The Heart Shape of India

Abstract

Tilda and Gabriel went from Tegel Airport to Frankfurt to catch the Lufthansa flight to Chennai. Gabriel witnessed Tilda frequently checking her mobile. Peeping over her shoulder from behind, he could see a message with big white letters quite artistically scurrying over the dark-blue display. It said ‘SEE YOU SOON’ before it disappeared. Probably from lovely Ken. When Tilda noticed that he was watching her, she slowly pushed her mobile back into her pocket. “This will be switched off until my return,” she firmly said. “Mine as well,” Gabriel agreed.

Tilda and Gabriel went from Tegel Airport to Frankfurt to catch the Lufthansa flight to Chennai. Gabriel witnessed Tilda frequently checking her mobile. Peeping over her shoulder from behind, he could see a message with big white letters quite artistically scurrying over the dark-blue display. It said ‘SEE YOU SOON’ before it disappeared. Probably from lovely Ken. When Tilda noticed that he was watching her, she slowly pushed her mobile back into her pocket. “This will be switched off until my return,” she firmly said. “Mine as well,” Gabriel agreed.

This was their trip. Gabriel believed right from the start that going to India was what they were supposed to do with the Bede Griffiths excursion. The trip was scheduled the moment Tilda had sat foot into his office to apply for the B1 job. They took their seats on the aircraft next to each other.

Angels’ Play

Location:

Heaven above Frankfurt Airport. Shared-Office Cloud.

Time:

Real-time GMT, Monday, 6 January 2020, 08:38

Players:

The two angels as before.

Setting:

TA feels very challenged. The angel has turned into an Indian elephant. Still halfway recognisable thanks to its green cladding but nevertheless an elephant. It looks totally frustrated. It had tried a few times to eat the Madonna lily of its colleague for breakfast but had been gently hindered by GA.

The Gabrielite has taken control: It has attached a weight to the elephant trunk to prevent further lily attacks and has put an ankle bracelet around its big feet to prevent the elephant from trampling any furniture on the cloud.

The good news is that the new cockpit area with the standing desks can easily accommodate the oversize occupant. The elephant trunk has even proved to be useful in handling the buttons and sliders of the cockpit console.

However, if this is supposed to be about the fruitful marriage of East and West, but the East, represented by the elephant, is currently at a serious disadvantage and is being just compassionately observed by the West, namely GA.

TA

(frustrated):

Come on, what’s the first challenge card in this bloody training course? I hate learning gamification! Let’s start and be done with it so that I can go back to normal. And I want you to kiss me.

GA

(scanning through the playing cards):

The challenges are mostly about finding ways to integrate a cultural difference and resolve potential conflicts arising from it.

TA

(impatiently):

OK, enough talking. Give us an easy one for today to warm up.

GA

(drawing a card from the pack and reading out loud):

“Who am I?”

TA

(angrily):

You? You are a smart-arse and bossy. Everybody knows that. And you’re mean to me. Look at the weight and the bracelet. Only because you consider me an inferior animal do you think that you can push me around. I feel like shit.

GA

(thoughtfully):

Gosh, that’s cryptic! “Who am I?” (bowing to its elephantine colleague) I’m GA, a guardian angel, member of the famous Gabrielite team. I help people. Angels such as me are cosmic powers in the Western Christian tradition according to St. Paul. I am a seraph. Handsome and active. I am good at annunciation, singing and fine arts. Very sophisticated. I am a creation of God (waving the card in the face of its colleague)

And you? Who are you? I mean, usually you are a Western angel like me (correcting itself). Not really like me, but kind of. A machinegun-type version called a Michaelite. Now you have fallen pretty low. Who are you now? Let’s hear.

TA

(trying to find an inward answer and then slowly reporting its findings):

Why do you respect me so little? I’m an elephant. In Vedic mythology, I carry the prince, the ruler. I am a bearer of divinity. I carry the universe on my shoulders.

If I shake myself, there will be earthquakes in the world. People consider me holy, like cows and snakes and monkeys. I belong to the cosmic powers like you. I am a creation of God too.

The Hindu god Ganesha wears my head as a sign of wisdom and to gain unique access to the unification of the divine and human consciousness. I can help you bridge the gap. There is even a neurological explanation for the role of Ganesha’s elephant head in the evolution of consciousness. Please let me help you to reach out to something outside yourself.

Both look at each other for a long time. Then GA stands up, goes over to TA’s standing desk, removes the weight from the elephant trunk and loosens the ankle bracelet around TA’s feet.

GA

(very softly):

I’m sorry. Please forgive my shameful arrogance! I’m a total beginner in this field. Ignorance is my only excuse for not respecting you as an equal. Can you ever like me again? (reverently kissing the elephant, which immediately transforms back into TA)

TA

(relieved and happy to have passed the challenge):

Puh! It was high time that happened. Now I need a drink.

Passage to India

Landing in India in the middle of the night was not spectacular. Outside, it seemed to be like everywhere else, maybe a little poorer than other places but still a big city with the usual airport structure. Their flight was delayed by about two hours, and Gabriel was concerned about their pickup from the airport. Ayaan had offered to organise their hotel transfer through his cousin, who was a high-ranking official in the Indian army. That would do for security. “Will this army cousin still be here after midnight?” Gabriel asked Tilda. “It’s become very late.” “Depends how much time we end up spending at immigration, Mr David,” Tilda answered soberly.

And she was right. They stood in long rows of many people and observed that the procedure was everything but straightforward. It looked and sounded as if everything were invented on the spot and applied for the first time when a specific individual entered the immigration counter and spoke to a more-or-less engaged but always-threatening officer. While they slowly approached the counter, being pushed forward by the long queue, they tried to figure out the best way and what the required documentation would be to get through with the most ease.

Tilda jumped from counter to counter to listen in on the conversations while Gabriel talked to Indian people in the queue and took a look at their documents. In between, his mobile beeped desperately. It was probably Ayaan’s cousin at the terminal exit waiting for them; it got later and later. Any attempts to take the call were constrained by a poor Internet connection in the immigration hall and hectic herd behaviour by the throng of people around. It was a nightmare. This was probably how all these poor refugees felt when they entered a foreign country.

They were pushed forward until each of them individually stood in front of an Indian officer and had to deal with the situation. Gabriel saw out of the corner of his eye that Tilda was not doing very well. She was still questioned by a grim-looking officer and was red in the face. Obviously, she was not very successful in answering his questions. But running over to help her would have only made things worse, by coming off as very suspicious. So he did not intervene and let himself be pushed out of the security zone to help her, if necessary, with support of Ayaan’s people from the outside. At least, Ayaan’s military contact would be able to get them out of here—if he was even still there. It was already half past 1 am Indian time. Gabriel’s first minutes in India! The first impression he had while exiting the security zone to the outside world: It was very warm. They’d entered the aircraft in Frankfurt in cold January. Moving out into the Indian terminal hall felt like coming into a hot, humid, cramped aquarium overflowing with life.

It must have been about thirty degrees in the middle of the night, even inside this air-conditioned entryway. The mass of moving people in the huge hall architecture took Gabriel’s breath away. He had recently visited both Beijing and Los Angeles and had found both of them to be crowded. But these were nothing by comparison. And his first, most-prominent impression was that this was not only perfectly OK but also just as people wanted it. The overall energy level was high and positive despite the late hour. Nobody was stressed out from the abundance of people; nobody seemed to be overwhelmed or overtaxed by their fellow humans. Nobody but Gabriel. Tired and overwhelmed, he waded further into the crowds with his huge backpack behind him. No Ayaan to be seen. What would happen to Tilda? He had to take care of her. He could feel that not everybody in these crowds was harmless and friendly.

“Dr. David?” A polite voice addressed him. He recognised the voice from the corrupted phone messages. “I am Baloo,” the man added. He wore a splendid army uniform with many military medals and looked distinguished and martial with his gelled pitch-black hair and serious face. People around him showed him a lot of respect. “Yes, I am. Are you Ayaan’s cousin?” Who else would be willing to fetch them from the airport at around 2:30 am—the wee hours of the morning? “Ayaan,” the man reverently said, “Pa.” He said this with an open “a” as in German or an African language, where it sounds like the word papi, which some children use to refer to their father. This was the moment when Gabriel recognised that the man didn’t speak much English, so he started to doubt that this was Ayaan’s cousin. They stood silently side by side in the middle of this busy terminal in the middle of the night and waited for Tilda. Finally, she appeared, totally exhausted. Baloo took her rucksack and waved for them to follow him. It must have been about 3:00 am by then. They followed the army officer through the terminal hall packed with people.

Baloo dived into the crowd like one would into a flood. People were making space for his military uniform, moving to either side in front of him. Gabriel and Tilda followed in his wake like Moses’s people in his passage through in the Red Sea. In front of them, they saw that crowds again parted to make way for an intriguing object: An army car with flashing flights was parked in the middle of the huge terminal hall. The hall had an open front at one end. It was their car. Tilda and Gabriel looked at each other in total amazement. This was the first time that they realised that they were VIPs and in a privileged position for their visit to India.

It felt like pure luxury and safety after what they had encountered since leaving the Lufthansa aircraft. Baloo lifted their luggage into the rear, seated them comfortably on the soft back seats, took the driver position and brought them out of the airport area with flashing lights and blaring sirens. He did not speak and did not look at them. He was like a reliable but taciturn servant. And he was a good driver. He reminded Gabriel of Drives, the taxi driver who drove them safely home from their Sussex sunset experience.

They drove through the night. It was a long way to go before the car stopped in front of a dark building in a moderate state of decay. “Hotel,” Baloo barked. They tiredly stumbled out of the car and fetched their huge backpacks. Baloo made some sort of noise, and suddenly, some overtired personnel appeared to help with the luggage.

