Another new term of endearment that took me a while to get used to was my daughter as Mokhta’s “Mommy.” My baby was now herself a mother. At the hospital, the day she gave birth to our grandson, I was not quite sure how the young couple was going to ease into routine after a major transition in their lives. Before we had left their home she had said not to worry and assured us that they were going to manage well.

I see now that she manages her day-to-day life much better than I did at her age. We have watched Mokhta grow beautifully. At each meeting he gladdens our hearts. The joyous moments when we saw him crawl, stand up, walk, utter words, make sentences and sing nursery rhymes was something to experience. By the time he was three he had learnt to recite the pledge of allegiance from his day care center.

Around this time, one day, our daughter called and said,
“Mommy, guess what Mokhta said at dinner?”
“What did he say?”
“I served pasta and he said ‘Nani makes Paneer’… evidently he loves paneer!”
A tingling sensation went through my body. I was pleased that Mokhta had remembered one of the dishes I had cooked when they had visited. He had liked it enough to recall it and make his choice known. Was this one of his favorite dishes I had imagined?
“Mommy, are you there?”
“Yes dear I’m here! Are you making this all up or did he actually say it?”
“How would I come up with something like that?”

Soon after that paneer (home made cheese) incident our daughter asked my husband and I if they could leave Mokhta with us for a long weekend. We were delighted, but his parents seemed to have separation anxiety.

A week before they came they began to prepare Mokhta for staying with us. They repeatedly told him that they were soon going for an office trip the way his daddy went sometimes. And while they were gone he would stay at Nani and Nana’s home. He knew the words “office trip” and had nodded at each repetition.

“What if he cries in the middle of the night?” She said on the telephone a few days before their arrival.
“We can manage,” I consoled her, “We have had children.” Besides they were going only a few hours drive away, if there was an emergency they could always come back.
“Emergency! What sort of an emergency?” She wanted to know.
It took my husband and I a while to assure her that we would take good care of her son, such good care that when she returned he might not want to go back with them. That she didn’t like.

When they finally left for their fun weekend she left a part of her heart behind.
So that Mokhta wouldn’t get upset when they left, we took him to the park in a stroller. He enjoyed himself and when we returned he asked where his parents were. We told him that they had gone for an office trip. He repeated “office trip” ran to the window, stood there for a few seconds and then turning to us said, “Mommy car gone!”
From then on he was fine.

The next two days we tried to follow his routine. He woke up, drank milk, ate a buttered toast with scrambled egg, played with his ball and made jigsaw puzzles. We went for a long walk with him in the stroller. In the park we fed mallards and geese. We slid down the slides and hung on monkey bars. Seated on a swing he said to me, “Nani you swing too.” So, I sat on the swing next to his and Nana pushed us both. Our faces against the wind, our hair flying backwards, the sun rays danced on our smiling faces.

His mother had instructed me that before Mokhta went to sleep I should read him his favorite book Good Night Moon and then sing him a song or two.
“What sort of song? I don’t know any American songs.”
“You know ‘Row, row, row your boat’ or ‘Jack and Jill,’ don’t you?”
“Well, yes but I never sang them as lullabies to you.”
“You’ll think of something.” She trusted my song selection.

At night I put Mokhta in his crib, read him stories and sang, Kabuliwala aya Kabuliwla aya Kabul Kandahar se, the song I used to sing to my daughters when they were three. At some point in the song I would ask them to say, “Mini, Mini, Mini, Mini!” and they would repeat “Mini, Mini, Mini, Mini.”

Mokhta listened with attention. As I sang I asked him to repeat after me, Mini, Mini, Mini, Mini. He did. So the following two nights I sang Kabuliwala and he repeated Mini, Mini, Mini, Mini before the song lulled him to sleep.
When his parents returned, apparently after an enjoyable trip, they were gratified to see him happy. And when the hugs and kisses were over he ran around and around them as if circumambulating his deities.

