CHAPTER 1

THE DAKSHINESWAR KALI TEMPLE

O Mother! my desires are unfulfilled;My hopes are ungratified;But my life is fast coming to an end.Let me call Thee, Mother, for the last time;Come and take me in Thy arms.None loves in this world;This world knows not how to love;My heart yearns, O Mother, to go there,Where love reigns supreme.

Approaching the Dakshineswar Kali Temple

Though a taxi can drive all the way into the Dakshineswar Kali Temple Compound,it is more interesting to get out where the local buses stop and walk throughthe lively lane that leads to the temple. The lane resembles nothing a visitormay expect of a modern city street. Yet, it is not so much the poverty and thesomewhat chaotic conditions that catch one's attention. One is much morefascinated by the throbbing life in the lane that goes on without shame,indifferent to praise or criticism. Somewhat overwhelmed, one feels mysteriouslydrawn into the free spirit of the place where people, animals and things liveand die, side by side, in unusual harmony.

There are many people walking through the lane. One can distinguish those whohave already visited Ma Kali by the large vermilion mark a priest has put ontheir foreheads. The people who are on their way to see the Mother generallywalk faster and only stop at one or two little stalls to purchase a gift or aflower garland for Ma Kali.

A wandering goat trots past the taxi, unconcerned and chewing on something. Infront of a little stall across the lane, a few ladies wrapped in brightlycolored saris bargain loudly over the price of conch bangles. Their voicesintersect with a loudspeaker fastened to a lamppost. Although the sound isturned up full blast, the shrill voice of a female vocalist singing movie songsdoes not disturb the peace of a darkskinned, wiry old man with a bright redturban. He calmly squats next to his wares spread out on a mat and looks as ifhe hadn't moved for years.

A turbanned Sikh taxi driver with a full grayish beard that hangs down all theway to his chest honks his horn—and honks, and honks, and honks—at colorfully-dressedpeople who walk leisurely in the middle of the lane. In frustration, hespits red chewed-up pan onto the pavement and shouts sharp words at people whopay no attention to him. Very slowly his taxi pushes through the crowd.

Some of the vendors rhythmically shout out their wares—each word, each syllablea beat. Come shoppers, come, come. Other street vendors clank bells, blow horns,or beat upon a surface. Any surface will do. The balloon seller, for instance,makes a noise by rubbing his fingers rhythmically against his balloons. Thiscreates a truly strange sound: "Crrrrrck, crrrrrck, crrrrrck." Never mind thatit sounds creepy; the children love it because they associate the "crrrrrck"with the pleasure of possessing a colorful, pretty balloon.

Yes, there is a lot of noise in the lane, but one can't really call it acacophony. Instead, the combination of the many different kinds of noise rathertranslates itself in the brain as a steady rhythm, like a beating heart. Andlistening to it, one can hear what one wants to hear. A devotee passing throughthe lane perhaps hears "Ka-li, Ka-li, Ka-li," while a merchant may hear "Bakshish,Bak-shish, Bak-shish."

A young coolie passes. Walking with a fast rhythmic gait, he carries an enormousround wicker basket on his head. Although the basket is covered with a brightlycheckered cotton cloth—skillfully knotted at various points-—one still sees afancy Varanasi sari, ripe fruit and flowers peek out here and there. A portlyman dressed in silk follows and makes a great effort to keep up with the quicksteps of the coolie. He anxiously watches him and, at intervals, he shouts outinstructions, "Careful! Don't drop my offering to Kali."

Mangy-looking dogs run in and out of the crowd, eyeing the coolie, looking forfood. One dog is placidly chewing on a dead bird lying in the middle of thesidewalk. Perched above the crowd that throngs through the lane sit large, jet-blackcrows, their sharp claws fastened onto the roofs of little stalls. "Caack,caack," their watchful eyes don't miss any edible morsel that falls to theground. And if one does, their large black wings swoop down in an instant, andthey generally beat the dogs to it. In spite of all the commotion, a small whitecow with beautiful, gentle eyes moves languidly through the crowd. A largerbrown cow licks a discarded green coconut shell while another probes with itstongue for food among waste lying in the gutter.

There are little stalls on both sides of the lane, one after the other,displaying anything from foodstuff to brass Gods and Goddesses. Colorfully laidout, there are rudraksha beads, glass baubles, lockets, perfume, shawls, littlecarpets to sit on, incense, conch bangles, iron bracelets, peacock-feather handfans, vermilion, orange, pink and yellow powder, and little aluminum swords.Numerous posters and small pictures depict various forms of Kali—the supremeenergy responsible for the creation and dissolution of the universe. There isDakshineswar Kali in her benign form, Smashan Kali, fierce and terrifying, andAdyapith Kali, a fairly recent benign form of Kali.

Not only Kali, but also the entire Hindu Pantheon, it seems, is displayed in astall under the shade of an old black oilcloth. There is Ganesha, the elephantGod, made of ivory, a black Shiva linga, and Radha and Krishna in lovingembrace. There are brass images of the Goddesses Durga, Lakshmi, and Sarasvati.Parvati, the wife of Shiva, can be seen sitting on his lap.

Since the early missionaries arrived and set foot on India's shores, the Westernmind has struggled with this peculiar Indian habit of worshipping a multitude ofGods. Does Kali get insulted if a pilgrim visits her temple and purchases animage of another Goddess? "Of course not," says a Shakti worshipper. To him,Kali, Durga, Lakshmi, Sarasvati are all different manifestations of the sameDivine Mother. They are just different names and forms of the Ultimate Forcethat has brought this universe into existence.

Yet, the popular names and forms of the Goddess make up only a fraction of herportfolio. All women, according to the Hindu, are manifestations of the Goddess,the Shakti (female power), and reverence for the natural mother is reallyreverence for the Divine Mother. She is the first guru and ought to be honoredall through one's life. A Hindu's tale talks about Queen Madalasa, who wasgreatly responsible for the spiritual realization of her three sons.

Madalasa was a Hindu queen who was blessed, not only...