What then began was another service ordeal. For nearly another hour, they stood at the hotel reception desk watching Baloo negotiate in Tamil with the clerks. Ayaan had confirmed bookings for their first night, but the clerks behaved as if they were hearing of these bookings for the first time. And not only this: It seemed like Gabriel and Tilda were the first guests they had ever received at their business.

In the end, the reception manager gave them their keys, and without further ado, they said thank you and good night to Baloo and headed to the elevators. They had rooms on the same floor. Gabriel’s was of deplorable quality, and Tilda’s was not much better: no toilet paper, no soap, no electric lamps, no air conditioning, no water. But it was 4:30 in the morning, and there was a bed. Tilda used her backpack and a chair to barricade her door where the latch was damaged, fell down on the bed and slept like a log.

Angels’ Play

Location:

Heaven above Chennai’s city centre. Shared-Office Cloud.

Time:

Real-time GMT+5.30, Wednesday, 7 January 2020, 10:45 India Standard Time (IST)

Players:

The two angels as before.

Setting:

The angels are doing the second lesson of their training course. Unfaithful to its word, having seen the challenge on the playing card, GA has again talked TA into becoming the Indian elephant. They are quarrelling.

GA

(in a convincing voice):

You are a serving creature. Like Baloo.

TA

(proudly):

Maybe, but I am not a servant. Nor is he.

GA

(shaking its head):

You’re arguing over mere semantics. You belong to the servants, not to the ones that are served. That makes a big difference. Look down there: There are service people, and there are the people they serve, right? That’s Indian culture!

TA

(outraged):

No, that’s unjust.

GA

(warningly):

Don’t let upper management hear you. You know Mark 9:35: “Anyone who wants to be first must be the very last, and the servant of all.” You can take pride in doing a good job at being of service. That’s all.

TA

(frustrated):

Where are these union angels when you need them? There is a constitution! I have rights. I am highly qualified for my job. And I pay my union dues. I’m on committees!

GA

(soberly):

For the time being, and that is now India Standard Time, you are an elephant unless we solve this challenge. You can complain later. Take consolation in the knowledge that there are some cherubs below you that have to clean toilets. And there is no toilet paper down there. It’s not part of the local culture.

TA

(obstinately):

I will accept the missing toilet paper only because it’s cultural. For everything else, I want justice. No service people, service elephants or service angels by default. There are no dualities. We are all One, right?

GA

(smilingly, understandingly and benevolently kissing the trunk of its colleague):

Yes, if you don’t like the current mores, let’s start changing them.

The First Hours in India

Gabriel woke up to bright sunshine falling through the large window directly onto his pillow. The window went out to a huge green garden in the back with jungle-like palm trees. The building surrounding the garden from the other side was an old castle type of manor that had seen better days. It still looked very aristocratic, though.

There were new, eager and very friendly personnel at the reception desk this morning. Listening to their greetings, Gabriel and Tilda discovered that they could not understand very much of what was being said. People, who were very dark-skinned here in South India, talked to them in a mixture of English and Tamil that was difficult to understand. Among themselves, they talked in Tamil only. “By the bye, do you have toilet paper in your room, Mrs Toelz?” Gabriel asked Tilda. She shook her head, embarrassed. She could be such a wimp.

They went into the large shady breakfast room with luxurious air conditioning, where an opulent buffet breakfast was delivered by many Tamilian servers who seemed to be total beginners. They didn’t know what to do with their guests. At least they weren’t performing the usual routines of assigning a table, asking about people’s preferences for tea or coffee and the like. They simply shuffled around Gabriel and Tilda, who were standing in the way.

The servers looked helplessly at their two guests, and Gabriel and Tilda looked helplessly at them. They were the only guests for more than ten servers. “What now, Mr David?” Tilda asked under her voice. “We take control,” Gabriel suggested. He was usually more polite and not so bossy, but he was hungry. So they simply marched with heavy steps to the best table in the room, rudely sat down and ordered beverages in loud and commanding voices: Tilda yelled for tea; Gabriel shouted for coffee. This was met with great relief by the staff. Finally, these strange foreigners had made up their minds. Gabriel and Tilda could feel the staff’s approval. Tilda looked at Gabriel with raised eyebrows. He shrugged his shoulders.

“OK,” she said, “if this is the way it works.” With firm steps, she approached the buffet, waved a server to her, and started to point at things with her little finger that he should put on her plate. Then she came back to the table with the server in her wake, who carried her plate laden with food. He waited until she was seated again before putting her food down in front of her and placing a napkin in her lap. Then he waited until she had started to eat and took position behind her chair with a neutral face, waiting to be of further service.

Gabriel had watched the little scene with dismay for its display of inequality and rudeness but also with a little admiration: This was what he would call cultural adaptivity. Tilda looked at him with mocking eyes. “I thought you were hungry.” Gabriel said, laughing, and then he got up and followed her example. However, he carried his own plate, smiled and said thank you to the helpful staff. His server was shocked by this inappropriate behaviour. She took position behind his chair with a reproachful face, keeping a watchful and suspicious eye on him to see whether he would at least be able to eat properly. Tilda grinned.

“Ayaan said in his last email that we shall rest from our flight today, to be fit for Kerala tomorrow,” Gabriel told Tilda. “How about a little sightseeing after breakfast?” “Shouldn’t we work, Mr David? We are on a business trip after all,” Tilda objected. “We’re in India. Let’s have a look at Chennai and go to the beach. It is called Marina Beach,” Gabriel said. Sometimes he wondered who was the youth and who was the elder in their relationship. When they met at reception, they were both in light, casual attire because it seemed to be very warm outside. Inside, at reception, it was freezing from the air conditioning. It seemed as if they were the only guests of the hotel. “Do you have a city map, and can you show us the most scenic walk through the city to the beach?” Gabriel asked the reception officer. The man looked at him uncomprehendingly. “Taxi?” he asked. “No. Map! We want to walk!” The receptionist waved to his colleague for help. “Taxi!” this guy said firmly. “No, walk,” Gabriel said. “Map?” Both men shook their heads. “Which direction? Chennai’s city centre? Marina Beach?” Gabriel pointed questioningly with his arms to the right and to the left of the hotel.

Both men shook their heads. “Taxi!” they confirmed. When they realised that they could not convince Tilda and Gabriel to order a taxi but that their guests were adamant about walking, they looked at each other, shrugged and started to give them complicated directions. Obviously, there was no city map available, and the hotel was somewhere in the suburbs. “How far to the city centre?” Gabriel asked. “Two kilometres,” they replied. Gabriel looked with relief over at Tilda. That was not too bad, and the day was nice.

In the meantime, there were five or six staff members around them; their breakfast servers laughingly stood in the door of the breakfast room and observed the scene, talking to each other in Tamil. All looked rather alarmed when the two of them set off to go sightseeing on foot and all by themselves. Gabriel and Tilda soon discovered why. First of all, it was hot and humid. For unaccustomed Westerners, physical exertion in these conditions would be quite difficult. Then there was no pavement to walk on safely. Though the street was big with many cars and other vehicles travelling in all directions and not following any rules or order, the border was just sand, dust and pebbles, with a lot of garbage to avoid. On this sort of pavement, many people were passing to and fro. Every crossing of a side street was an adventure because there were no traffic lights or other helpful infrastructure. You simply waited until a critical mass of people had formed on your side of the street and then pushed forward with the crowd. You were responsible for your own survival. At first, this severely stressed out Gabriel and Tilda. They were soon pretty exhausted from noise and having to put their lives in danger.

However, they soon adapted to the chaos and even discovered order in chaos. People took care of each other. And they were magnificent drivers. There were no accidents. People were happily laughing and chatting. The crowd looked colourful and full of life. However, everybody stared at them. Though Chennai was a megacity, they were the only Westerners to be seen in this huge crowd of pedestrians. If there were other Westerners, they were probably sitting in taxis, strongly encouraged by their bossy hotel personnel into complying with the tourist culture in India. Wandering the crowded streets of Chennai’s city centre with its many shops and big malls, Gabriel and Tilda soon got lost. They looked for a cash machine because Tilda had no money on her, having been too tight-fisted to accept the transaction fees at the airport. For that reason, they left the route to Marina Beach that their concierge had earlier advised them to take. In the US, they had been mostly guided by Google Maps on their mobile phones in such a situation. Here, Gabriel’s phone was again of rather limited use; in Chennai’s city centre, it had no signal at all.

And Tilda seemed to be adamant about not even acknowledging that she had such a device. She didn’t want to use her mobile in India. She didn’t want to see the dozens of messages from Ken piling up in the meantime. Gabriel wondered into which depths of her backpack her phone had vanished. It was so nice to have her constant, full attention without the otherwise-inevitable and ubiquitous phone glued to her hands. However, for the time being, this meant they were lost. At a certain point, Tilda confessed: “I have no clue where we are. Or where the sea is. Or anything.” She went into a shop to try to ask people for the right way but came out more puzzled than before. “Everybody in there pointed in a different direction,” she complained. “We should take one of those, Mrs Toelz,” Gabriel said, pointing to one of the motorised three-wheelers where the driver was sitting in front and two passengers could balance on a little bench sitting behind said driver. “A tuktuk?” Tilda asked sceptically. “This looks like suicide, Mr David.” “They’re usually very good drivers. And if not, at least they’re really cheap,” Gabriel soothed her and hailed the next tuktuk approaching them in the street chaos. It swerved dangerously as it approached the kerb and came to a standstill just a few centimetres away from Gabriel’s knees. Tilda groaned. The driver grinned.