Mokhta’s stay was so brief. When I waved goodbye I felt pangs of separation, this time, surprisingly not for my daughter but for him. Early next morning our daughter called. I had not expected this call. She said, “Mommy just wanted to tell you that last night when I put your grandson to bed he wanted to hear Kabuliwala. I don’t know the whole song but I tried to sing it and when I was done he said ‘Mini, Mini, Mini, Mini!”

Upon hearing her, my heart blossomed into a Nani heart.

With your birth on September 16, 2006 you raised my status in the family by making me your, Nani, maternal grandmother. Thank you for that!

Nine months prior to that date when your mother told me that I was going to become a Nani I understood it but didn’t know what to feel. How to feel? I had heard a grandmother’s love for her grandchildren is overwhelming. Why didn’t I feel it right away? My grandparents had passed away before I was born so I had not experienced this love. I had some knowledge of what I, now a Nani, was supposed to feel for you but I didn’t feel it yet. I was more worried for your mother’s health during the pregnancy and delivery.

Being a painter, I began to visualize you–an adorable marriage of your mom’s ethereal charm and your dad’s lovable personality. You were going to capture everyone’s heart.

A month before you were born my daughter let me feel your kicks and hear your hiccups. I rubbed her belly, put my lips on it and murmured that I was your Nani—your lifelong friend. Did you hear me?

The moment I saw you at the hospital, it was as if time stopped. I had a glimpse of a miniature universe. Your luminous eyes of black pearls in tiny pools kept closing. I looked at your tulip pink lips, gently kissed the flawless skin, snail shaped ear lobes, pink toes and soles–the color of your lips and as soft as rabbit’s fur. Who created such tenderness with finesse? Who sculpted impossible perfection out of nowhere? Your radiant face had a peachy sheen and I whispered to myself, just like a pearl, a Mokhta.

While driving back home I realized that I was connected to you through a fragile yarn—as delicate as a cobweb’s. I felt that the delicate link had the capacity to strengthen into a cord from Spiderman’s web. A strange new feeling began to stir within me. How was I going to strengthen it? I thought one way of fortifying the yarn was by staying in touch. By renewing the family tradition of letter writing. My parents wrote letters to me when I was in college. I got to know your grandfather, Nana, through letters. When I was young no one talked on the telephone. We stayed in touch through what is now called snail mail.

When Nana and I immigrated to America from India it took us a few years to settle down in the country that we had chosen to live in. One of the ways we were able to do it was to incorporate the holidays of our childhood and youth with American holidays. We integrated Halloween, Thanksgiving, Christmas and New Year’s Day with Kashmiri festivals of Khecchi Mavas, Herath and Navreh. We spiced up our lives with multicultural traditions of our adopted country. Why not? If you like some parts of a different cultural tradition, adopt them. If you do not feel comfortable with some things from your own tradition, discard them. You have freedom to choose. Use it. Constantly try to improve your life by making sensible choices.

It seems like another life when I read stories to your mother and her younger sister (your Massi), and sing them lullabies. I can’t wait to read you stories and sing bedtime songs to you. We’ll sing, read, paint and go to the park. At the park, we’ll paint with watercolors and crayons. And when we return home, tired, I would serve your favorite delicacies. Right now I don’t know which ones but I will find out soon enough.

After I was blessed with two beautiful daughters I said to myself, I did not know my grandmothers but when I become a Nani I will try to be a good one. The Nani I wished I had. I wanted to create a family in which we could depend on one another. When someone was down the others could cheer him or her up. During the traumatic periods of my life—and there were many—I found solace in Nana’s embrace and my daughters’ hugs and kisses. In them I found the love of my parents and my siblings and courage to continue with my life’s work. This was true in their simple utterances as children and it is true now in how they make me feel; loved in bad times and in good.

Sometimes when I am in a contemplative mood, I wonder whether my presence in the world makes any difference. The kind of love you have stirred in me has made me realize that it does. If I can make my circle of family happy the world is better for it. Imagine, billions of families trying to create happiness! Together we make a better world. All that by simply strengthening the delicate yarn of love!

