wuhan University of Science and Technology HUST. Though I had hoped for a well paying job in the Middle East, I did not hesitate to accept this position in China. The university director asked me to teach their English teachers how to use computers to teach their science teachers English. It was an opportunity I couldn't resist, despite the minimal pay. The history, mystique and magnitude of China itself, could have enticed me there, but the opportunity to practice my graduate, sealed my choice to first go to China.

It seemed an especially lucky summer, I had a dream job, and a tall attractive sailing partner from Calcutta, India. Since childhood, India had captivated my imagination, perhaps more than any place else in the world. I had long since hoped to visit this mysterious land where tigers lurk in jungles and little men in loincloths charmed cobras into hypnotic dances. Where gurus and sadus march in protective custody of the soul.

I had many questions to ask my sailing partner about his country, culture and religion. Fortunately for me, Arya, like most people from India, love a good debate or philosophical discussion. It's why the long marching spirit of India is so powerful and interesting.

After we shared a sail boat for several lessons, Arya seemed more American than Indian. He dressed and behaved casually and even joked flippantly about American things, such as characters from Saturday Night Live. But at heart, he was Indian. Deeply devoted to his parents and their wishes. He was an engineer because that was his father's trade. He would marry now, because his parents told him it was time.

Nothing romantic developed between Arya and me. I had just ended a relationship with a crazy older man, and hardly wanted to start a new one. Besides, I didn't want to interfere with my graduate studies in English, or my goal to teach in China, as soon as I wrapped up my thesis.

On the very night we teamed up for our first lesson, he told me of his plans to marry. "My mother says it's time that I marry." His parents arranged everything about his wedding, including the selection of a bride. They advertised his availability to marry in the Calcutta newspapers. The ad included his degree from UCLA, his status as an only child, and his father's education, job and salary. The ad also specified that Arya was a Brahmin, a member of the highest of four major social divisions in traditional Hindu society. As Arya explained it, such details were a crucial part of the arrangement because an Indian marriage unites two families, not just two individuals.

"So your mother finds you a bride?" I asked. A vibrant breeze careened our boat through the brown choppy waters of the Willamette.

"Hardly. First I must interview the girl and, if I like her, my mother will consult a Hindu astrologer. If the match offers promise then my family and her family will plan our wedding on an auspicious date set by the astrologer. If it's an unfavorable match, then my mother will have to search for another girl."

Arya leaned back on the low side of the boat and became absorbed with sailing across the river.

A prearranged marriage? I should be so lucky, I thought. No dating hassles. No trying to get to know someone. My future would be organized and settled for me, just by asking my mother to find me a man. Though I doubt I'd like any man my mother chose for me. The very idea of her finding me a spouse really locked me inside my hometown. And I was eager to leave Portland as soon as I harnessed my degree. Not that I hated my hometown. It's just that I wanted to see the world.

"Would you ever marry an American woman?" I asked, not that I had myself in mind.

"Fall off," he shouted. I pulled the tiller away from the sail. In a moment the boat steadied and Arya said, in a serious tone, "My mother tells me I'm free to marry whomever I wish, but all my years of experience tell me to marry an Indian woman. An Indian wife will understand my strange habits in ways an American woman never could."

"Watch the sail!" I shouted, and we heeled to leeward. "I guess it's in your karma to marry an Indian woman."

Arya glanced at me, the wind blowing his thick black hair. "Americans always talk about karma or nirvana. They don't even know what they're talking about."

Arya's remark didn't offend me. He was, after all, merely stating fact. The concept of karma certainly held more meaning to a Hindu than it did to my Portland, Oregon childhood. For me, it was one of the Eastern concepts that invited me to Asia. My drive for learning differing world views had led me to an undergraduate degree in Anthropology and the English degree was my ticket to live and work any where in the world. I wanted to learn first hand about the many-faceted world spirit, from people like Arya and from places like Calcutta.

My philosophical quest began that evening when I asked Arya if karma meant a person's fate. "Isn't it your duty, after all, to marry an Indian woman?"

"Dharma is duty, at least in a general sense. Karma is about what you do with your life. What you do in the present, will affect your future."

"Cause and effect?" I said.

Arya laughed and nodded, leaving it at that.

I returned to sailing.

"Would you like to come to my wedding?" he asked, rather flippantly, out of the blue.