Bouribi, the Singing Tuktuk Driver

“My name is Bouribi,” he said “I am your driver for today. Where do you want to go?” He was about fifty years old, talkative and very tidy in a clean white shirt with a huge golden watch on his left arm. “To Marina Beach,” Tilda said firmly. “We will go there later,” Bouribi replied, smiling with his pockmarked face, and then he cranked up his engine. “Now I will show you the city.” “No!” Tilda shouted, “we want to go to Marina Beach!” But Bouribi simply shook his dark-haired head and laughed while avoiding a collision with a group of slow lorries. “How much?” Tilda tried to limit the financial damage. Bouribi’s tidy tuktuk had a taximeter, but the device was switched off. “Five hundred for the whole day,” Bouribi said. “I will take good care of you.” That was not much indeed—only 5.60 euros, in fact. And they needed a local driver, that was for sure. They nodded in agreement, and off they went with happily laughing Bouribi.

“Where are we going?” Gabriel shouted after some time from behind Bouribi and into Bouribi’s ear. The traffic was unbearable; they thought they would die in an accident any minute. “To church!” Bouribi exclaimed happily. He started singing some Tamil songs, not very melodiously but loudly. Tilda groaned and stirred nervously at Gabriel’s side. “What church? I don’t want to go to church. I thought you were all Hindus,” she complained. Poor girl: always surrounded by religious lunatics. “Not all of us,” Bouribi said. “I am a Catholic.” Given the small percentage of Catholics in Chennai, Bouribi was probably the only Catholic tuktuk driver in the whole city.

After a wild tuktuk ride, Bouribi stopped with a flourish in front of St. Thomas Basilica, a church in Mylapore, a district of Chennai. “This the site of the burial place of St. Thomas the Apostle,” Bouribi presented proudly before continuing: “This is my parish, and we have a museum. On we go!” Tilda groaned. “Where’s Marina Beach?” she asked desperately. “It’s just round the corner,” Bouribi replied, smiling. “First you go church, then crypt, then museum, then beach.” Tilda groaned again, more loudly this time. Bouribi was merciless. First, they had to take off their shoes, like at every holy place in India. Next, they had to look at everything while Bouribi explained. “The name Thomas means ‘mated’ or ‘twin’ in Aramaic. This is why Thomas is also called Didymus, in the Bible. In the Syriac tradition, he appears as Judas Thomas since Thomas is understood there as an epithet,” Bouribi said in the museum. He pointed at some oil paintings and cited famous Bible quotes. “You know the pejorative term doubting Thomas? He initially doubted the resurrection of Jesus until he himself saw the stigmata of the risen one.” Tilda theatrically groaned. Bouribi slowly moved to a collection of more oil paintings. “According to legend, Thomas was also the only apostle who was not present at Mary’s Ascension. He doubted the event as he doubted the resurrection of Jesus. For this reason, Mary appeared to the doubter and handed him her belt as proof of her bodily acceptance into heaven. This is a famous motif in art.” He was really an expert on St. Thomas. “More written evidence of St. Thomas’s work in India has surfaced recently. For example, written evidence exists from St. Gaudentius of Brescia. Also, St. Gregory of Tours recorded not only that the apostle Thomas worked and died in India but also that he was buried here. He suffered a martyr’s death here in India. It is in his apostolic tradition that we celebrate our services following the Syrian rite, which is structured a little differently from what you know as mass liturgy. For example, we start with Sanctus, while you have it in the middle,” Bouribi went on. Tilda groaned.

Next, he waved them over towards the crypt. He even made Tilda and Gabriel kneel down in front of St. Thomas’s grave side by side. “Didymus means ‘mated,’ and you are mated, so pay your respects,” he said. It would have been disrespectful not to do so. Even Tilda felt it and complied with his hectic pawing at her clothing to bring her down to the ground. Gabriel grinned. There she paid respects, she, the doubting Thomas par excellence. Anyway, Bouribi meant “pay” literally. They had to leave rupees in front of the shrine. Tilda groaned. In response, Gabriel hastily asked Bouribi to take them to the beach now. “It’s right behind the church,” Bouribi answered happily. “I bring you down, though I really do not understand why you want to go there.” He was right. The shore started only about twenty metres behind the churchyard. There was not much to see but litter and dirt. Bouribi looked expectantly at them, ready for another of his museum tours of St. Thomas. Gabriel felt that Tilda was on the brink of freaking out. “Bouribi,” he said softly, “we want to be alone for a few hours to take a walk along Marina Beach. Can we do that now?” Bouribi grinned and nodded understandingly. He drove them over to Marina Beach and let them loose for a walk in the fresh air, which they desperately needed.

Gabriel was able to bring Tilda’s mood back to normal while they looked at some Indian families enjoying themselves between the stands of the beach fair. It all looked a little bit like Brighton’s seafront, but unfortunately covered in debris. Everything was pretty littered. As always, first thing at the beach, Gabriel kicked off his shoes, unlike body-shy Tilda. However, even Gabriel put on his shoes again after having dipped them into the dirty waters of the Indian Ocean. It was too disgusting and dangerous. Not only the usual flotsam but also dead animals, broken glass, motor oil and metal scrap were everywhere. “Isn’t that funny, Mrs Toelz?” he pointed across the ocean. “We’re here at Marina Beach in Chennai just opposite Marina Inn back in San Francisco. The Indian Ocean becomes the Pacific Ocean on the other side. If you try hard, you might see the Golden Gate Bridge.” “I don’t want to see the bloody bridge, Mr David,” Tilda said gruffly. She was right. Better not be reminded of that dreadful evening. “Let’s walk a little down the beach,” he complacently said. They went on a swift walk for a few kilometres. Then Tilda felt better. “Look, Mr David! There are horses,” she delightedly pointed to a group of ponies standing further up in the dunes that were nibbling at the little grass there was. “Can we go up to them?” Gabriel was happy to agree. However, they changed course when they saw that the ponies were guarded by a group of Indian men sitting in the dunes who did not look very friendly on their approach.

Angels’ Play

Location:

Heaven above Chennai’s city centre. Shared-Office Cloud.

Time:

Real-time GMT+5.30, Wednesday, 7 January 2020, 13:37 IST

Players:

The two angels as before.

Setting:

Third lesson on the cloud. GA is in the form of Ganesha. Even as an elephant, this angel remains stylish. It is performing a melodious trumpet solo with its red-gold trunk.

TA in its angel attire is frowningly checking the challenge details, obviously impatient about its progress and eager for a promotion.

The angel has meticulously arranged according to size and at the sideboard of its standing desk every item that could be of potential use during the session, including a missal, an altar cross, a skeletal relic of St. Thomas, a rosary, a black habit, a scapula, a chalice, a pope mitre, a Madonna statue, an eternal light and various other devotionalia.

GA

(stunned while mustering the holy collection):

What are we up to this time? What are we guarding against?

TA

(grumpy):

Hindu stuff. Pagan.

GA

(mystified):

Pagan? Are you sure?

TA

(sharply knocking on the Script, in a clear and rational voice):

I do not much like the fact that Tilda has to spend her next week in Hindu temples, according to the Script. All this polytheistic stuff with strange rituals around animals and nature. They will run around with tikas the whole day. They will join pilgrims in their temple sacrifices. They will even be involved in fertility rituals. Gabriel is 54 years old, for God’s sake.

Tilda will be advised by chanting and sweating Vishnu temple priests to put a flower wreath around this old guy’s neck like on a breeding bull. It’s disgusting. I won’t have it. It’s hard enough with her anyway. How shall she become a true believer?

GA

(warningly rolling its trunk):

Wait a second.

TA

(swinging the rosary like a lasso):

We should shoo them back to St. Thomas Basilica; lock them up there by causing an earthquake, a tsunami or something; and be done with it until their return flight.

Now I’ll kiss you, and we can start getting back to normal by stopping this nonsense.

Cloud gets very dark. Thunder is rolling.

The Elephant Son of Shiva and Parvati

After meeting Bouribi again after their beach walk, he brought them to a local soup kitchen, where they ate a delicious meal. Only very poor people like Bouribi were present, who was greeted like a good friend. He placed orders for Gabriel and Tilda, and they got well-prepared servings of curry masala. Bouribi was the best eater at the table. For drinks, they had bottled water. The place had nothing else on the offer. When Gabriel paid afterwards, he realised that they had eaten with three adult persons for about three euros. Soon, Bouribi was getting into new mischief. “Now I will show you our most famous temple area,” he said, standing up from the meal. “No more religion for today,” Tilda moaned. But as before, Bouribi proved to be merciless. Singing loudly and unmusically, he drove them through the wild traffic in his tuktuk. He deeply reminded them of Teo, the singing taxi driver in Arizona. “I want to take a few pictures of this madness. Please give me your mobile phone, Mr David,” Tilda said. “Here you go,” Gabriel replied, laughing.

Next, they arrived at their first Hindu place of worship, the Kapaleeshvarar temple. It was a huge area with a colourful forty-metre-high gate tower full of many goddesses and gods at the entrance. Bouribi said that such a gate tower was called a gopuram and whose purpose was to tell stories from the religious epics, such as Mahabharata and Ramayana. The place was packed with Indian tourists and pilgrims. “Take off your shoes, because this is holy ground,” Bouribi said, pointing for them to look at a large facility where they paid staff to take care of their shoes until their owners’ return. The staff were responsible for tons of shoes, which were thrown together without much care for pairs or order, let alone hygiene. Tilda groaned.

Bouribi had organised a tour guide for them in the meantime, again probably from his huge network of friends, thanks to his business acumen. This young, hip guy was dressed in Western clothes and spoke decent, understandable English. Right at the entrance, he showed them how people worshipped the elephant-headed god Ganesha, who was supposed to help people who wanted to start fresh with their lives. In front of his shrine, people bought coconuts and smashed them into a bowl that they broke open. It looked funny, and Tilda giggled. “Why are they doing that?” Gabriel asked their guide. “The fibres of the coconut represent our hair. Our hair cannot be counted any more than the coconut fibres can. The shell symbolises our body, the white flesh inside our heart. The coconut water symbolises bad habits, our egoism. Whoever breaks the coconut breaks his heart, after which it is purified,” the guide explained. The whole temple was dedicated to the god Shiva, who seemed to have been a right rascal. Their guide told them: “One day, Shiva fell out with his partner, the goddess Parvati. It happened while the two of them were playing a game at the place where we are standing now. While they were playing, a peacock suddenly started dancing. This looked so captivating that Parvati forgot about playing with Shiva and instead turned her attention to the peacock instead. Shiva called Parvati twice, but she kept watching the dancing peacock. Shiva became angry and put a curse on Parvati, turning her into a peacock herself. Thereafter, Parvati, in the form of a peacock, came every day to worship Shiva under a laurel tree until Shiva, moved by her devotion, freed her from the curse. This tells you something about ‘love and devotion,’ even when the loved one is ill-tempered, makes fun of you and hurts you to your core, doesn’t it?”