Remember that you have a unique place in this world. Your mother was born in India and your father in Korea. That makes you an East Indian-Korean-American. Don’t ever get bogged down by traditional differences and cultural boundaries. Your birth has endowed you with the power to show the meaninglessness of cultural barriers and racial discrimination that cause wars and bloodshed. Be aware of who you are. Pay attention to your identity and where you come from. Always be self-aware.

One of the advantages of being an American is that you are exposed to almost all cultures and traditions of the world within your own country. Be conscious of your foreign neighbors. Try to understand them, learn from them, and be respectful towards them. We live in the same neighborhood with people from different countries but often do not connect with them. It takes only one person to change peoples’ attitudes. May that person be you!

I may or may not be around when you meet your soul mate, marry and make your own family. I want to say that a bond of unconditional love within a family and individual creativity and imagination are essential for a life well lived.

With a grandmother’s love that seems to be growing by the second,
Your Nani for Life.

The sprightly bride-to-be entered the coffee shop accompanied by her parents. She ordered a strong blend from El Indio, Tarrazu. The mother got a nutty blend from Costa Rica and the father a robust flavor from Nariño, Colombia. They spotted the wedding planner seated in a booth. The father scooted next to her and sat facing the mother. The bride-to-be sat next to her mother.

After the usual chitchat the mother said, “We want the ceremony to be eclectic.”

“We could do something like a white canopy, if you like–the way they do in Jewish weddings, and decorate the poles with flower garlands,” the planner said as she jotted notes on a yellow lined writing pad.

“Yes, yes! I have seen it in pictures, and I like it very much.” The bride-to-be chimed. She glanced over her right shoulder and then in front and saw her parents nodding in agreement.

“And that would go well with the rose and marigold vyug on the floor,” the mother suggested. She wanted her daughter’s marriage ceremony to include at least a few traditional rituals. Some thirty plus years ago, her own marriage was performed in the valley of Kashmir according to Brahmin traditions. “And the vyug design would match very well with Posh Puza—the flower shower on the newly weds.”

“Poush Pujja made the guests cry at your older daughter’s wedding. Even the groom’s family was apparently touched… you know, them being Christian and all…. It was so beautiful,” said the wedding planner, “I cried like a baby.”

“What else? What else?” She asked. The mother and the daughter looked at each other and started to speak in Kashmiri. The father turned to the planner, “Before we go ahead with all the details why don’t you tell me how much it is going to cost me?” He asked.

“I will write this up line by line. I will include the florist, the musicians, the videographer, photographer, hotel rooms, caterers and all other details. You can delete the things you don’t want to do.”

“We don’t want to delete any of the ceremonies we did at our older daughter’s wedding, no! Perhaps even add some more.” The mother interrupted and glanced sideways at her husband.

“Can we put a stop to this somewhere? Let’s keep as many rituals as the previous wedding. That’s it! There seems no end to this.” The father said moving uneasily on his seat. His wife stared hard at him.

“Daadyyy…! Let her write down all the things we are discussing, and then you can delete the ones you won’t pay for.”

“And then we’ll consider your deletions—two against one, Daddy.” The planner kidded.

“There is no end to this spending.” He mumbled to himself.

“Oh no, something I completely forgot!” The daughter said.

“What?”

“We want to find someone who can recite from the Quran.”

“Quran?” The planner’s pencil dropped on the pad.

“Yes, my fiancée is a Muslim.”

Wide eyed, the planner repeated, “A Muslim! A Muslim fiancée!” She glanced at the bride-to-be and then quickly looked into the eyes of the mother and then the father. Their expressions did not change. She picked up her pencil and started to scribble something on the pad.

She looked up and asked, “Where is the groom from?”

“Seychelles.” The bride-to-be said.

“This is interesting—a Hindu family, one daughter married to a Christian, another daughter is marrying a Muslim… very interesting…. I don’t know if I can find someone…. Usually only Imams recite shuras… I think… from Quran.” The planner mumbled.

“It doesn’t matter to us. We are interested in Arabic recitation. We want our guests to hear lyrical sounds of shuras in Arabic.” The mother said.

“Anyone can recite, it doesn’t have to be an Imam,” said the daughter, “Do you know someone?”