I looked at him and smiled. "Yes," I said with no hesitation. And I knew that I would make it possible. His wedding was set for sometime in December. I was planning to finish my Master's work about then. I could easily swing by India on my way to China. The combination was too charming to pass up. China called. Now India called. And I was setting sails for one of the greatest adventures of my life.

***

Arya met me at Calcutta's Dum Dum International Airport. His chauffeur driven Indian car, an Ambassador, resembled a 1940's Ford Sedan. In the airport parking lot Arya's driver, a scrawny dark man in a sarong and shirt, stood next to the car as we approached. He stared at me as though he expected something. Was I to give him a tip? Without a word the driver opened the back door and I climbed in beside Arya, feeling incredibly inept even with Arya to guide me through this strange mysterious world.

Calcutta in December was as warm as any June in Portland, but the air was burdened with smog and unpleasant to breathe. During the hour drive to his house on Monopukka Road, Arya explained the sights swirling by. Most of the time I silently gazed in awe at the passing street scenes. Buses and trucks spewed black exhaust whenever they stopped or started and soon the soot clogged my nostrils. Horns blared, motors revved, and buses chocked and sputtered. The chaotic turbulence of intertwining streets splashed onto sidewalks where vendors stood behind derelict carts or sat on the cracked concrete and peddled food, rags, bottles, and old books. Here and there men lay asleep on the bare pavement, and women nursed or carried children. Some children -- naked, sooty, and unattended -- played in gutters or in brown water gushing from broken hydrants. Our progress to Arya's house was hindered by motorcycles, pedicabs, bicycles, push carts, pedestrians, and buses overcrowded with men hanging out the doors like clusters of grapes. I winced at the thought of people being smashed in the traffic. "Do they ever fall off?" I asked.

"All the time." Arya winked.

Arya's driver continually honked the horn as he drove inconsistently on the left side of the four and six lane roads (the left side being the right side in India, though there were rarely any division lines for this to matter). Somehow he circumvented every potential accident that came our way and more than once he barely sideswiped another vehicle. At one point we were aimed straight for an oncoming truck. I closed my eyes, expecting the worst, but nothing happened. When I opened my eyes we were back on the left side of the road. "Good God Arya!" I exclaimed. "What happens when you get in an accident?"

"If you hit someone, he'll probably beat you up -- that is, if he survives." I was used to Arya's flippant sense of humor, but at this point I took everything he said quite literally. The surrounding scene was too unreal not to.

At an eight way intersection, the car jerked to a stop. In the center of the intersection, on a concrete platform, stood a traffic guard clad in a white uniform and high top black boots. (So far, I hadn't seen much else in the way of traffic signals.) With a whistle in his mouth, the man randomly swirled his arms about the air, as though he were desperately trying to interpret the general flow of traffic. Suddenly, the dark face of a woman appeared at my window. Her bloodshot eyes urged me to look in her arms at the skeletal child that wore nothing but a pouch around its neck. "What's in the pouch?" I asked Arya.

"Spices, I suppose, to keep the child alive. These people are superstitious, you know. And their children usually die before reaching one or two."

It was troubling to sit in Arya's car and realize how protected I was from this woman and her hideous environment. Why was I so lucky and she so devastated? My future held golden opportunity, adventure, while hers held nothing but a few coins to sustain her and the child's life. The child was probably dying, and when it did, this woman would have another child destined to die before growing very old. It wasn't long before the woman's pitiful gaze made me look away and reach into my pocket for some change. I unrolled my window and quickly handed her the coins, hoping she'd go away. Instead, dozens of beggars hustled up to the car, like an angry mob. I felt I was being yanked from a pit of starving rats when our car sped away from the miserable crowd of beggars.

"This is why we Hindus give alms through our temples and not on the streets," Arya said as we drove past the intersection. "Besides, even when these people receive money they must turn it over to the beggar in charge. You see, begging is a business and these people work in specific areas that are carefully watched over by a head man. Sometimes, parents even maim their children in order to increase their chances at getting more money."

The thought of parents crippling their own children sickened me. And the reality of people trapped in a cycle of poverty, generation after generation, was equally hideous.