The laurel tree that the guide showed them on the north side of the temple was believed to have magical powers. “Pilgrims are granted a wish when they visit it,” he said, “and the district got its name from this legend: Mylapore is translated into English as ‘the place of the peacock.’ In Hindu tradition, the worship of Shiva in Mylapore is tantamount to worshipping him in the Himalayas, where he is said to reside with Parvati in deep meditation. Ganesha, whom you have seen worshipped at the entrance, by the way, is the son of Shiva and Parvati.”

“Of course he is. An ugly elephant is the son of a servile peacock and a power-hungry maniac of a god. Why not?” Tilda murmured, unmoved by all of this. Her mood did not improve when they had to pay the guide, who charged Western prices, especially because it made Bouribi greedy, who observed that they accepted and paid the huge fee. When Bouribi delivered them with his tuktuk in front of their hotel, he asked for five times as much money as had been negotiated. They disagreed and insisted on the originally negotiated fare. However, Gabriel had only a banknote of about twenty euros on him. When handing this to Bouribi, expecting change, he simply drove away with it, laughing happily. Tilda cursed at him, saying not very pleasant things about him in particular and Indian people in general, while Gabriel felt compelled to join Bouribi in laughter. This was not much money for them after all, but for Bouribi, it was a small fortune. And they had a great day with him.

Owing to their upcoming appointment the next morning at six o’clock with Ayaan to fly out to Kerala, they had an early-bird dinner in the same area of the hotel where they had taken breakfast that morning. The hotel staff was already waiting for them. Dinner service worked like the breakfast service. Tilda marched around barking at personnel for food and drinks. She had already culturally adapted to being patronising, domineering and bossy, and Gabriel was strongly reminded of the colonialist attitudes of British expatriate communities in India, as depicted in movies such as The English Patient; this was obviously how it developed. It was easy for him to separate himself from Tilda tonight. He was not amused but was too tired to quarrel with her for being such a Westerner.

Angels’ Play

Location:

Heaven above Chennai’s city centre. Shared-Office Cloud.

Time:

Real-time GMT+5.30, Wednesday, 7 January 2020, 21:01 IST

Players:

The two angels as before.

Setting:

Both angels are elephants. The mood is very unhappy.

TA

(desperately):

I fucked it up, right?

GA

(flatly):

Yes, you did. You have obviously caused a situation where kisses don’t work any longer to change us back to angels.

TA

(desolately):

What now?

GA

(hopelessly):

No idea. As I said, this is the beta version. There are no guidelines for a situation when both players are stuck being elephants. Gamification development has not foreseen that players would be so stupid as to let intercultural conflict escalate.

TA

(taking the blow like an elephant):

Thank you, dear. I hate autoethnography. Have I already said that? We can call TRINI-T personnel and ask for their advice. It’s their bloody professional development course after all. They have a corporate social responsibility as our employer.

Both elephants are working on their consoles with their trunks, listening endlessly to elevator music on the service line of the CSR Call Centre until they are connected to an operator from the angels’ personnel department.

GA

(explaining through the line):

We are doing the interreligious course and are both holy Eastern elephants.

Helpdesk operator

(rather unforthcoming):

Where’s the problem?

GA

(repeating):

We’re both elephants.

Helpdesk operator

(repeating):

Where’s the problem?

GA

(changing strategy):

Is there a way for us to change back to Western seraphim?

Helpdesk operator

(reluctantly):

Why would you wish to do so? Cosmic powers are cosmic powers.

GA

(urgent):

Is there a way, or is there not? (encouragingly nodding to TA while listening again to the helpline music that the operator has switched them to while the operator confers with its superiors)

Helpdesk operator

(patronisingly):

It won’t be easy, but there is a way. You have to take an extra module of the interreligious course. A so-called idiot test, ending in an exam. If you pass the exam, you will be turned back into angels automatically.

GA

(groaning but hopeful):

This shouldn’t be too difficult. It’s just an extra module. What’s it about, and how is it delivered?

Helpdesk operator

(in a voice that clarifies that the conversation has ended):

It is called The Vedic Lectures, and it is delivered by a guy named Bede Griffiths, in three sections. He will also invigilate the exam after you are done. This conversation has been recorded to improve the quality of our services.

Elevator music starts again. Both elephants stereotypically start to rock, sway and bob their heads in psychological distress.

Going to Kerala

The next day with Baloo started early. He was already waiting with two other soldiers at the hotel’s reception desk when Tilda and Gabriel came downstairs. They drove to Chennai Airport, where they finally met Ayaan. Their Indian colleague stood in the middle of the terminal of that megacity airport teeming with people—all smiles and very happy to see them. Tilda and Gabriel watched in amazement the strange relationship between him and Baloo. Ayaan had already told them that his military cousin had assigned Baloo as his personal assistant and bodyguard years ago and that this showed the special bond between them. But what they witnessed was something they had not seen before. Ayaan was Baloo’s ‘pa’—subject of his devotion, deference, adoration and loving care. Ayaan and his needs were the centre of Baloo’s attention and his whole being, like the brilliant sun around which he gravitated as his faithful planet. Baloo read every wish from Ayaan’s eyes before he could utter it. Gabriel was pretty sure that Baloo would have killed whoever Ayaan told him to kill—them included—without giving it any further thought. That was one part of the relationship. The other part was that Ayaan totally relied on Baloo’s abilities and discretion. Baloo was commanded to take care of him, and because of this, Baloo was somehow in charge. His army uniform intimidated everybody; it must represent the highest state authority with heavy sanctions for anybody who disrespects it. It was as if his uniform gave their little group a kind of halo, an exemption from any rule applying to everybody else.

Baloo mercilessly exploited that authority by bossing around airport personnel, the other soldiers and any bystanders—Gabriel and Tilda included. In no time, despite the long queues in front of check-in counters, he got rid of their luggage and ushered them through the crowds towards the VIP entrance to security. This was probably the only time in Gabriel’s life when he shamefacedly passed hundreds of people patiently waiting in queue at security to go to the crew area without any checks. People politely made space for them.

They followed Ayaan, who marched through the parting crowds like a Dravidian prince. However, Ayaan himself followed Baloo, who bossed him around like everybody else. The strangest part for Gabriel and Tilda was the way that Baloo took care of Ayaan’s bodily needs. Baloo looked at him then ushered him to the toilet and pointed to the door. Ayaan went in. Afterwards, Baloo led him to a quiet corner near the gate, seated him and brought him coffee without being asked. “Drink, Pa!” he said, “It’s good for you.” And Ayaan did. “Now you sleep a little. We left early this morning.” Ayaan obediently closed his eyes and started to snore in no time. It was as if Baloo felt Ayaan’s his body to determine Ayaan’s needs. It was as if Ayaan’s body were Baloo’s body. Gabriel had not seen such a thing before. “Sir, I have to go now,” Baloo said, addressing him. “A colleague of mine will pick you up at Cochin airport.” With a last adoring look at snoring Ayaan, pushing his cabin trolley a little closer to his feet, Baloo reluctantly left them.

The flight with the Indian airline was very pleasant. They discussed their fieldwork for the Indian case study, which Ayaan had prearranged with cultural scientists at Kerala. Gabriel had totally forgotten that Ayaan was not only the respected cousin of a high-ranking military officer and the apple of Baloo’s eye but also their valued project partner—a respected colleague working for CareGo India Ltd., a Chennai international aid organisation similar to B1. The next few days would be full of desk research and fieldwork—all carefully planned and scheduled by Ayaan. Office-wise, they would be hosted by the Kerala branch of CareGo India. Tilda, as the new project leader, hoped that work results would be good enough to complete the case study template for India during their return flight to Chennai. That would be a great achievement. She had already prepared everything for her own field interviews at Kerala. Arriving at Cochin, they drove through endless green jungle forests, consisting mostly of palm and banana trees, to reach their destination two hundred kilometres away. Tilda loved the animals that they saw in the street during their long journey in another military car. Animals were not corralled in any enclosures or stables. They simply mingled with the crowd in the streets. They lived in companionship and community with the people.

Angels’ Play

Location:

Heaven above Kerala, a country road between Cochin and Kottayam. Shared-Office Cloud.

Time:

Real-time GMT+5.30, Thursday, 8 January 2020, 09:00 IST

Players:

The two angels as before and Bede Griffiths.

Setting:

Both angels are still elephants. They are standing side by side in the conference facility of the cloud, which has become a lecture theatre. Bede Griffiths is wandering up and down in front of their trunks and pointing every now and again with a large stick to slides of a PowerPoint presentation displayed on a big screen.

BG

(in his best lecturing mode):

My dear angels—or, shall I better say, my dear elephants?

I know you might want to skip this lecture, but it’ll be good for you. Attention, please!

This is the introduction to your Vedic lectures. You might ask yourselves, “Why should we be concerned with fiction? Aren’t the Vedas just poetry? And what has this type of poetic language to do with Gabriel and Tilda, whom we are supposed to take care of? And how will all of this contribute to the big challenges posed by the Script?”