While tapping with her pencil on the pad the planner said, “You know I’m Jewish.”

“Of course we know you’re Jewish.” The mother said.

The daughter and the father nodded.

“But can you find an Arabic speaking reciter?” the father asked.

“Have you met her fiancée’s parent’s yet?” The planner had something else on her mind.

“Why do you ask?” The father said.

“Because Seychelles sounds like a made up country,” she chuckled nervously, “We need to be careful.”

“What do you mean?”

“You know sometimes I’m the one who ends up introducing the parents of the bride to the groom’s. I prefer if you have met before.”

“Yes, yes we have met, we have met them twice. They often visit their son in New York and they have visited us in Boston.”

“That’s a re…uh…that’s good!” There was an awkward silence for a minute. Then the planner seemed re-energized, “Wait till my liberal husband hears this, he is going to get a kick out of this matrimony! Okay, moving on… I’ll try to find a reciter.”

I whimpered and rolled uneasily in my crib, my mother says. What an extraordinary sample of life! She thought, and gently thumped me back to sleep.

One day I demanded to know the purpose of a girl’s life. Was it only to please my parents? To merely memorize what the teachers demanded? Did I have to listen to them all?

My mother, with her eyes wide open and fingers on her open mouth, was amazed by my precocious inquiry. She kept her eyes on me.

In middle school I was appalled by boys’ behavior. But the dilemma of human life kept me occupied.

In high school, I asked what was the sense of my growing up when I couldn’t go anywhere on my own while boys went anywhere they wanted. The gender discrimination made me bitter. So, when boys were in sight I turned my head away.

In college, I sat alone to ponder how birth, life and death were connected. How all who were born lived and eventually died. After the sky-high blazing fire of cremation nothing was left but the mounds of ashes, white bones and bleached skeletons.

All the love and nourishing mothers gave, all their pride led to nothing. All the labor of birthing, rearing up, nourishing and children’s industrious schoolwork came to nothing. Yes, people grieved when their loved ones died but then they forgot and went on with their lives.

But what was the solution?

In the quiet of my room I wrote about the deceptions and disappointments of life and how we could overcome them. I wrote until the wee morning hours. My concluding decision was that all women should refuse to produce babies and save the coming generations from all the misery.

My mind was released. My heart untied. I wrapped a shawl around my shoulders and went for a walk. At the horizon the first glow of the sun met me full in the eyes.

On the street a man was taking his morning walk. I found myself walking next to him. He stopped and glanced at me. Before I could fully grasp the situation or realize what was happening, my mind felt numb, my heart beat fast.

Did I misunderstand? Was the purpose of my life to be with this man?
I stood motionless, admiring the man’s marvelous physique, his graceful gait and his resplendent smile. His purpose must have been the same as mine because he turned towards me and gazed from my hair to my heels.

I felt dizzy and helpless, as if intoxicated. I felt I could give my life for him. He said something and the passion in his voice rang in my ears. His touch delighted me. In the ecstasy of the moment, I forgot what I had concluded after writing the whole night.

Soon I became his bride. In nine months I was the mother of the most beautiful baby in the whole wide world. What an extraordinary sample of life! I thought, and gently thumped her to sleep.

A few years prior to her death, I visited Ma’s house in Bombay, where I grew up, the youngest of her twelve children.

During my visit, after dinner my mother and I would sit in the front verandah. We talked about life, reminisced old days and I sought her advice. She listened to my troubles with consoling attention. Never judging, advising or criticizing. After I poured out my frustrations, she would quietly hug me and suggest something helpful that would balm my heart.

On one evening under the moonlit sky as we sipped sweet Kashmiri chai I wanted to ask Ma–did she feel lonely–the question I had on mind since the day I had arrived. Under grief she was always stoic.

A year ago our father, whom the family loved and revered, had passed away. Ma was melancholy, but did not seem lonely. I thought I would be if my partner of fifty years passed away. We sat on bamboo stools, sipping tea. A steaming teapot was cooling on a table beside her.