The numbing scenes of poverty appeared endless as our car swerved past crude sidewalk dwellings pieced together from oil drums, scraps of corrugated aluminum, cardboard, palm fronds, or whatever could be pillaged off the streets. A putrid stench of excrement and decay reached inside the car, as people everywhere, thin, dirty and clothed in filthy rags, rummage through the garbage heaps edging the streets, along with mangy dogs, rats, and crows. Were these indigent people were the untouchables I had read about? The outcasts of Hindu society who were viewed as so poor and dirty that Hindus of caste believed it defiling to be touched by one.

"Is garbage their only means of food?" I said while watching a mother feed her child an apple core found on the street.

"Not at all. They look for such things as human hair to sell to wig makers, or golden threads from discarded saris, to sell to cloth makers. Nothing's wasted on the streets of Calcutta."

This is the opposite of American materialism, I thought. But America's wastefulness looks a whole lot cleaner, more orderly, and healthier than Calcutta's austerity. How could such enormous poverty evolve? Who had let it happen? Powerful people, no doubt, repressing others to gain more power. Was this a law of nature? Survival of the fittest. My training in anthropology would have me view Calcutta's slums objectively, analytically, as an outside observer who does not feel disturbed by the manner in which other people live. But I did feel troubled by the slums, and when Arya's car turned onto Monopukka Road, a wide, clean avenue lined with stately houses from the British Raj, I felt like the most privileged person in the world. And this was not comforting.

The driver pulled up to the scrolled wrought iron gate at 33 Monopukka Road, opened the gates, and then drove up the curving gravel driveway through a well trimmed lawn edged by yellow painted stones. We stopped at a large portico embracing the facade of the two story concrete house. At the front steps under the portico stood Mr. Banerjee, a paunchy man, balding, and a foot shorter than his son. He held his hands behind his back and wore black rimmed glasses and a brown vest over his white kurta and pajama trousers. Mrs. Banerjee, a small woman with thick wavy black hair worn at the back of her neck, had on a sweater over her orange sari. I was honored to be their guest and to witness one of the most elaborate of Hindu ceremonies. At the same time, I wondered what Arya's parents thought of me -- the strange American girl their son had invited to his wedding. What had he told them about me? That I was an English teacher on my way to China? Was their culture unprepared for friendships between men and woman? I was most concerned with how Mrs. Banerjee viewed me because I especially wanted to learn about her life, values and beliefs, as a Hindu woman.

Over the next few days, as Arya's relatives steadily arrived, Calcutta's slums seemingly disappeared while the events surrounding the wedding swept me into a whirlwind of color, sound, and sweet, woody, spicy aroma. The walls throughout the Banerjee house were decked in reams of silk, ceiling fans held strings of white flowers, and every table and mantle held bowls of burning sandalwood incense and bouquets of irises and orchids. I slept on the floor of the back drawing room, along with dozens of Arya's female cousins. Each of us had our own mattress and mosquito net, but often the girls, who seemed to relish my exoticness, wanted to sleep beside me, as if I were a doll. Generally, one of the mothers came in the room and rescued me by telling the girls not to smother "auntie" with so much affection.

With the arrival of each of Arya's aunts and uncles, a ceremony took place in the large front foyer. Arya touched the feet of an aunt or uncle, in a gesture of reverence, and the elder relative reciprocated by touching Arya's head. Amid all the Bengali chatter that arrived with each wave of guests, I kept hearing "accha," a word that means something like, "OK," "I see," or "uhuh." Arya generally added something important about each guest he introduced. "She is the former Miss Teen India." "Her father is a doctor to the king of Nepal." "His father owns an elephant farm." "They own several race horses." The guests never ceased to impress me or to leave me feeling rather ordinary. My only claim to fame was my nationality. "This is Teresa. She comes all the way from America," the relatives would introduce me. And as soon as they learned I liked spicy hot Bengali food, they'd add, with amusement, "And she very much likes chilies."

Ceremony continually filled the vast and airy rooms throughout the house and it was difficult to distinguish one from another as I wandered from room to room asking questions. Outside of Arya's welcoming ceremonies, the real Bengali wedding lasted three days and the main event, the Seven Steps, was the only ceremony I witnessed at the bride's house.

For each important event the girl cousins helped me into the red sari I had bought for the wedding. They tucked one end of the silk into my floor length petticoat, then wrapped the remaining thirty feet twice around my waist making pleats in the front. I marveled at how they dexterously arranged the final portion of silk over my left shoulder, and aligned the gold brocade so the garment looked carefully tailored. In addition to dressing me, the girls brushed and braided my long brown hair, doused me with floral perfumes that made me sneeze, painted my face with rouge and lipstick, and lined my eyes with black antimony. The final touch was what the girls called a bindi, a red felt adhesive back dot placed above the ridge of my nose. The various sizes of bindis came in packets like false finger nails.

