Diwali and My Sweet Lord

Its been a fortnight since Diwali and even by Indian standards of punctuality, I'm fashionably late in writing about it. Yet I will do it in a bid to satisfy the insatiable demand of my enthralled readers. After the 'White Diwalis' in Connecticut in the last two years, I was determined to make this one in London count. Before I could place my shameless self-invitation phone calls to the relatives I had unearthed, manna dropped from the heaven above. Pradeep Uncle and Meera Aunty requested the pleasure of my august company for the festival. It is noteworthy that Pradeep Uncle is a doctor by profession but because of his interdisciplinary knowledge and his constant claims to lack of recognition, has been gifted a car with the number plate VIDWAN (Knowledgable one) by his gracious wife. Of couse, she herself can make a legitimate claim to the car itself, being a professor of Development Economics at University of London.

After long discussions ranging from the distinction between spirituality and religiosity, Amartya Sen and Meghnad Desai's views (thats the kind of exciting stuff Development Economists' discuss!), the differences between US and UK, we got down to the business of the day - thanking Goddess Laxmi for her magnamity (American Express giving me a credit definitely counts). With divinity satisfied, it was time for us mortals to feed ourselved. Apart from the scrumptious dinner on the table, what I was looking forward to were the roshogollas. Now these were the authentic ones which I had 'fished out' - from Brick Lane (subject of the the Monica Ali novel by the same name), a street famous for its Bangladeshi restaurants and fortutiously located 2 blocks from my residence. A Bihari belch later, we got to my favourite bit of the evening - lighting the rockets and bombs after 3 years. Of course, so much as uttering those words would probably land you at Guantanamo Bay if you're in the US, explaining why yours truly was deprived of 'having a blast' during those Diwalis. For the environmentalists out there, it would be comforting to know that these fireworks were remarkably less polluting than our Indian variety. Before you ask, they were Chinese.

After a contended nights' sleep, and a round of garden cricket with the other Apratim (son of Pradeep Uncle and Meera Aunty), we went to this ISKON temple called Bhaktivedanta Manor today morning. The bizzare juxtaposition in its name is explained by the fact that this was a manor owned by George Harrison of the Beatles' fame. After his dabblings with the Sitar, Pt Ravi Shankar, Krishna and everything Indian, he decided to donate this sprawling property to the ISKON group. The fields on either side of the pathway leading to the temple is populated by cows idly grazing about without a care in the world. In a true homage to Krishna and the Yadav clan, the same cows are milked for the prashad given out at the temple. The temple itself is a well organised affair with many Gujarati women voluntarily contributing their cooking skills in the preparation of food given to everyone. I'm not a man given to hyperbole in matters related to food, yet I have to recommend this food to any hungry college students out there. Like all good blog entries end, I found myself resolutely hitting the road to home after the hearty meal. Or wait, there is an epilogue to the story: I found this George Harrison song dedicated to Krishna called 'My Sweet Lord' with pretty corny lyrics - Give it a hear if you can...

http://www.krishnatemple.com/manor/harrison.shtm