“Moonlit nights remind me of your father–I feel connected to him,” Ma said before I could ask my question. She looked more petite than her 5’ 1” frame. Her grey hair was tied up in a chignon. Her crisp starched sari neatly wrapped, its pallu falling gracefully behind her left shoulder. In her early-seventies, her ivory smooth skin had hardly any wrinkles. Twin moons twinkled in her eyes.

“Ma, don’t you feel lonely?” I finally asked.

“For the first few months, child, I was in a daze. Then an emptiness overcame me. I did not shrug it. In time, it dissolved by itself. I paced through the memories we had made together and noticed that the reflections of my memories of him rippled through you, through all our children and grandchildren.” Her voice seemed to come from deep within. Her eyes gleamed as if from an inner effulgence.

“How did that help?” I continued.

“I had not thought of our children that way before.” She seemed to come alive. “The feeling that we continue to live through our children, gave me strength.”

Her answer relieved me of the twinge I had felt at her being alone. I asked, “What do you think happens when we die?”

“I don’t know. But since your father’s death I have done a lot of thinking. I have come to realize that death is to life what night is to day; one has no reality without the other. We must not focus on the fact that we die, but on the fact that we live… how we choose to live. The secret is in living well, each day living well. Because the way we live determines the way we die.”

Moonlight reflected on Ma’s gentle face bestowing it with divine grace. I put my head in her bosom and let her baby me.

Since that blessed evening, when I think of my mother a sense of calm overcomes me, the way it did on that moonlit night when I lay in Ma’s bosom like a chick under her mother’s protective wings–warm and sheltered forever.

Portrayal of a virgin entwined around a blossoming tree is a characteristic motif of the early Indian art (c. 2nd century BCE to 3rd century CE).

Such voluptuous females with abundant jewelry, elaborate headdresses and coiffures are reminiscent of Indus Valley terracotta figurines. These figures are believed to be charged with potent sexual energy. The trees are their male counterparts in vegetal form. Such leaning females are called Yakshinis and the trees they lean against, when in human form, Yakshas.

Yakshini is a vessel of fertility, capable of bringing forth new life. Yaksha is a water deity. When both figures are in human form they are known as Mithuna. All these images, Yakshini, Yaksha and Mithuna are fundamental symbols of water, fertility and vegetative growth.

Yakshinis and Mithunas, the harbingers of fertility and prosperity, are positioned near excavated cave entrances or carved on elaborate Buddhist doorways as good luck charms. Passing through or under them is considered efficacious. The figures are believed to bless the passing devotees with fertility, fecundity and fruitfulness. Didarganj Yakshini, a pillar like image is a remarkable example of such female images.

Fleshy and voluptuous, Didargunj Yakshini (in the picture) conveys a great sense of power. It’s stone pedestal is untouched, giving the image an appearance of emerging from the earth itself. The emphasis on breasts and hips express her maternity as well as sexuality. Similar to the Indus Valley terracotta figurines, it is decked with elaborate ornaments including a beaded girdle, heavy anklets, armbands, necklaces and earrings. Precious metals were regarded as stores of creative energy of nature.

Sometimes Yakshinis stand on animals called vahanas such as a fish tailed elephant, a sea horse or mythical makara. The vahanas are aquatic symbols of water, a necessity for vegetative growth.
The carvings of Yakshinis and Mithunas are full figured and firmly fleshed. Their waists are small and their limbs tapered. The female figures have wide hips, full thighs and heavy breasts. The early couples show affectionate gestures, later they are shown in erotic postures. These symbols are in harmony with the robust fertility of the great mother earth.

Sensuous female forms suggest two-pronged love, erotic and maternal. They preserve the feelings of sexuality as well as maternity at the same time. (More on this later)

Simultaneously with voluptuous virgins and sensuous couples is carved a cluster of goddesses known as Matrikas. The impetus to their depiction is the Balagraha tradition that includes the worship of the infant god Skanda along with these ominous goddesses. They are personifications of calamities related to childbirth in which joy and horror are intermingled. Matrikas are gratified and supplicated to protect birthing mothers, newborns and small children from diseases and death. The ambiguity also embodied in pregnancy and childbirth is expressed in this cluster of female deities. Their maternal as well as destructive characteristics are emphasized through their weapons and emblems.
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Excerpted (and revised) from my book, Images of Indian Goddesses: Myths, Meanings and Models, Abhinav Publications, New Delhi, 2003.

