The Brahmachari tradition in India is based on the principle of living a chaste life. Various yogic traditions also advise abstinence from attachment. On the other hand, the Kamasutra, written sometime between 400 BC and 200 AD, as well as various sculptures, paintings and literature, openly treats the themes of making love, erotica, sexual union and techniques of achieving pleasure. In an earlier essay in this book, I have written about the problematic relationship Indians have with sex. Now, I would argue that while we may be conflicted about our physical expression of attraction, desire, passion or lust, we have a clear bias against the emotional component—love.
Our bias against love is especially baffling when compared to the acceptance and, indeed, admiration we have in India for those who express love towards the divine. While love for a human being is considered the source for ‘total ruin’ by the Bhagavad Gita and indeed by large sections of contemporary Indian society, love and devotion towards God have been considered righteous, respectable and admirable in all eras. For instance, we have never had a large-scale ‘Indian renaissance’ that has attempted to place science above religion, nor have we ever had a social movement questioning the utility of devotees dedicating their lives to the love of God.
Instead, in India, losing oneself in immense love for the divine, to the extent of being able to think of nothing else, is held in high regard. The Bhakti Movement that originated in the south of India (but gained prevalence in the north from the fifteenth century onwards), revolved precisely around a person’s immense love of God. Mirabai’s devotional songs for Lord Krishna are well known. Besides, many of our gods come in pairs. The mythological stories of Vishnu–Lakshmi, Shiva–Parvati and Brahma–Saraswati (in the Hindu trinity) are full of tales of romantic love. In the south of India, both the wife and the lover of Lord Balaji are revered. Lovers Radha and Krishna are both worshipped.
This list of examples of the emotion of love mixing with divinity in India can go on and on, and most of them fall into three categories: first, the idea of God as the lover (Radha and Sita), second, love for God or the divine (love as worship), and third, the idea of the wife and husband as gods (the wife as Lakshmi and the husband as pati-parameshvar, or the worship of the husband through Shiv puja, karva chauth and so on).
It all leads one to wonder: Can love in India only have divine sanction? If, according to our ancient teachings, intense love towards humans and towards God has the same effect on our behaviour, how is love in both cases not admired equally by society?
There was no better place for me to find my answers than the city with maddening crowds and a striking culture, in which a sea of abject poverty ironically basks in the splendour of the Goddess of strength.
Kolkata, the city that Rudyard Kipling wrote about as having ‘poverty and pride—side by side’, had inspired V.S. Naipaul to draw a hellish literary image, despite its eccentric buildings resplendent with old-world charm. This city was home to the deceased Mother Teresa or ‘saint of the gutters’, a title that was as paradoxical as her city.
The day was drawing to an end, but sitting in my rusty Ambassador taxi, these thoughts had kept me alert. Watching me through his rear-view mirror, my taxi driver decided to entertain me. He inquired about the well-being of all members of my family. Was I married? Why not? Why was I in Kolkata? Ah! I was Bengali too! He was so pleased.
The closer we got to our destination, the more difficult it became to hear him speak above the roaring diesel engine on the increasingly bumpy ride. I stuck my head out of the window while the driver continued to list out all the spots in Kolkata that the local Bengalis flocked to.
‘But they don’t come here,’ he added, as the vehicle made a definitive halt at a point where adults and children, clad in rags, lay sprawled in front of me—so many that the old Ambassador could proceed no further.
‘Why don’t they?’ I asked, stepping out and passing him the Rs 50 taxi fare through the open window of his driver’s seat.
‘Who wants to see dying people, baba?’ he replied, pushed his leather-sandal-shod foot on the dusty accelerator, and drove off.
I walked a few steps up the street, through the filth and the pairs and trios of starving people and dogs. On my left was a building once painted blue, with a prominent board announcing it as the Kalighat Municipal Corporation. At the turn on my right was a double-storey temple structure that displayed, at its entrance, a small signage that read ‘Home For The Dying—Nirmal Hriday’. I entered it, climbing up a few steps that immediately led into an enormous hall that I estimated to be about 50 feet in length. It was lined with beds on two sides, on which lay those who had been abandoned by their families, brought here by volunteers to die with more dignity.
The sounds of pain and lament from the occupants of the beds mixed into one unholy humming sound that resounded in the hall.
I walked down the hall. The most fragile men that I had ever seen in my life lay on both sides of me on the plastic-covered mattresses of their beds. Some of them were wailing in a high-pitched voice, their eyes closed, fists clenched. A few intently watched me from atop their bed, their eyes following my moves. I walked over and sat by their side for a while. Some had been served a frugal meal of rice and lentils that they were hastily eating with their hands. There was very little medical support. Volunteers
