The New York transit system is known to be notoriously unreliable on a weekend. The MTA (Metro Transit Authority) should stand for:?"More Trouble Coming," according to one inscription on a wall on the subway platform. The fastest but very expensive way of getting from Brooklyn to Queens is by cab service. Forty-five minutes after catching a taxi one Sunday, and US$40 poorer, I arrived in Queens Village for a kali puja. I hurriedly walked into the temple, located at the back of a small house in a West Indian community. A handful of devotees–no more than five, were seated in the lotus position on the floor, some distance away from the temple where the Pujaree was making "aarti" to the murtis.
This pales in comparison to the Kali Temple in Pasea Village, Tunapuna, where hundreds would turn out. But this is New York, and there are restrictions on this kind of religious worship. "Baby," the temple custodian, seems happy that I made it. She smiles, motioning me to a position behind her. The air smells of camphor and incense, and the temple is awakened by the unique drumming of Kali worship. Baby, singing passionately in Hindi, manages to stir the deities, for within minutes, a heavy woman,?as if moved by a force, glides forward still in the lotus position. She rises before the murtis and begins to shuffle in dance. The Mother has manifested.
LEFT: Devotee under manifestation.
RIGHT: Kali, the "Mother," manifests in a devotee.
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Moving in the spirit
She effortlessly handles flaming pieces of camphor in her hand, placing them in her mouth, as she sways, moving back and forth in a two-step cadence. Her eyes are closed for the most part, but when open, they seem distant. The pujaree is helped by two boys–his sons I later learned. With camera in hand, I am looking for that "Kodak moment." "Wait," she says. I am prevented from further shooting. Suddenly another is possessed–a middle-aged man. He convulses, leaping vertically and screaming, "Kal Bhiro!"–a name known to many as the Mother's brother. The pujaree moves toward him and begins testing the spirit. The man puts the cubes of fiery camphor into his mouth. He, too, passes the test.
With a cacophony of drumming, singing and spirit possessions, everything appears chaotic. This time, a slender man in his 20s is suddenly thrown about by raw, unseen energy. This possession is different. It is overwhelmingly powerful, unlike anything you may have ever seen. His name is Ramesh, a Guyanese native. Baby rushes to his assistance, guiding him away from the murtis. But it is already too late–the man strikes his head on a tiled wall. ??
Surrounded by murtis, devotees prepare for Kali puja.
Disobeying a goddess
It ends as suddenly as it had begun. Ramesh's limp body slumps to the floor. He seems dazed and unaware of his surroundings. He shakes off his stupor and is brought before the Mother. I lean forward, trying to hear something, anything, but I only manage a few words here and there. The Mother is stern, scolding him. The young man is cowed, petrified, as Mother, shuffling back and forth, continues to rail against her "child." "You have to listen," I hear her saying. "When you making devotions for the Mother, you have to fast, abstain from alcohol, meat and sexual intercourse, for three days before coming here," Baby once told me.
Clearly, Ganesh had failed to keep these commandments. "Mother told me to make devotions to she for five weeks," he confides later. "I went to a bar... I didn't drink,?but the fact I went, is what cause de trouble," he continues. He is holding a bottle with a healing balm that Mother Kali has given to him. The back of his head is swollen. He grimaces, clearly in excruciating pain. "This will help," he says, pointing to the bottle. "Never me again.... When Mother tell meh something, I have to follow it totally," he adds. An hour later I leave, the words of the wise ringing in my ears: "The ship that will not obey the helm will have to obey the rocks." Glenville Ashby is a New York-based journalist and author