"Isn't the bindi for married women?" I asked.

The girls giggled at my question until one said, "Anybody can wear a bindi. It's for beauty and not so significant as all that. At least not today."

The girls stood me before the wardrobe mirror so I could admire myself. My cheeks looked haphazardly painted, my eyes heavily rimmed in black, and my lips were thickly smeared bright red. The girls claimed I was stunningly beautiful, but, not being used to makeup and extravagant garments, I felt a little gaudy.

On the night before the Seven Steps, women sang and chatted until their excitement peaked in the auspicious trilling "ulu ulu ulu ulu ulu ulu." They were preparing gift trays for the bride and her family. The wooden trays, placed on the floor of the back veranda, contained jewelry, perfumes, cosmetics, leather purses, slippers, sandals, dried fruits, churidhar kameezes (Punjabi dresses), silk saris, and cakes shaped into fish, shells, and stars. The bride's hand-woven sari was red, the traditional color for a Bengali bride. A cousin explained that the bride's sari was in the kanya tray. "In Bengali we call the bride kanya -- she who desires a husband." Each tray was wrapped in amber, red, blue, or green cellophane paper, and tied with a golden ribbon.

Early on the morning of the Seven Steps a messenger took the gifts to the bride's house to announce that the groom would soon arrive. Also on that morning I witnessed the Sacred String Ceremony, or the Upanayana, a ceremony that turned out to be almost as important as the wedding itself. For Upanayana, Arya's mother and aunts eagerly prepared a back room. They hung garland draped portraits of men and women on the walls, and placed piles of fruit, vegetables, rice, and white cotton dhotis on the marble floor.

While I pondered what was going to happen, Arya caught up with me and commented that Upanayana wasn't even a part of the wedding. "Not a part of the wedding?" I felt sure he was teasing me.

"Really. I should have gone through with it when I was eight or ten, even twelve... but I must go through with it now, before I marry." Surprised by this, I asked why he had postponed the rite for so many years. "Just lazy, I guess."

This didn't surprise me. I could picture Arya as a boy complaining to his mother about having to go through with the "silly" rite. Although he took great pride in being a Bengali Brahmin, Arya seemed embarrassed with the pomp surrounding him as he dutifully followed his family's traditions, for the benefit of his relatives and mother. Was his sense of duty what the Hindus meant by dharma? If so, was I following dharma when I obligingly spent Christmas with my relatives, even though I wasn't that sentimental about the holiday? Or did dharma go further and require a person to live the traditions fashioned by his or her culture? If I were to live according to dharma would I be a mother and housewife instead of a career minded woman exploring foreign lands? If so, I had no use for dharma.

Mrs. Banerjee hurried Arya off to another purification bath -- a rite he underwent before each ceremony he participated in. Purification, Arya had explained, was an important part of all Hindu ritual, especially for the Brahmins. Traditionally, Brahmin men were the Hindu priests and therefore the closest to God, and the most in need of keeping clean and pure.

After Arya left, I met up with a chubby aunt in a forest green sari who was busy adding oranges to the piles of fruit on the floor. "More gifts for the bride?" I asked unknowingly.

"Oh no. These are gifts for Arya's grandparents and great grandparents... His ancestors." She gestured to the many pictures around the room.

This struck me as peculiar. Since none of these people were living, they were hardly in need of gifts.

As the aunt continued to arrange the oranges, the concept of reincarnation stirred through my mind. According to Hindu belief, shouldn't the dead be living in a new body? And in this case, how could they actually receive their gifts? I asked the aunt what would happen to the gifts after the ceremony. She laughed with delight and said, "Everything will be taken to the temple for distribution to the poor."

Ah ha, I mused to myself. Perhaps in this way Arya's ancestors really will receive their gifts.

When Upanayana was about to begin, the relatives gathered around the room. I stood by the aunt in the green sari and said, "Arya mentioned that this ceremony isn't really a part of the wedding."

"Not really. Upanayana is the first stage in the life of a Brahmin boy."

"A sort of Hindu Bar Mihtz-va?"

"Sorry, my dear?"

