The Lotus Temple and Leaving India from “A Poet’s Progress,” Newtopia Magazine #24

Published in the A Poet's Progress: Newtopia Magazine

The Lotus Temple in New Delhi (for Kristina, who insisted that I visit)

While we wait in the temple courtyard, we are welcomed, first in Farsi, then in English. We will enter the Temple while the previous group is exiting through the front of the temple. It is important to move quickly because the faster we find our seats, the more time will be available for the service, as a new group enters every fifteen minutes.

Once we are in the temple, the doors will be closed and we will not be able to leave except in the case of an emergency. There will be hosts at all of the doors to assist anyone in difficulty. The prayer service will last approximately five minutes. There are to be no photographs, no recordings, and all cell phones must be turned off and kept in our pockets or they will be confiscated. At the end of the service we will be directed to the exits by the hosts and it is important that we leave quickly because the next group will be entering behind us.

What is not mentioned is that there have been terrorist attacks at several sacred sites popular to tourists recently in India, and this is one of them. Ironically, because they are a multi-faith organization devoted to peace among all peoples and religions, they are a target for extremists of every religion. But the Baha’is who built the Lotus Temple refuse to shut it down because they believe that it’s important to keep open a temple devoted solely to peace among all races and tolerance for all religions, especially when temples are under attack and people are killing each other in the name of God.

Young women with brightly colored silk head scarves and white satin saris patrol the aisles inside the temple, wordlessly directing people with an open palm, using mime to remind us to turn off our cameras and cell phones, drawing a finger across their lips to remind us to remain silent. Whenever one of them catches me watching her, she smiles and raises her fingertips to her lips and mouths the word Namaste (“I acknowledge the divinity in you as the same divinity in me”) and slowly bows. Then she smiles again, and turns away. Since I am doing the same thing, for a moment we become mirror images of each other—and for me it’s a gesture that’s never felt so natural or as light-hearted and joyful as inside this temple.

Bluebirds glide through the silence to nest among the rafters.

The service begins. A young black woman with a head scarf sings something from the Torah. A western woman sings a prayer from the Koran. An elderly dark-skinned Arab sings one of Solomon’s psalms, and the service is over.

I follow Bill and his wife up and out of the temple back in the sun. At the top of the steps he turns to his wife and says, “Well, that was a waste of time.”

26 02 Khajuraho TempleKhajuraho Temple

New Delhi Airport Waiting Room

Our group is getting smaller again. We became six when we flew off to Nepal, and now we are down to me and Susan and her friend. They live in different states but they met on a trip to Morocco years ago and were good travel companions and now often travel together.

We are the last ones from our group in the New Delhi Airport, waiting in the main airport lounge for our different gates to be announced, about to say goodbye forever,. They are entertaining me with stories from the trip. In one, they use a nickname that I don’t recognize and I stop and question them. When they tell me the real name behind the nickname, it is so deliciously nasty and at the same time spot-on and smart that I can’t help but laugh and gasp at the same time. So then of course I have to find out all of the nicknames and each one is just as smart and true, but when they get to the end there is one name missing. “Okay,” I say, “What’s my nickname?” They look at each other and shrug. They didn’t have one for me. “Oh, come on. Just tell me. How bad can it be?” They look at each other and make a face and Susan takes a deep breath and says, “Well, for the first few days, before we got to know you better, we called you Bubble Boy.” “Bubble Boy!?” “Well, it was like you were in a world of your own. You’d get on the bus, you’d get off the bus, you’d eat with us, but it was like you were never really part of the group. But that was before we got to know you better.” “So,” I sigh, “Bubble Boy.” “Yeah,” she sighs, “Bubble Boy.” Then she reaches out and gasps, afraid I might get the wrong idea. “But we never called you that!”