Please accept poetry as a legitimate starting point. Let me read to you from The Marriage of East and West to support this introductory lecture (the following text is presented on two slides and read out loudly by BG):

“Poetry is the expression of the whole man. It expresses not merely his mind but his sensations, his feelings, his ‘heart’s affections.’ This is why the imagination … holds the key to human understanding. The imagination is the link between the mind and the heart, between intellect and sense, between thought and feeling. Modern man has broken this link; he has created a world of science and reason, whose language is prose, and has cut himself off from the sources of life in the imagination, which is the language of the heart” (Griffiths 1982: 48).

British poet John Keats sets before us as living principles “the values of the ‘holiness of the heart’s affections and the truth of imagination’” (Griffiths 1982: 46). Imagination “takes us back to the very roots of human experience” (Griffiths 1982: 47) as a primordial truth, “which is not abstract but concrete, not logical but symbolic, not rational but intuitive” (ibid.). However, “it is difficult for modern man with his prosaic mode of thought to realize that poetry is more natural to man than prose, and yet all the evidence of history shows it” (ibid).

The elephants slowly wag their big ears, trying to express their compassion with modern humans.

BG

(continuing with a flourish):

I hope, my dear angels, that poetry is acceptable to you too. Poetic expression deeply grounded in imagination… (switching to the next slide)

“holds the key to human understanding. The imagination is the link between the mind and the heart, between intellect and sense, between thought and feeling. Modern man has broken this link; he has created a world of science and reason, whose language is prose, and has cut himself off from the sources of life in the imagination, which is the language of the heart” (Griffiths 1982: 48).

May Indian wisdom help you to rediscover “the truth which the Western world has lost and is now seeking desperately to recover” (Griffiths 1982: 47). This truth can be found in the mythological language of the Vedas, which include “the whole process of human evolution” (ibid.).

This is why Gabriel and Tilda had to go to India as well – on the path to the truth of imagination by following the holiness of the heart’s affections.

There is a strong mythological element in their story too. Interwoven into the development of a human relationship is a spiritual revelation process about human nature: This process is concerned with human archetypes, achieved, assigned or ascribed human commonalities and differences, which are best addressed in the language of mythology.

The world of imagination, “the world of integral wholeness,” expresses itself in myth.

(again showing a PowerPoint slide with a quote from himself)

“Myth is a symbolic utterance which arises from the depths of the unconscious, or rather from the deep levels of consciousness which lie below the level of rational consciousness. The rational mind, with its abstract concepts and logical constructions, is like the tip of an iceberg, while below it are vast levels of consciousness which link our human nature with the universe around us and with the archetypes or transcendent principles which govern the Universe. The Myth is the reflection in the human imagination of these archetypical ideas, those cosmic principles and powers, which were known in the ancient world as gods or angels” (Griffiths 1982: 49).

Both elephants simultaneously sigh at the word ‘angels.’

BG

(understandingly):

You yourselves, my dear angels, represent the cosmic principles and powers, seconding Gabriel and Tilda in their adventures.

These two are representatives of the myth archetypes of male and female. Be aware that the word archetype is not used in the psychological sense following Jung but rather in the philosophical sense following Plato’s concept of the pure idea, which embodies the fundamental characteristics of a thing. This is, for example, in use within the biblical story of creation: “So God created man in his own image, in the image of God he created him; male and female he created them” (Gen. 1:27).

Each of the two dearies down there is, of course, a composite of masculine (active, rational, dominant, etc.) and feminine (receptive, intuitive, passive, etc.) aspects in their personalities. Their story so far has related how each of them has a hard time finding an individual equilibrium that integrates both aspects into their own personality. Furthermore, these two constantly have to negotiate the feminine/masculine divide between them, being ushered through all kinds of situations and episodes. However, they are supported by the fact that both principles “are necessary for existence,” having their common source in “the one who beyond all change and multiplicity manifests itself in these two principles eternally” (Griffiths 1982: 55).

There will make discoveries that transcend their story, as from myth for ancient humans.

(showing one more slide with a lengthy self-quote to the already-exhausted elephants)

“The Myth was the means of his total integration, with the universe around him, with his own inner experience and with the transcendent world of the spirit” (Griffiths 1982: 49). Usually, the intuitive and the rational are set apart in our modern world, which favours the rational text because the intuitive symbol is seen as being connected to the primitive mind. This is basically fine, but there are advantages to primitive thought: “Primitive thought is intuitive; it grasps the whole in all its parts. The rational mind comes later to distinguish all the different aspects. … These are the two basic faculties of the mind, the intuitive which grasps the whole but does not distinguish the parts, and the rational which distinguishes the parts but cannot grasp the whole. … Intuition without reason is blind; it is deep and comprehensive but confused and obscure. Reason without intuition is empty and sterile; it constructs logical systems which have no basis in reality” (Griffiths 1982: 50).

BG

(summarising, to the utter relief of the elephants):

My dear angels, the lecture is meant to encourage a process of learning and to raise awareness of what is meant. It tries to circumvent “the great stumbling block. If we think that we can learn the meaning by any methods of modern science, or philosophy or by scholarship or linguistic analysis, we are doomed to failure.”

Instead, growing insights will demand a metanoia, a total change of mind, a passage from rational knowledge to intuitive wisdom for which few today are prepared. I hope you are.

Any questions?

TA (raising its trunk to get the attention of the lecturer):

Father, what are the Vedas?

BG

(groaning because he had not anticipated this ignorance):

As I already explained in The Marriage of East and West, which I had assumed you would know by heart, the Vedas, which contain the germ of all the later developments of Hindu wisdom, probably took their present form in the second millennium before Christ, but their roots go back to far-more-ancient times and take us back to the beginning of human speech.

Perhaps nowhere else can one observe the entire process of human evolution from its primordial utterance to the most elaborate poetic speech and the most profound philosophy.

The Vedas are known as sruti, that which has been “heard”; they are the products not merely of human ingenuity but of revelation—that is, an “unveiling” of the truth. They are also called nitya, meaning “eternal,” signifying that they do not derive from this world of time and change but are instead reflections of the eternal. Finally, they are said to be apauruseya, meaning “without human authorship”; they are expressions of the eternal word, the Vac; and the human authors are rishis, those who have “seen” the truth, and “poets”(kavi), those whose utterance is inspired. The literature of India begins with the hymns of the Rigveda, which sound like the biblical story of creation.

GA

(suddenly interested):

Oh, music! A hymn! Can you sing us a song from the Rigveda, Father?

BG (again inwardly groaning but nevertheless happy about this sign of his pupil’s interest):

Of course, my dear. I’ll sing the Nasadiya Sukta.

(Starting to sing in a nasal high-tenor voice)

There was neither nonexistence nor existence then;Neither the realm of space, nor the sky which is beyond;What stirred? Where? In whose protection?

There was neither death nor immortality then;No distinguishing sign of night nor of day;That One breathed, windless, by its own impulse;Other than that there was nothing beyond.

Darkness there was at first, by darkness hidden;Without distinctive marks, this all was water;That which, becoming, by the void was covered;That One by force of heat came into being;

Who really knows? Who will here proclaim it?Whence was it produced? Whence is this creation?Gods came afterwards, with the creation of this universe.Who then knows whence it has arisen?

Whether God’s will created it, or whether He was mute;Perhaps it formed itself, or perhaps it did not;Only He who is its overseer in highest heaven knows,

Only He knows, or perhaps He does not know.

(BG sings the last verses in a whisper so as not to disturb the two elephants, which are fast asleep)

Eating from Banana Leaves

Tilda and Gabriel were on good terms with each other when they worked in Kerala. The only situation that reminded Gabriel of Tilda’s old self was when they were invited by their project partners and hosts to go on a boat trip on the Vembanad, which is one of India’s largest lakes and wetland ecosystems, home to many species of rare plants and animal life at the tourist destination of Kumarakom. It was a perfect day for floating on the sunny lakes in tropical but agreeable temperatures with a motorboat. While they swerved around the little uninhabited islands of the lake district observing birds, Gabriel said to Tilda, “It’s like paradise.” She did not answer. He turned back to her in the boat. Her face was sullen and dark. When he looked at her questioningly, she pointed to the island in the very middle of the wide vast waters and said, “Indeed paradise, Mr David. This island will probably be the only spot left on this globe very soon where there is no mandatory measles vaccination. Everywhere else, our fine governments will force parents to violate their offspring with compulsory vaccination. I’ll end up migrating here, the only paradise left.” Gabriel was surprised. How did this idea enter her head? But that was the only relapse into her old ways.

Afterwards, they went back to Cochin airport with their army driver, who took good care of them. For example, he chose a brilliant lunch location. The little restaurant on the side of the country road did not look very promising at first, and Ayaan audibly sniffed when they entered. The place reminded Gabriel a little of Bouribi and the restaurant of his friends: It was a soup kitchen for the poor in the middle of the countryside. And obviously, their young soldier was well known over here. He was gladly welcomed by the Indian proprietor, who ushered the little group into the better part of his shabby house. The only tool they got for their meal was a glass each for drinking water that was served from a carafe—Tilda groaned. “No cutlery,” she whispered. “We’re supposed to eat with our fingers.”

“And no plates, Mrs Toelz,” Gabriel said, delighted. Instead, the proprietor brought banana leaves, one for each of them, and placed them in front of his guests. Tilda was full of awe. “See, this is what Rupert Sheldrake talked about in his book Science and Spiritual Practices,” she said eagerly. “Quote: ‘we sat on the floor and ate vegetarian dishes from banana leaves’; it really is true. They do this.” Then the food came: naan, which is Indian bread, and various little pots with vegetables in sauce. The pots were emptied onto their banana leaves. It tasted delicious.