"A boy's rite of passage."

"Yes, yes, that's right. According to Hindu tradition, a man has four such passages or life stages. Upanayana is the first. Marriage the second. In the other two stages a man becomes a hermit, or Sannyasin, who devotes his life entirely to God. But these last stages are rarely followed today because in them a man must forever leave his wife and family, and that's hardly fair, don't you agree?"

"True. What good is it to desert your family and then keep enlightenment to yourself?"

She chuckled at my comment. "Understand, my dear, the ideals of India are more spiritual than worldly."

At this point, a small Hindu priest dressed in a loincloth entered the room and sat on a floor mat. He lit the brass lamp that would burn the symbolic flame of Agni. While he did so, Arya's father entered the room and sat beside the priest to partake in the ceremony.

"Are these four life stages exclusively for Brahmin men?" I asked the aunt.

"Certainly marriage is for everyone. But it's true that passage rites are for Hindu men."

"What's the essence of the Upanayana?"

"After Upanayana, the boy learns the sacred Hindu scriptures and becomes a twice-born Hindu man."

"Twice-born? Sounds like a born-again Christian."

"There you see," the aunt took hold of my hand, "we have many similarities in our religions, don't we?"

Her comment amused me. Most of Arya's relatives assumed I was a Christian, even though I was not religious at all. I merely wanted to learn about world religions and the roles of women in religious traditions. So I asked the aunt, "Are the twice-born only men?"

"It is so written in our scriptures. Additionally, the twice-born are men only from the three upper castes -- Brahmins, Kshatriyas, and Vaishyas. It is true that in Bengal, however, Upanayana is restricted to Brahmin boys -- which makes a Bengali Brahmin a most impressive fellow, wouldn't you say? But India is greatly diverse, my dear, and in other parts all but the Sudras partake in Upanayana."

"Sudras? Are they the untouchables? The beggars on the streets?"

"Oh no. Sudras are the once-born caste, and these untouchables you speak of were formerly the outcasts of Hindu society. But Gandhiji delivered them from repression and renamed them the Harijans -- Children of God. You see, India is changing for the better."

The guests began cheering as Arya entered the room dressed in a new white silk dhoti. He looked more like a character from an anthropology text than a friend of mine from Portland. He sat on the floor and touched his father's feet and placed his hands together against his chest in namaste, a prayer-like reverential gesture. In reciprocation, Mr. Banerjee touched the head of his son and threw rice on him and the lamp.

Arya began chanting the names of his ancestors back seven generations, calling on them to witness his rite. When he finished, the priest placed a shawl over Arya's head. "This is so he can recite Gayatri Mantra in seclusion," the aunt whispered. "No one else in the room is supposed to hear these sacred words. They are bestowed exclusively on the twice-born."

When the priest removed the shawl, I whispered to the aunt, "So only the twice-born know the meaning of this verse?"

"Oh no," she said aloud. "This is what is customary. We all know the meaning of Gayatri Mantra. It's the greatest prayer in Hinduism, and it goes, 'Om... May the glory and wisdom of the God stimulate our thoughts and attitudes so that we may realize what is true even in the shadows of night... Om.'"

The Upanayana ended after the priest tied three strings over Arya's left shoulder and under his right arm. "These strings remind the twice-born of his intelligence, his relationship with God, and his duty to his newly acquired status in life..." Arya stood up and blushed as his relatives cheered and clapped. "And now," the aunt said, "Arya is officially a twice-born Brahmin and he can get married."

The Bidding-Farewell-to-the-Groom Ceremony took place that afternoon, just before Arya left for his bride's house. Relatives and friends gathered in a room where Arya sat on the floor with his mother. She washed the feet of her son for purification and to display her service and reverence toward the groom. Then she put a wet rice and turmeric mark on his forehead and said, "My son, where are you going?"

"I am going to fetch you a new daughter."

Everyone laughed at Arya's ceremonial remark while I wondered if Mrs. Banerjee would really welcome Arya's bride as a household helper, like most traditional Indian mothers? Or was Arya's mother more contemporary in thought, like her son, and without domestic expectations for her new daughter-in-law? I had wanted to speak with Mrs. Banerjee, but seldom found the chance because she was so busy with the wedding and her other guests. She appeared delighted to play the role of groom's mother. Was it an important role for her? An end to her duty as a mother and a Hindu woman's unacknowledged rite of passage into another stage of life? And were her views and ambitions similar to my own, despite our differences in age and culture? That is, was she aware of being stuck in a role and if so, did she dislike it?

