Little Maa
It was a crush of yogis and spiritual seekers. Some old timers, some brand new on this quest to unknowable enlightenment. Wearing cheap scarves with Om symbols printed on them that we bought at any of the small shops that surrounded the ashram. The dress code was long punjabi style tops with wide cotton pants, mala beads (a must if you’re a serious seeker), an aforementioned scarf draped over your front for modesty for the women, a white canvas messenger bag from the ashram bookshop with a red outline of the mountain and Om Namah Shivaya printed at the bottom. I’m sorry to poke fun. I was one of them! Our hearts were full of sincere longing for Truth. So we had come to Tiruvannamalai in Southern India, to the foot of the Holy Mountain Arunachala, the Guru of Sri Ramana Maharshi, to hopefully get a glimpse, a taste, of the untouchable bliss of perfect peace. We just didn’t always see the absurdity of the zoo, of our attempts to play the role of “spiritual”. The extreme poverty that pervaded the region while we vied to look the most “understated travel chic” in our culturally appropriated garb and appear the most holy, the most enlightened, it's just…sigh. It’s innocent, I recognize. Complicated. Also a checkmark on the evolutionary dance card. So it is what it is. We learn and we move forward.
That day was particularly swarmy with western seekers. Krishna Das, the famous American Kirtan singer, was coming to play at Ramanashramam to celebrate Ramana’s Jayanti (birthday). We all were dutifully queueing up, waiting for our turn to find a spot within the large library where the concert was to take place. When they first started letting people in, it was like we became a herd of cows all pressing to get into the barn for dinnertime. I overheard someone behind me say, “I can see the headline now: 10 ppl dead in Tiru, crushed by a mob of peaceful yogis trying to get into a concert” Ha.
Eventually we all got in and filled that space from top to bottom. There was hardly any room aside from our tiny little assigned spot on the floor. I was seated beside a friendly acquaintance on my left, a large Russian man in front, and on my right were a couple of very exuberant Polish women. I was happy. Uncomfortable! But excited to be there for what felt like a once in a lifetime experience.
KD came out with his band and they took their place on the stage. It all felt so casual and sweet. You wouldn’t have known these people were famous if it weren’t for the raucous applause that erupted in the hall when they entered.
When he began to play the harmonium, we were all hushed into silence. The droning sound took over our senses and lulled us into a deeper space of awareness. When his voice joined the instrument, an ode to Ganesh the Elephant God, Remover of Obstacles, as is traditionally sung at the beginning of all Kirtans, our hearts began to open and music became our shared language. Several times over the afternoon, I was moved to tears. The magic of unified voices, the devotion and joy of singing to the Divine, the Oneness felt in the room - it was beautiful and rich.
There was one point in the concert that I will never, ever, forget. As KD began to chant “Om Shree Matre Namaha”, the opening words to the honoring of the Divine Mother, Ma Durga, we all felt the power of Her take up the room. When the key changed and opened to “Jaya Jagadambe, Jai Maa Durga Jai Maa Durga” my heart melted. Pure nourishment for the soul.
It was during this Durga chant, that my eye caught some movement slightly to my left. I peeked over and saw a little girl, maybe 5 or 6, crawling and stepping over people. She slowly made her way through the crowd, her arms flowing and spiking like a cobra, tongue out, hissing at whoever tried to tell her to sit down. It was clear her parents had taught her about the Goddess and she knew exactly what to do, how to be. She knew Her. She was Kali Ma. She had come to knock us out of our slumber and into the Reality of the Divine. The Divine on Earth.
Some people tried to control her, to discipline her if she knocked over someone’s bag or crawled over a lap. And she wasn’t having it. She would not be tamed. She would not be tamed, hallelujah! For this one moment in time, for this one song, no one could claim ownership over her. She was the Goddess incarnate in a tiny little body and we could only stand in awe of her majesty.
I saw myself as a little girl. The wildness of her. The wildness that I had been. In all of my bigness and play and drama and demands and fire. How my mother tried not to control me, she tried to give me freedom to express. And yet I still learned to get small eventually. I still learned to willingly step into the prison of conformity. My mom didn’t have to tell me. I just mimicked her. And I mimicked what I saw around me. And this Little Maa, that hot January day in Tamil Nadu, reminded me of my wildness, my bigness, my untame-ability.
And now, these however many years later, I feel her coming alive again. I am beginning to feel this flow of creativity, of femininity, of power and fullness and boundaries and passion for all of life.
Jaya Jagadambe, Hey Ma Durga, Hey Ma Durga.