More than four thousand years ago inhabitants of the fertile region of Ganga-Jamuna delta sang hymns of praise. They sung in honor of the powers of nature, of sky, of atmosphere, of earth. They sung the hymns of awe and terror to the powers of dawn, sun, ether, night, earth—its fertility and fecundity, water, vegetation and fire. Slowly the powers were personified. They were given thousand eyes and ears, multiple heads and hands. Most of these were male but many female: mothers, and spouses of the male deities.

Consorts, spouses and mother deities were efficacious but lacked profile and power. They were easily interchangeable with one another. Their names were simply the feminine suffices of the names of the male gods. For example Agneyi was the consort of the fire god Agni; Varunani of the god of proper conduct, Varuna; Indrani of Indra the god of thunderbolt and so on. The female consorts were outer and comparatively feeble reflections of gods’ inner energy, Shakti.

The earliest ritual par excellence was the Fire/Sacrificial Ritual. Male deities had a permanent place in it but Ushas, in spite of her hymns of praise, had no significant part in the fire ritual. They remained outside the periphery of the sacrificial space. Fire, the great purifier was the main deity on the sacrificial altar. Agni was and for a long time continued to be the ultimate proving ground for female purity and faithfulness.

From these natural powers arose the first female deities such as Dawn (Ushas), Night (Ratri), Aditi (Boundless ether), Vac (Speech), fertilized earth (Gaja Lakshmi) and Gau (Cow). Although subordinate and secondary to the ancient male gods such as Surya, Agni, Varuna, Indra and Dyaus these female deities were not only important but most of the significant contemporary goddesses are rooted in them.

Dawn (Ushas)
The most important early female deity was the dawn, Ushas. Delicate, shy and luminous, she was the lover, wife and daughter of the sun god, Surya.

Each morning Ushas lead Surya so that his brilliance and fire was revealed to the world. Her arrival drove away the night, Ratri. Dawn aroused all life and chased away the dark demons of the night. She awoke living things but did not disturb people asleep in their death. She was the mistress of time reminding humans their limited time on earth.

Night (Ratri)
Ratri, the night, Ushas’ twin sister lived in the south, the abode of Yama–the god of death. She was closely related with another dark deity named Nritti who wore black and was the mistress of death, destruction and sorrow. Ratri helped people sleep and rest. Those who were restless became restful in her quiet darkness. In later years she was associated with now world famous goddess Kali.

Earth (Prithvi)
Firm, motionless and wide earth was recognized as the life-giving and fragrant mother. Yet it was recognized that the one who creates and nourishes has dangers such as evil spirits, diseases and death inherent in it. To ward off its destructive effects and propitiate and appease the earth prayers were offered, amulets worn and sacrifices performed.

Prithvi was coupled with the sky deity Dyaus that fertilized Prithvi with rain and life sprouted. Prithvi pours forth milk like human mother for her son. Her breasts are full of nectar. She nourishes all–wicked and good, demonic and divine.

Prosperity (Sri)
Sri was the splendor and power of the tribal head, called raja, in the age of agriculture. The economic surplus that was expressed through Indus Valley embellished terracotta figurines was now transferred to Sri. She was linked to bounty and fecundity of the earth and took over her attributes. As earth she was praised as ‘the one possessing dung.” Her two sons were mud and moisture–the ingredients of a rich soil.

Sri became wife of Kubera, the overseer of king’s treasury. She was fortune and abundance of the king. Without her there won’t be any treasury and rajas would fail to govern. In epic mythology, the overseer was pushed to the background and a spousal relationship developed between the king and Sri.

Yakshini and Yaksha Couples (Mithunas)
Yakshini was the indwelling spirit of water and vegetation. Along with her male counterpart, Yaksha, their power was personified and eulogized in the form of a couple called Mithuna. It symbolized union and completeness.