Cheers filled the air and disrupted my thoughts. I followed Arya and the crowd of guests onto the front portico. The Ambassador car idling at the bottom of the steps was caught in a web of white flowers and red roses. Arya walked down the steps to the car while relatives touched his feet and wailed their blessings, revering him as the Hindu god Vishnu off to fetch his goddess Lakshmi.

Shortly, a hired bus pulled into the driveway to take Arya's wedding party to the bride's house. I wasn't expecting the sort of discomfort I encountered that night, especially in my splendid new silk sari. Because Hindu astrologers had designated that evening as auspicious for matrimony, hundreds of weddings took place and thousands of cars and buses traveled across the already congested city to the houses of prospective brides.

Three hours after we left Monopukka Road, our bus became trapped in the middle of an intersection. An uncle among us decided we could walk the remaining mile to the bride's house so everyone left the bus pegged to the street and reassembled under a street light. Urine tainted the air, horns blared and people shouted as they stirred among the stalled traffic. Across the street a naked boy defecating over a gutter, a sight that would have sickened me, but I was already nauseated from the smog and harrowing bus journey.

I followed the wedding party down a sidewalk littered with indigent people sleeping -- or dead, and with pot holes, cracks, and marks of phlegm and orange betel nut spittle. The women near me giggled when I raised the bottom of my sari to avoid dragging it in the filth. At the same time, they astonished me by letting their expensive garments drag on the pavement. At last we reached a tree lined avenue leading up to an open gate beyond which stood a magnificent neoclassic house with white pillars at its portico. Arya's distraught wedding party was warmly greeted by the bride's relatives, mostly women who sprinkled me with perfume.

I followed the procession into the house and down a long hallway festooned with silk and banners and scented with camphor. At the end of it, sitting crosslegged on a hassock, was the bride, formed by gold, silk, perfumes, and flowers. At her sides, perched like ladies-in-waiting, sat her child-maid-of-honor, and two close friends. The bride's face was whitened with powder and intimately painted with gold dots. Her palms were detailed with henna mandalas and she wore large gold earrings. When I reached her I could think of nothing to say but, "You looked beautiful."

"Naturally," she replied, matter-of-factly. "With all these things on, how could I not?"

After leaving the bride, I followed the procession upstairs to the large dining hall where Arya, the bride's father, and the Hindu priest awaited the bride. The scantily dressed priest wouldn't be marrying the couple in the manner a Christian priest or minister does. Instead, he would guide each phase of the ceremony and cite scriptures for the bride, her father, and the groom to repeat. During the event, he continually threw rice and clarified butter -- a substance of purity, onto the burning hearth of Agni.

"Ulululululu..." At the altar two women held a red sari in front of Arya to shield him from his bride. The four men carrying the bride around the room carefully set her beside Arya and the guests tightened around the altar. I moved close to a pillar for a clear view. The sari shielding Arya was placed over the bride and groom so they could have their first glimpse of each other. But this was only customary. Just the evening before, Arya, his friends, cousins, and I had snuck out of Arya's house, took a taxi across town and picked up the bride, Bela, and her child-maid-of-honor. Then we headed to a night club to listen to music and drink beer. Arya and Bela seemed very much in love. I felt happy for them, although a bit jealous with the ease they had in finding each other.

The wedding guests cheered and threw more rice at the couple while Bela's father ceremoniously gave his daughter to Arya, an enactment known in Bengal as the "Gift of a Virgin." "On this auspicious day..." he repeated after the priest, "I give away my daughter who is pure and in perfect health and beauty to this groom." Three times Arya accepted his gift and the crowd cheered and blew conch shells. It was like New Year's Eve after the noise makers have been passed out. I had the urge to whistle on each outburst, as I can do quite loudly with four fingers in my mouth, but I didn't want to appear unfeminine or stranger than I already was, as the only Westerner in the crowd.

The bride and groom exchanged garlands and Bela's father tied the top portion of his daughter's sari to Arya's scarf. These acts symbolically united the couple, like the exchanging of rings in a Christian ceremony. The father declared Arya as the god Vishnu and his daughter as Lakshmi, the Hindu goddess of wealth and beauty. The stunning bride, with her bright brown eyes, long lashes, high cheek bones, and broad smile showing straight white teeth, perfectly embodied Lakshmi, the Venus of Hinduism.

