On a maroon and black camp chair, she sat at the edge of the lake, fishing line deep in the depths of the lapping waters. Dragonflies buzzed over the graying blue, standing out in the pink glow of the setting sun. Entranced, she watched a dragonfly gracefully dip itself in and out of the water, flitting contentedly on the surface. The slow pulse of energy, of nature just existing, it reminded her of another time, when she too had felt the charging buzz of vitality.
She had dressed up in her favorite kind of outfit, a bright blue kurta ending just under her hip, with its three-fourths sleeves, orange and pink brocade lining the sleeve ends, yellow-orange embroidery sprawling across the collar. And beautiful black harem pants, soft, light cotton hanging elegantly around her legs. This was the popular fashion in India, a chic blend of U.P. tradition and Punjabi zest for a modern take on long-standing Indian styles. Her mother had dressed more tastefully, an elegant suit pajami outfit, a deep blue with golden markings adorning the thick, luxurious cloth.
It was her first time going to this temple, and a first time in a long time that she had gone to any temple at all. She had never been religious and had always listened to the stories of gods and heroes of Indian mythology with a guarded skepticism. Regardless, the allure and intrigue that surrounded religion, particularly Hinduism, was undeniable. In her eyes, Hinduism allowed for a great openness of interpretation, perhaps even more so than the Abrahamic religions she had grown up learning about at school. Not that she would ever admit it to that out loud. She did not want her parents to think she felt at all religious, because she was not, and she did not want everyone else to think her ethnocentric, because she was not. Rather, she regarded religion as an academic would, and her involvement in religious activities was one of the observer, her purpose only to watch the unique and intricate patterns of religion unfold in front of her.
It was with this mindset that she entered the temple that day, with the open-mindedness of a scholar, and the distance of an agnostic. She sat down on the floor with her family, cross-legged as was the custom, to the right of a group of women, all waiting for the Pundit to begin. After arranging some flowers, a copper vase, and some diyas, on a copper plate, the Pundit’s voice rose and fell in the archaic tongue of Sanskrit. He spoke a line, then waited for his audience to repeat it before continuing. She barely grasped the meaning of the words she repeated, but the weight of the words was undeniable. Soon, his chanting and the audience’s chanting became a constant, droning beat - ever-present, reminding believers of the perpetual presence of some higher being.
For a while, her thoughts wandered, lost to the incessant beating of the Pundit’s steady fluctuations. Then, with the suddenness of a summer shower, the women to her left began a slow, poetic hymn, the music clashing and merging with the Pundit’s own chant. The oldest woman, her face wrinkled and her fingers gnarled, tapped out a slow beat for the others, maintaining the rhythm of their eerie, rustic tune. She did not recognize the words, so she listened to the music conveying its message instead. Moruga, Moruga, Moruga. Their song rose completely apart from the beat of the Pundit, yet the music felt fluid between these two infinitely separate entities. She found herself lost to the synchrony, the Pundit exchanging with the audience, the women among themselves, their worlds instantly united and apart. Moruga, Moruga, Moruga. The world existed at an intersection, and the most memorable moments of time were created when humans embraced that reciprocity of coexisting worlds. Man and woman, science and art, structure and fluidity, the harmonies of the world’s song demanded a clashing, resounding unity.