Speech (Vac)
Vac, the spoken Sanskrit was identified with mighty flow of the river Sarasvati. The bountiful flow of the language was equated with the powerful flow of the river. While flow of the water fertilizes earth the flow of the speech does the same for the mind.
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Excerpted from my book, “Images of Indian Goddesses: Myths, Meanings and Models,” Abhinav Publications, New Delhi. 2003.

How did the full-fledged Hindu goddesses emerge? Why, about five thousand years ago, were thousands of female figurines modeled in clay? Why did Indian artisans start to sculpt voluptuous dryads and nymphs by 300 CE and distinct symbolic images of the goddesses by 500 CE? And finally why are these goddesses highly cherished deities of modern India? 

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In order for us to authentically understand the meanings of Devi’s visual manifestations we need to know their myths and symbols and become acquainted with the religion and culture in which they belong. Once we reach that threshold, viewing them will not only give us pleasure but also their meanings will empower us, the onlookers. We can view the goddess images spiritually (as a devotee) or savor them aesthetically (as an art connoisseur) or as both. Once we begin to feel the goddess energy coursing through us, we will feel that which art lovers refer to as pleasure and devotees as bliss.

The pleasure or bliss that we experience resides neither in the image, nor in us but in the experiencing itself. Between the image and us a message is conveyed, feelings arise, the material form is infused with power and we savor the bliss. We become one with the image and feel the energy—aesthetic and spiritual. This aesthetic and/or spiritual experience has a transformative effect on us. The flavor of the experience depends upon the particular goddess image that we choose to focus on.

Experiencing the Goddess Energy:

• Become familiar with various goddess images.
• Choose your favorites.
• Know her myths; understand the meaning of her symbols and the cultural background in which she historically emerged.
• Focus on her visual image and unique power.
• Feel that power within you.

Excerpted (and revised) from my book, Images of Indian Goddesses: Myths, Meanings and Models, Abhinav Publications, New Delhi, 2003.

In India, I did not pay much attention to goddesses, but they were everywhere. Friends and family talked about the efficacious power (Sakti) of the Great Goddess (Devi). The many energies of Devi in the form of various goddesses is a common belief. During yearly festivals I viewed, with much interest, their graceful iconographic forms. The celebrations of Navaratra, Shivratri and Diwali brought to focus the images aflame with exquisite grace as well as sinister inelegance. The goddess myths and images awoke feelings of aesthetic delight and mystery.

When I came to America I brought the memory of the goddesses with me. Yet, I did not understand their meaning. It was obscured in the darkness of my ignorance. Why do goddesses look the way they do? Why are women as well as men devoted to them? Why am I attracted to them? The absence of images around me became part of the emptiness that I generally felt in this foreign country.

After a few years in my adopted country, I joined the Department of Religion at the University of Pittsburgh. I read goddess scriptures, looked intently at her images and interpreted Hindu goddess imagery and myths. I understood that the goddesses are significant cultural symbols in addition to being many other things.

By the time I received my doctoral degree in the Phenomenology of Religion I had reached the threshold of understanding. I began to be emotionally inspired by the goddess exemplars. This process had a transformative effect on me.

Goddess imagery is intense and paradoxical: erotic and sacred, seductive and powerful, beautiful and sinister, life-giving, life-sustaining and at the same time gruesome and destructive. Their paradoxical nature made sense to me. I saw myself in them. What I thought were contradictions in me — sexual partner and suckling mother, dotting and disciplinarian, loving yet outraged at gender, caste and class prejudices and inequality – were, in fact, activated goddess energies. They were dormant in me.

To awaken the dormant energies, I needed to deeply study and sensitively look at the goddess images and experience the delight of their dance, between mundane and transcendental, in my heart. My study and viewing the goddess imagery ended as a personal pilgrimage. The pilgrimage center, as it turned out, is my own inner light – the Goddess within me.

Excerpted (and revised) from my book, Images of Indian Goddesses: Myths, Meanings and Models, Abhinav Publications, New Delhi, 2003.