Throughout the ceremony, I had repeatedly asked my neighbors when the Seven Steps would occur. When it arrived, guests nudged me from all sides. As I joined the crowd in throwing more rice, the priest coaxed Arya and Bela to stand and Arya to lead his bride around the flame of Agni. The couple, looking downward, took small steps around the altar, and the priest recited the Hindu verse: When the groom leads his bride around Agni, he shall say, "I am heaven, you are earth. Come! Here and now we shall marry. Take one step so we may have strength."

His bride shall reply, "Within your worthiness, I take this step."

"Take the second step so our lives will be filled with vitality."

"I am born to share in your joys and sorrows."

"Take the third step so we may prosper one hundred autumns."

"My lord, I am yours forever."

"Take the fourth step for joy."

"I am devoted to you. My prayers are for your happiness."

"Take the fifth step to serve the people."

"I will follow you my lord and teacher. With me, you shall keep your vows and serve the people."

"Take the sixth step to follow the sacred duties of our religion."

"I shall forever follow you in observing our religious vows."

"And take this final step so we shall forever live as friends."

"You are my lord, my best friend, and my highest teacher."

"Let us beget many sons who will live to become wise old men."

Suddenly, a flow of laughing people and rustling silk ushered me down the stairs and out to the back of the estate where a pavilion the size of a circus tent hovered over the yard. This was the bride's reception, an event scaled according to the wealth of her family. I could hardly imagine how much the whole affair had cost -- or how many impoverished people it might feed, and for how long.

Under the pavilion stood long rows of tables decorated with garlands and brass vases of irises. Glass chandeliers dangled from the center rafters, and colored lights looped from pole to pole, like Christmas lights. The feast began after Arya took the first ceremonial bite of food and shared his plate with Bela. Then the guests settled down to their own feast of hot spicy fish and vegetable curries, tangy lentil soups, yogurt with cucumbers, hot bitter mango and sour lime chutneys, greasy flat breads, and platters of aromatic rice tinged with saffron.

After the feast, Arya and Bela invited me to stay up for the night with them and their cousins and other friends. The newlyweds would not be alone until two nights later, at the Flower Bed Ceremony, the concluding event of the three day wedding. But I felt exhausted that night and decided to return to the Banerjee house to sleep, even though this meant another bus ride across town.

Just before noon on the following morning, Arya and Bela returned to the Banerjee house. They both wore fresh garlands and their paper laced headdresses, as Arya carried his bride over the threshold. He then led the cheering crowd into the drawing room where preparations had been made to welcome the bride. Here, Mrs. Banerjee, who, according to custom, had not been present at the bride's house the night before, ceremoniously pointed to a vermilion mark in the part of Bela's hair. "This is sindoor," a girl cousin pulled me aside and explained. "It is worn only by married women as you once thought about the bindi." Mrs. Banerjee placed a drop of honey on Bela's lips and ears so her new daughter would utter or hear nothing but sweet words.

At noon that day, the guests sat on the dining room floor for The Rice Touching Ceremony, an event that displayed the bride's obedience to her new household. Ceremoniously Bela served each of us a banana leaf plate containing a spoonful of rice, of dhal, and of fish curry. A servant woman followed behind to dish out more complete portions. Following the meal, Bela lighted cigarettes for the men and offered everybody some bitter pan, the Indian word for "betel nut" -- a palm nut and herbal mixture that's chewed throughout Asia for its narcotic high, one that resembles the effect from a cup of strong coffee.

Later that afternoon, while almost everyone napped and the house fell remarkably quiet, I sat on a sofa in the front drawing room. I wanted to compose my thoughts concerning the similarities between the Hindu and Christian weddings, especially the way both traditions glorified the bride as chaste and as subservient to her husband. In both traditions, the bride takes her husband's name after her father has given her away to him, as if she's a piece of property instead of a free individual. Then, in a romanticized display of affection, the husband carries his new possession over the threshold to his house. In the Christian wedding the bride wears white to represent her purity and virginity, in the Hindu wedding she wears red to represent the same thing. I could never be a traditional bride. Such a role would offend, not flatter me. My husband would have to fashion with me a wedding based on our shared ideals, which would include equality. It puzzled me that most American women loved traditional weddings that portrayed them as unequal and dependent. Why was I so different from the majority? Why did I watch ceremonies with the droll analytical eye of an anthropologist, instead of with the passionate emotions of a romantic? Was something wrong with me? Would I always stand on the rim of cultures and religions -- just to observe -- without ever becoming personally involved? Perhaps.

