I sit in a dance of dragonflies; a four foot rock ball spins hydroplaning on its platform, water gurgling from little fountains pleasuring the ear as the eye gazes at the perpetual motion of time. A medium sized dog prances by, body covered in sores, hair matted beyond recognition. A young Indian man shoos it away with the back of his hand; the canine is unattached to its fate. Probably the most relaxed space I have been in my short stay here, the large plaza of the airport in Bangalore stretches out like the granite of a mountain tableland.
The dog plies under the nearby bench, searching for crumbs as a nearby man asks in broken English “where you want to go, taxi, hotel?” to the tourist, a stranger in a strange land. Many gods are prayed to here; the monkey god, the snake god, the elephant god, the creator and the destroyer. In a small room somewhere hidden from the light an Indian woman’s unborn is set free from the earthy place because it lacks the testosterone of it mirrored creation. “I hate you” pronounces the young woman accompanying the dog shooing man. They smile and walk together into the evening.
“Indian men are pigs” pronounces my male friend dressed in a white dhoti as we ply down the twisted sidewalk, sidestepping cow manure on our side and a small pool of water filled with old plastic bottle. The dinosaurs of old have molded themselves into every shape and color as man crafts emptiness into Maya. My white friend talks of the ‘Kali Yoga’, the age of destruction which 2012 will knowingly act as a black marker as the scales tip into chaos. Utter destruction by the water element this time around the stars is the latest earthly forecast. A young playful child points to the rotating sphere while her tiny hand grasps at a miniature wet rock. Her brother dances nearby unaware of the Hopi prophecies, happy to receive a strangers smile.
“You don’t want to come back” my white friend counsels, “the suffering will defy imagination”. Somewhere his guru sits, already removed from his earthly body as he counsels his followers about his last Kali age rebirth 800 years from now in Moscow where global warming will have changed the icy city into a steamy Brazilian forest. A nearby pack of young Indian men lounge on a nearby bench some hand in hand. Public affection between men and women is frowned upon in India; I wonder which gods may be laughing at that. Cell phones ring in their hands, the tiny machines are ubiquitous in the human landscape as their towers dot the ancient earth. Minds once trained to listening to natures rhythms are now accelerated to a speed where the old are thrown off the merry-go-round. Giant billboards reflect beautiful young Indians smiling with their new phones and shiny autos.
“You don’t want to commit suicide” my loving friend counsels. “It won’t work as a way out of this madness. You’ll come back as a dog”. The canine world is currently asleep, the matted one joined by two short-hairs in a large triangle, circling the spinning monolith.
A time three thousand years ago gods and goddesses in human form walked the earth in this place. A maternal culture, a tantric ocean now mythed as a utopia where the union of the male and female was the divine path to god. A nearby woman in the plaza wears all black, with only a slit in her veil where her dark eyes orient her form. Perhaps she borrowed the adornments from Kali herself. A roar comes out of the sky, a jet pierces a heavenly cumulus accompanied by a distant bird sailing on the waves of air pushing the clouds up ever higher. A small bird hops on the granite expanse, jumping over the blackened cigarette butt at my feet. The dogs smile, the young Indians talk of things to come, as the children succumb to their dream world.
I phone to my girlfriend on the other side of the earth. So much love radiates out of her I feel like a badly torn net trying to catch the rays; a glimpse of the white light shared by those that have touched the other side and returned. Without a guru, without counsel with the Buddha, the wise maternal needs no platform to touch the inner child. My wings unfold, drawn to the inner light in my heart that burns for its fuel. Shiva and Shatki reunite again, resting in the love that is god’s mirror.
Thank you all for being my home… do love each other before we’re gone.