Gabriel ate with a strong appetite until he felt that people from other tables had started to stare at him. Ayaan and the soldier, who sat opposite Tilda and him, giggled nervously and politely looked away. “What’s the matter?” Gabriel asked Tilda under his breath. “You have disgusting table manners. Everybody is looking at you. Stop it!” she whispered back. “What is it, Mrs Toelz?” Gabriel mouthed. She was eating with her fingers, as he and everybody else did. “Haven’t you read Bede Griffiths, Mr David? He says everybody eats with their hands,” she imparted and then continued, grinning: “or rather with the right hand because the left hand is reserved for cleaning oneself. And mind you, there’s no toilet paper.” Hastily, Gabriel hid his left hand under the table, the hand with which he, a born left-hander, had eaten so far. Talk continued at the other tables. Little children looked at Gabriel either patronizingly and compassionately. Tilda could not stop grinning – fretfully observed by her boss. Impertinent girl: that she of all people would cite Bede Griffiths and use Griffiths’ words against him to bring him to heel! How embarrassed could he get?

Angels’ Play

Location:

Heaven above Kerala, a country road between Cochin and Kottayam. Shared-Office Cloud.

Time:

Real-time GMT+5.30, Thursday, 8 January 2020, 19:04 IST

Players:

The two angels as before and Bede Griffiths.

Setting:

Same setting: Both angels are still elephants. BG is just feeding them with green bananas.

GA

(trying to get on cordial terms with BG again):

Father, may I ask you a personal question—about the story of your life?

BG

(pleasantly):

Of course, my dear. Please fire away.

GA

(curiously):

Was it difficult for you as well when you arrived in India? Did you feel like a legal alien? An Englishman in India? How was it for you?

BG

(lost in memories):

It was as Thomas Matus described in my Essential Writings. I came to India with this holy desire, but I carried with me the cultural baggage of my nearly twenty-five years at Prinknash.

GA

(objecting):

But monks make vows of poverty, chastity and humility. You must have been used to the simple life. What did you do, by the way, when you arrived in India?

BG

(pensively):

Near Bangalore, Father Benedict and I built a small monastery in what we considered “simple” conditions, but I soon realised that our simplicity was luxury in comparison with the life of the local villagers, not to mention that of the Hindu ascetics, who begged their food and had no fixed abode.

GA

(curiously):

Was that a problem for you?

BG

(positively):

Oh yes! And quite a big one, too. The only solution, as I saw it, was sannyasa, the total renunciation of conforming with the highest ideals of Indian asceticism.

GA

(sceptically):

That was a bit harsh, don’t you think? I know you are a radical, but wasn’t that overdoing it a little?

BG

(defensively):

A few Catholics at the time had already arrived at this conclusion.

Furthermore, this way I came to Shantivanam. In the South Indian state of Tamil Nadu, two French priests, Jules Monchanin and Henri Le Saux, a Benedictine, were living as sannyasis in an ashram. They were dedicated to the Holy Trinity, using a Sanskrit term—Saccidananda—with which Hindus define the transcendent and immanent Absolute as “Being, Consciousness, Bliss.”

In 1958, a Belgian Trappist, Father Francis Mahieu, arrived at Saccidananda Ashram—also called Shantivanam, meaning “Forest of Peace”—with his own ideas for a Christian monastic foundation. This Father Francis contacted me. I decided to leave Bangalore and join him in Kerala, across the mountains. There we founded a coenobitic community, Trappist in observance but Indian in spirit. For our community prayer, we adopted a Syrian liturgy in use among one of ancient (perhaps even apostolic) Christian communities of southern India.

GA

(gently):

Father, that means you came to Kerala, not to Shantivanam…

BG

(agreeably):

Yes, but wait and see. What I can see is that you have not carefully read The Marriage of East and West, where I described my travels. As I said, when we came to Kerala, we adopted the Syrian rite, to which the majority of Christians in Kerala belonged. Christian faith is said to have been brought to India by the apostle Thomas, and there has certainly been a church in Kerala from a very early time.

TA

(chiming in now):

That is why Gabriel and Tilda had to visit St. Thomas’s grave with this Bouribi person.

GA

(interrupting):

We have digressed from the simple life and you feeling oddly rich as a Westerner, Father. Please go on. What did you learn when you came to India?

BG

(thinking back):

Those days! The first thing that I learned was a simplicity of life that before I would have not thought possible. India has a way of reducing human needs to a minimum.

One full meal a day of rice and vegetables—at best with some curds and ghee, clarified butter, is considered sufficient. Tea or coffee with some rice and some pickle is enough for breakfast and supper.

Nor are tables and chairs, spoons and forks or knives and plates considered necessary. One sits on the floor on a mat and eats with one’s hands—or rather with the right hand, as the left hand is reserved for cleaning oneself. For plates, there are banana leaves.

TA

(trumpeting with its trunk):

There you have it. You eat from a banana leaf. The kettle is boiling over; I think I am a banana tree.

GA

(concerned):

Are you alright, TA?

TA

(melodiously trumpeting a pop song):

Of course. I’m going slightly mad. Oh dear.

BG

(just continues):

Things might have changed a little in the meantime. But when I arrived in India, there was thus no need for any furniture in an Indian home.

The richer people who had adopted Western ways made use of tables and chairs and beds and other conveniences, but poor people—who still make up the vast majority—are still content to sit and sleep on the floor.

Nor are elaborate bathrooms and lavatories considered necessary. In the villages, the majority of people bathe at a pump or a well or in a neighbouring tank or stream, and most people still go out into the fields or by the roadside or by a stream to relieve themselves.

There is a beautiful simplicity in all this, which makes one realise something about the original simplicity of human nature.

GA

(indignantly):

I am sorry, Father, but no toilet paper is NOT beautiful.

BG

(eagerly):

Even clothes are hardly necessary. Most men in those days, it is true, indeed wore a shirt and a dhoti—a piece of cloth wound round the waist and falling to the feet—and women wore a sari and a blouse to cover their breasts, but this was comparatively recent. Even now, clothes are still believed to be things that are put on for an occasion and are easily discarded. A man will take his shirt off when he wants to relax, and a labourer will wear no more than a langothi—a piece of cloth wound round the middle and between the legs.

GA

(curiously):

And a sannyasi? Is he now completely naked?

BG

(explaining):

All this makes the life of a sannyasi—one who has “renounced” the world—immensely simple. He needs no house or furniture. He may live in a cave or take shelter beside a temple or on the veranda of a house.

For clothing, he needs only two pieces of cloth—which should not be stitched—one to wear round the waist and the other for a shawl to cover the shoulders or the head. There are even some sannyasis who renounce all clothing and are said to be “clothed with the sky.” For food, he needs only one meal a day, which he gets by begging or, more often, which a householder will offer him unasked. He can thus reduce his life to absolute simplicity. He is totally detached from the world, depending on divine providence for his bare needs of food, shelter and clothing.

GA

(sceptically):

I am sure that Gabriel and Tilda would not want to live like that. Neither of them.

BG

(a little sadly):

I guess you’re right. What a challenge this presents to a world that takes pleasure in continually increasing human needs and so makes itself more and more dependent on the material world.

GA

(curiously):

And you, Father? Did it make you any happier? I mean, you and your fellow monk?

BG

(more cheerful now):

Oh yes! We were therefore able to come nearer to the condition of poor people in India. This was assisted by the fact that when we began our monastic life in Kerala, we were compelled to live in a palm-leaf hut. The stone building that we were erecting was not yet complete, and we had to spend the whole of the monsoon season, with nearly two hundred inches of rain, in this frail hut. Yet we found that we were able to survive even under these conditions. The floor of the hut, which was made of earth, became so damp that we had to cover it first with straw and then with planks in order to stay dry. But apart from this, we were also able to continue our monastic life, celebrating the Qurbana, the Eucharist in the Syrian rite, which we had adopted—chanting the prayer, continuing our study and doing all the necessary work without a break.

TA

(a little impatiently):

And then you finally came to Shantivanam in Tamil Nadu, right? And met with these two French fathers. What were their names again—Monchanin and Le Saux? And what was the ashram’s long name again?

BG

(patiently as always):

Yes, as I said, these two were the pioneers of attempting to adapt monastic life in India to the traditional forms of Indian life and prayer. They called the ashram Saccidananda Ashram, Saccidananda being the Hindu name for the Godhead as Being, Knowledge and Bliss, which they took as a symbol of the Christian Trinity, the Father as Being, the Son (or Word of God) as the Knowledge of the Father, and the Holy Spirit as the Bliss of Love, which unites Father and Son. You see?

TA

(reproachfully):

But then later, they converted to Hinduism. They even changed their Christian names.

BG

(even more patiently):

Not at all. They stayed Christians. But they took the names of Parama Arubi Ananda, the Bliss of the Supreme Spirit, and Abhishiktananda, the Bliss of Christ. Thus, they sought to identify themselves with the Hindu tradition of sannyasa, the renunciation of the world, to experience the bliss of the divine life. But this was much more than a matter of names. By studying yoga and Vedanta, they sought to integrate the whole spiritual tradition of India into their lives as Christians, thus working towards that unity of religion that is the goal of humankind.

TA

(only half convinced):

So you’re saying that you can chant a Hindu mantra in a Catholic ashram?

BG

(decidedly):

Of course you can. I’ve said this many times, among them to our friend Rupert Sheldrake: You can precisely because it is a Catholic ashram. Catholic means “all inclusive.” Anything that excludes any path to God is not Catholic, but merely a sect.

GA

(softly):

Father, can you cite us a verse from the Rigveda again? We want to go to sleep.

BG

(considering):

Yes. Listen carefully. It is very short. It is about unity, though you might not immediately understand it.

(carefully and slowly reciting)

“Two birds with fair wings, inseparable companions, have found refuge in the same sheltering tree. One incessantly eats from the fig tree; the other, not eating, just looks on.”

The two elephants fall asleep again.