While I sat on the sofa, deeply absorbed in thought, Arya's mother entered the drawing room, sat beside me, and asked to read my journal. Her request surprised me and I couldn't think of what to say. Because she had made the time for a visit, I wanted to be as gracious as possible. At the same time, the contents of my journal were too personal for her to read. "The thing is..." I said, feeling awkward, "I'd be embarrassed to have you read it because... I haven't been careful about the spelling and grammar."

Mrs. Banerjee smiled and took my hand in hers. "My dear Teresa. You must feel more comfortable with me. Let me assure you, I too am a clumsy fellow. You are so far away from your home and your mother. You must make yourself at home in my house. We welcome you with open arms. And please, you must call me Kumala."

I quickly felt at ease with Arya's mother, and to avoid showing her my journal, I asked her why there had been so many elaborate ceremonies during Arya's wedding.

"My dear child," she said, "these ceremonies are how we teach tradition to our children and to future generations. How can they otherwise learn about their heritage?"

"Through fairy tales, books, and television."

"Television may be tradition in America, but it is not so much in India. I tell you, customs are bound to the culture we are born into... What the Bengali sees or believes about the world, is determined by his being Bengali. But the world itself is not Bengal."

"Nor America," I said, feeling charmed by her wit. "But do you think tradition is really that important to pass on generation after generation? It seems that certain traditions need to change as society changes for the better."

"But if we change our traditions, we disconnect ourselves from our heritage. Without knowing our past, how can we discover a continuity between ourselves, our ancestors, and our future generations. This continuity is as important to us Hindus as I'm sure it is for you Americans."

"I'm not so sure I value this continuity. You see, Americans come from all over the world and we tend to lose connections with our ancestry as generations go by, anyway. For example, I don't even know the names of my great grandparents..."

"Why, this is interesting," Kumala said, her eyes bright with curiosity. "You must tell me all about your family in America. There's so much I don't know about your country. Arya tells me nothing other than what he thinks I want to hear. That he's happy at his job and with his living arrangements. But I worry about him, you see. I can't help it, in the same way I'm sure your mother cannot help worrying about her little Teresa. Tell me, how do you find the courage to travel all the way to India?"

Amused by Kumala's motherly concerns, I smiled and said, "Really, I'm here because I'm fascinated with the customs and beliefs of your country."

My comment delighted Kumala and she said, with a teasing grin, "So you have come to India to seek knowledge. This is wonderful and I'm sure you'll discover much about yourself in the process."

When I asked Kumala about her life in Bengal, she enthusiastically told me her paternal grandparents had moved to Calcutta at the turn of the century from a part of Bengal that is now in Bangladesh. "Do you know about the Partition, in 1947?"

"When Pakistan broke from India?"

"Accha," Kumala said. "When Bengal was ripped asunder the Muslims went to East Bengal and thousands of East Bengali Hindus fled to the streets of Calcutta. It is not natural to divide a people like this and such a separation can only lead to suffering and conflict. And now, as you can see, Calcutta is like a way station for the unwanted and the needy."

I admitted Calcutta's slums were depressing and she said, "When you return to Calcutta after your travels through India, I will show you the sights of our fair city and teach you the positive aspects of India. Otherwise, I'm afraid you will only see what is negative when there is much more to Calcutta than meets the eye. Ours is a city of beauty, of intelligence, and of great emotion."

"India is truly diverse. You have such vast contrasts between the rich and poor, and among the many religions and languages."

"Accha. This is very true... but you must understand that there is much harmony and unity in this diversity. To understand a country like India you must understand her history, just as the child must learn his own heritage. Otherwise, how can he feel he is a part of something bigger than himself? This Teresa, is what you must remember about Arya's wedding, and about the people of India."

I smiled at the warm, intelligent woman beside me, sorry I was leaving the next day for two months of travel through India. It concerned me that by the time I returned to Calcutta, Kumala wouldn't so warmly welcome me. After all, I'd no longer be the exotic guest at her son's wedding.

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(last edit: 12-30-00: Happy New Year !)