The flight from Cochin back to Chennai was again pleasant and calm. Supported by helpful Ayaan, Tilda and Gabriel finished the template for the Indian case study for the new project with the materials that they had gathered during the Kerala visit. Gabriel said to Tilda, “Now we’ve managed what we haven’t achieved for the US case study yet: We’ve completed the second case study template after your contribution to China. Congratulations, Mrs Toelz!” She smiled and said, “The B1 trustee board will be very happy with us for making good use of the company’s travel budget.” She, as the new project leader, already wanted to send the documents home during the flight, via the on-board Internet connection that the Indian airline offered for free. “Let’s see what you want to send,” Gabriel suggested. Tilda showed him the text on her laptop.

The India Case

Public distribution system (PDS) in rural areas of Kerala and Tamil Nadu: Ethnographic pilot study conducted during B1 visit in January 2020 by project leader Tilda Toelz.

Social context:

Hunger alleviation and poverty eradication are the twin objectives of the public distribution system (PDS) in India. The PDS is intended to provide essential goods and services, mainly food items such as rice, wheat, sugar, kerosene, etc., to everybody, especially “the poorest of the poor” at a reasonable cost, contributing to general social welfare. The effectiveness of the PDS depends largely on competent policy decisions regarding the operational and organisational aspects of the system. The Indian social system is characterised by features of a democratic, secular welfare nation on the one hand and by social structures and relationships based on traditional segregation patterns on the other, with high inequalities in well-being and a high number of poor people living among vulnerable communities. Currently, the ration-distribution system has many drawbacks, mostly due to corruption: They consist of an insufficient quantity of goods, low-quality goods, long wait times, low processing speeds, irregularities in grain procurement, the siphoning off money, biased selection from buyers, material theft, etc. Anticorruption policies and measures must try to wrest control back to try to remedy this situation.

Furthermore, the current system is based on a minimalistic one-size-fits-all approach to allocating resources to individuals, which does not take into account sociocultural variables that individuals face in various social contexts on the grassroots level. To alleviate the existing inequalities and injustices biased by traditional social segregation patterns instead of reinstantiating them, the distribution system should incorporate complex and context-sensitive local knowledge to better shape the living conditions of vulnerable populations. Currently, therefore, the system is inefficient, which might add to its vulnerability to exploitation.

A short summary of my interview in Kaipuzha, Kerala:

Present: Tilda Toelz, personnel number 0003621 (interviewer); Pradipta Rajesh (interviewee); Dr Ayaan Banerjee (local expert who translated questions and answers because he speaks the Cholanaikkan language, which belongs to the Dravidian language family).

Pradipta Rajesh is a middle-aged woman of 42 whom I met in her open campsite made of leaves, close to a village named Kaipuzha in Kerala. She has four children between ages 6 and 10. She is very poor and is seriously underweight and malnourished. We are sitting on planks and straw on the floor; there is no furniture. On a tree trunk, there is a photograph of her husband, who is a sanitation worker in Chennai. Traces of the monsoon season are clearly visible. Pradipta belongs to the Malanaikan people.

Malanaikan are one of the last hunter-gatherer tribes of the region. Pradipta looks like she is in the mid 60s, without teeth and with deep wrinkles. Malanaikans are outside the traditional Indian varna caste system. They do not belong to the four varna castes, which have about 8000 subcastes. They are considered “untouchable.”

Me: I am grateful to you for agreeing to talk to me and grateful to Ayaan for making this possible.

Pradipta Rajesh: May I offer you some water?

Me: Yes, thank you. Please tell me about the life of the Malanaikans. Do you get some help from government? Does government know about your situation? 

Pradipta Rajesh: We do not belong to any caste. But we are listed as ‘Particularly Vulnerable Tribal Group’ by government. This gives us some rights according to Constitution. It’s the law. The Constitution gives us hope. Listed tribes have rights. They can get food from the government.

Me: Why is that?

Pradipta Rajesh: It’s called positive discrimination. If you do not belong to one of the four Brahminic castes, you have certain rights, according to the Constitution. You can get food.

Me: Please tell me what you get exactlys.

Pradipta Rajesh: But I do not get anything.

Me: Why is that?

Pradipta Rajesh: The people who distribute at the ration shop do not like us. We practice our religion; we observe the rules of the ancestors of our Chemmam. Malanaikans are nothing. We are forest people.

Me: Where then is your place in society?

Pradipta Rajesh: Our people encompass a broader range of communities than what the government means by vulnerable tribes. We are ethnic tribes. So you can call our people scheduled tribes.

Me: Why aren't A you getting food from the government? Or any social services? Can't you use the public distribution system? You, as Malanaikans, are listed by the government as a particularly vulnerable tribal group.

Pradipta Rajesh: We are only recently listed. We are Malanaikan. We don’t have many left. We can’t read or write. I have never been to school or to hospital. I’m not allowed entry into the ration shop. But the PDS is corrupt anyway. I won’t get anything anyway.

Me: Do you know how the ration shops work?

Pradipta Rajesh: Of course I do. Everybody does. You have a ration card with all your biometrics.

Me: You know about biometrics?

Pradipta Rajesh: Of course I do. Everybody does. If it is important for your life, you know. Biometrics is data about yourself. About your household, better to say. It determines what and how much you will get in the shop. You present your card with the data to the shopkeepers. They have a machine. The machine decides. It’s an intelligent machine. But I have no address. I am no household. I have only this fireplace here. It doesn’t count. I don’t have a ration card.

Me: What then do you do for a living?

Pradipta Rajesh: I collect wild roots, tubers, seeds and fruits from the forest. The forest provides everything. We need rice. And sometimes we buy meat. I sell the forest produce that we don’t eat, ourselves.

Me: And what is your husband doing?

Pradipta Rajesh: He went to Chennai last year for work. He helps with money. He sends some every two months. This is for school for the boys.

Me: Do your kids go to school?

Pradipta Rajesh: The two boys, yes. But they are not allowed to touch midday meals. They bring their own food. The girls have already dropped out of primary school. I need them here. Originally, we had six kids, but two have died.

“Good job, Mrs Toelz. Can I add something?” Gabriel asked. When Tilda nodded, he added a footnote: “Explanatory input to be expected from Bede Griffiths (1982) about religious and cultural settings in Kerala. To be completed when we get home.” While waiting for their luggage at Chennai Airport late in the evening, they had the chance to look at a Mohandas Gandhi exhibition in the luggage hall.

There was a comment by Martin Luther King, who once visited Chennai, where he recommended involving the social and cultural sciences in Gandhi’s peaceful mission of nonviolent resistance. Gabriel was enchanted, especially when he read about a Gandhi reference that would apply to their safe-space aspirations: This was from a foreword by Deepak Chopra for Marshall Rosenberg’s book on nonviolent communication: “In India, there’s an ancient model for nonviolent living known as Ahimsa, which is central to the nonviolent life. Ahimsa is usually defined as nonviolence, although its meaning extends from Mahatma Gandhi’s peaceful protests to Albert Schweitzer’s reverence for life. ‘Do no harm’ would be the first axiom of Ahimsa. What so impressed me about Marshall Rosenberg, who passed away at eighty, just six weeks before I write this, is that he grasped both levels of Ahimsa, action and consciousness.” Excellent. Gabriel made a silent note to respect this in their project.

The River Kaveri

Ayaan had graciously offered Baloo’s services to bring Gabriel and Tilda to Shantivanam from Chennai by army car, which they gladly accepted. They started early the following morning, without having any breakfast. Despite the early hour, they’d already spent ages leaving the city. Chennai, with its seven million inhabitants, according to a census, was a Moloch with traffic jams at every hour of the day. Then they had a very pleasant drive through the vast countryside of Tamil Nadu. Baloo took good care of them by stopping various times en route. Of course, in his usual bossy manner when stopping at one of the petrol stations, he yelled, “Sir, toilet!” This did not mean that he wanted to use the facilities. It was a command for them to relieve themselves. At first, Tilda murmured, “I do not need to,” but she was immediately silenced by Baloo’s stern soldier glance. They quickly adapted to his rhythm, as did their bodies. Baloo looked happier by the minute.

He became really happy at one of their last stops, in the late afternoon. This was at one of the many toll stations where they had to pay transit fees for the car. Usually, the army car simply passed them without stopping, but a young slender soldier stood at this one, and Baloo waved him to the car. “Balee,” he said, introducing the young man to Gabriel and Tilda. “Another escort for you. Pa said it’s necessary.” Baloo and Balee—Gabriel could not believe it. The two of them seemed to be good friends and started to chat with each other in Tamil, laughing and tremendously enjoying themselves and their company. Balee had taken the driver seat. He was nearly the same careful and observant good driver as Baloo was. Good training in this Indian army. However, after some time, they changed seats again. Baloo could not let go for very long, not even to Balee.

Tilda fell asleep, and after a while, so did Balee, on the front passenger’s seat. Gabriel was afraid that Baloo would also get tired in the sunset atmosphere of the early evening. But the soldier was not sleepy. Instead, he began singing in a soft, melodious baritone voice. Gabriel was amazed because he had not expected this from such a sturdy, stern soldier. Gabriel listened to the words: The song had a quite sad Indian melody, and the language was Tamil, from which he caught a word here and there. Baloo sang about the river Kaveri.

And at that moment, they passed the big bridge over that river in the red-gold glow of the brilliant sunset. Baloo smiled while singing and pointed down at the waters. “Mrs Toelz, wake up,” Gabriel excitedly said to Tilda. “We must be close. This is the river Kaveri.” Balee woke up as well. He and Baloo started to discuss directions. The discussion was intense enough that they even stopped the car at the side of the road. In the city of Tiruchirapalli, they passed and looked at maps on their mobile phones for a long time. Gabriel didn’t interfere. These two guys were soldiers in their own country. They should know best how to find the ashram, and it was quickly getting dark now. They drove on in the dark for a long time. Baloo and Balee fell silent.

Gabriel’s feeling was that they had left the Kaveri area, which was not good, because he knew from the Griffiths literature that the ashram was on the border of the river. “Say something, Mr David,” Tilda prompted. She had read the book as well. They were driving through flat wasteland with only a little vegetation but many scattered huts and campsites of very poor people. The street was littered with all types of garbage and was very muddy. It didn’t look at all like the picturesque photos they had found of the ashram on the Internet. Shortly before they decided to interfere in the faulty pathfinding of Baloo and Balee, Baloo swerved to the right, onto a dirt path with the sign “Saccidananda Ashram Shantivanam.” Gabriel’s feeling was a mixture of relief and disappointment: relief that this fourteen-hour journey had finally come to an end and disappointment in the spot it ended in. This did not look or feel right.

“Do you think this is correct, Mr David?” Tilda said, revealing his doubts. “No idea,” he answered while Baloo drove on a muddy sand path with many deep potholes through dark corn fields. Tilda could physically feel Baloo’s frustration and silent accusations about what godforsaken countryside they had lured him and his precious army car into. He endured this only for Ayaan—that was for sure. “There we are, thirty kilometres outside Trichy,” Baloo said unpleasantly when he finally stopped in the dark in front of the closed gates of a fenced estate with a big sign at the entrance. “Saccidananda Ashram Shantivanam,” Tilda read out loud, “Home for the Mentally Ill.” They looked at each other, totally perplexed. Then Gabriel felt one of his gigantic gales of laughter bubbling up inside of him. He was completely powerless when absurdity stuck him this hard. Tears welled up in his eyes, and he winced with laughter in the backseat of the car. “Yes, this is indeed where we belong,” he gasped.

Baloo was not amused at all but instead became even aggressive. It had been a long working day for him. It was not at an end, obviously, and it must have sounded as if these foreigners were making fun of him. “Sir,” he barked sternly, “what’s the matter?” “This is not the right address, Baloo,” Gabriel said when he was able to speak again. “It is just the shelter home for people with mental illnesses that the ashram funds as a social project, do you understand?” Baloo nodded but was definitely not happy. “What address? Sir, you tell me right address,” he demanded, sounding even quite threatening and furious now. “I told Ayaan everything I know,” Gabriel replied, defending himself. The mood in the car hit rock bottom. They sat there in the dark for a long time. Then Gabriel had an idea: “There might be a phone number somewhere on the ashram’s webpage or in the emails we got concerning our booking,” he said. Hectically, Tilda searched for their discarded and neglected mobiles and laptops and tried to connect to the Internet.

That was, of course, difficult in the middle of these wastelands. However, she was able to come up with an email footer where a phone number for the ashram was listed. “Hand the phone to Baloo, Mrs Toelz,” Gabriel advised. “He’s the driver; he needs to know where to go from here. And he can speak Tamil.” Tilda punched in the number and passed the phone to Baloo, who begrudgingly took it and set it to speaker so that everybody in the car could listen in. It started to beep. “Maybe the monks are already asleep. It is very late after all,” Tilda said, prophesying doom. But somebody picked up the phone, and a pleasant male voice explained the route details in Tamil.

The night fell quickly now, and in the car, the temperature was freezing. The air conditioning, which had been a blessing during the heat of the day, turned into a nightmare now. It could not be switched off, for some reason, and Gabriel and Tilda were left shivering in their light summer clothes. They even fetched their shower towels from their luggage at some point to use them as substitute blankets. They arrived at Shantivanam closely huddled together against the freeze. It worked. They arrived warm and perfectly at ease with each other and the world. Gabriel was grateful to Tilda for having helped him to come here. The moment he stepped out of the car, Gabriel felt at home and safe. This had been his feeling the whole time over the past several years: If he could only reach Shantivanam, he would be fine. If there were any troubles before, they were left at the gate. Inside, people were still awake. There was a little welcoming committee waiting for them, and in the midst of it was the prior—the leader of the monks. Everybody in the group of welcomers was a little surprised to see Gabriel and Tilda’s being brought by two army officers in a decorated military car, but the group recovered quickly. The prior led the way through the grounds to a single-storey stone house at the far end of the estate, which was under huge banana trees close to the fence that sheltered the house against the reed-covered bank slopes of the river Kaveri.

There was even dinner left. “I will quickly show you around for the time being, so that you’ll be able find your own way. We will have a proper tour of the grounds tomorrow,” the prior later said. They left the dining hall together and wandered on the narrow, sparsely illuminated paths that criss-crossed the estate so that people with dry and clean feet could get from here to there. The prior pointed at various huts, giving them names, but did not stop: gate house, dining hall, library, meditation room, Father Bede’s hut, stable and novitiate. The first item that the prior stopped at was the grave of Bede Griffiths. Tilda looked at Gabriel with concern. She expected that he would immediately keel over when he saw the big quadratic gravestone between the two gravestones of the other two Shantivanam founders. However, Gabriel stood his ground, silently staring at the displayed dates —1906–1993—and decided that he would return later tonight, alone. There were two objects close to the grave that the prior showed and explained. The building closest to the grave was the rotunda church. It shimmered, appearing inviting, warm and welcoming in its white brilliance, featuring statues of meditating people all around. Unfortunately, it was already locked, owing to the late hour. The other object was a huge banyan tree close to the church and the grave. The prior recited: “This banyan tree which has its roots upward and its branches down, and the Vedic hymns are its leaves. One who knows this tree is the knower of the Vedas.” He laughed at their confused faces and explained. “That was the Bhagavat Gita. It says that our material world is like a tree whose roots are above and whose branches are below—the same way that we experience a tree when it is reflected in water, upside down. Similarly, our material world is a just reflection, a mere unsubstantial shadow of the real, transcendent world. This shadow world only helps us to understand the real world. This tree here is doing the same. Do you understand?” It was good that they had read some Bede Griffiths. Hearing it spoken—or, better, having it materialise—was totally different, however. Next, the prior brought them to their hut and said good night. Entering their respective apartments, both Gabriel and Tilda suffered the same shock: no toilet paper! After he had emptied his backpack and showered, Gabriel decided to visit the grave again. Their hut was dark and silent, like all the others on the grounds. Tilda had probably fallen asleep long before he went out on his solitary walk towards the graveyard. Nobody was to be seen. It was very warm and the air perfectly still. At the grave, he was at first disappointed to have no revelation or any other sensation. Instead, he felt perfectly at ease, even happy. Then he remembered that Bede etymologically means “eternal, living, immortal,” with a German Celtic origin. Sitting at a grave was probably not what Bede Griffiths had in mind for him. Looking around for where to go next, his eyes, now used to the darkness, fell on the library. That was a building that Bede Griffiths had himself added to the complex of huts. It was a rotunda like the church and had some benches on its outside walls, which were partitioned into an octagon so that the eight benches would face the slightly different angles of the estate. He leisurely wandered over to the little building and took a seat on one of the benches, looking enchanted into the groves of banana trees and palm trees.

A few moments later, he saw movement in the dark grounds. Somebody was slowly coming with careful steps through the pitch-black night. It was Tilda. She was still about two hundred metres away with many trees and a number of huts between them. Of course, she could not see Gabriel, because the library and his bench were in perfect darkness. Only he could see her on the dimly lit path network that criss-crossed the wide area. However, like being pulled on a string, she slowly approached, waiting and feeling her way at every crossing, taking the right turn at each junction after some consideration. It was fascinating to watch. In this way, she approached the library until she saw him. She was stunned. Gabriel smiled in the dark. She silently recovered from her surprise, and without saying a word, she glided to the bench and sat by his side. They sat in silence for about an hour, enjoying the night that was full of birdsong, cricket chirping and whispering leaves. Then it started to get cold. Gabriel stood up and walked away without turning his head. Tilda stayed behind.

Angels’ Play

Location:

Heaven above Shantivanam. Shared-Office Cloud.

Time:

Real-time GMT+5.30, Saturday, 10 January 2020, 09:00 IST

Players:

The two angels as before and Bede Griffiths.

Setting:

Both angels are now heavily decorated Hindu temple cows because of the change in location. They are standing side by side in the conference facility on the cloud that has become a lecture theatre. Bede Griffiths is wandering up and down before their trunks, pointing every now and again with a large stick to the slides of a PowerPoint presentation displayed on a big screen.

BG

(compassionately):

Nearly there, my dears, nearly there!

TA

(indignantly):

Why are we still cows? I want to be an angel. You promised I would be an angel again.

BG

(soothingly):

I told you that it’s still a bit early to take your exams. There are two more lectures to go.

GA

(checking its results on its multi-choice exam test sheet):

I didn’t do too badly. Look: only eight mistakes. It should have sufficed for the automatic transformation back into an angel.

TA

(unbelieving):

I have an unbelievable twenty-two wrong answers (accusingly looking at BG). Do you have any advice, teacher?

BG

(with hidden serenity):

Yes, you can go down and make friends with Gabriel. The two of you have been shy like strangers with each other in the past.

TA

(defensively):

Gabriel is not my concern. I’m Tilda’s angel!

BG

(soberly):

Momentarily, you are a Hindu cow. A Wishing Cow, the cow of the plenty, the grantor of wishes with the name Kamadhenu. As such, you are in the right position to make friends down there. It’s time that you regard Gabriel and Tilda as one.

TA

(still not convinced):

I am a Michaelite, an active fighter for love, an angel with weapons—not a powerless cow. Can’t I be something a little more dangerous—like a serpent—for a change?

We have totally lost the serpent motif if you ask me. It was central before and would much better fit Tilda’s mindset than the cow I am now.

BG

(with certainty):

You are all of that. Attention, my dears, I continue your Vedic lectures.

(both cows desperately mooing; BG with authority in a lecturing voice)

I cite the Bhagavad Gita for you: chapter 10, verse 28. It says, “I am the Vajra—thunderbolt—among weapons and Kamadhenu among the cows. I am Kaamdev, the god of love, among all causes for procreation; among serpents I am Vasuki.”

Both cows begin to audibly ruminate.