Dying to Be Me (5 page)
Authors: Anita Moorjani
The vermillion streak that the mahraj dabs on each person’s forehead signifies the opening of the third eye, and I always ensured that I got my red streak each time I went to the temple.
Because of my Hindu roots, I grew up to believe in karma and reincarnation. Most Eastern religions are based on these laws, believing that the purpose of life is to raise our consciousness and spiritually evolve through each cycle of birth and death to the point of reaching enlightenment. At that point, we break the cycle of birth and death and no longer need to reincarnate into a flesh-and-blood body. That state is called
nirvana
.
Thinking about this sometimes made me anxious, so I was careful not to do anything that could possibly create negative karma in a future life. Even as a youngster, my mind continuously processed what could be construed as creating good karma versus bad, as I tried to perfect myself against a barometer created by my cultural beliefs.
My Hindu religion also taught me that meditation and chanting are two of many methods commonly used to cleanse the mind of impure thoughts and assist us in our quest for enlightenment. Meditation helps us develop the awareness that we’re much more than our physical selves. So as I grew older, I was already aware that we’re more than our biology.
In contrast to the Hindu traditions I learned at home, my early education began at a Catholic school run by nuns. And by the time I was seven, I’d already started to learn the impact of cultural and religious differences. The school was housed in a beautiful, expansive old building that was three stories high and crowned with a lovely domed chapel. The school also happened to be conveniently located within short walking distance of our home.
On my first day, I wore my new uniform with great pride. It consisted of a crisp white pinafore and a navy-blue blazer with a smart red emblem on it. I felt really good about myself because when I entered the school grounds, I saw all the other children dressed the same way I was. The uniform gave me a sense of belonging. We started each day by singing hymns, which I also thoroughly enjoyed.
“How come your family doesn’t go to church on Sundays?” my classmate Joseph wanted to know one day, after I’d been attending school for about a month.
“Because we aren’t Catholic. We’re Hindu and we go to the temple on Monday evenings,” I said.
“You need to tell your parents to take you to church to pray to God every Sunday, otherwise you won’t get to heaven when you die,” Joseph told me.
“Are you sure about that?” I asked. “Because if it were true, I’m sure my parents would know.”
“Of course I’m sure—just ask any of the others in school. Or even better, ask Sister Mary at our next Bible-study class. She knows the truth for sure. She knows what God really wants!” he persisted.
I liked Joseph. He seemed to care and really wanted me to go to heaven. So I took my question to Sister Mary, and needless to say, she reiterated my need to go to church and study the Bible if I wanted to win God’s favor. She kindly offered to help me understand the words of God.
That afternoon when I got home from school, I decided to talk to my mother about what Sister Mary had said.
“Mama, my friends and the Sisters at my school say that I have to go to church on Sundays, and I have to study the Bible if I want to go to heaven when I die.”
“No, Beta,” my mother said. “You don’t have to worry about that. Just tell everyone at school that we’re Hindus; and when you’re a little older, you’ll study
our
scriptures, the Vedas. People from different places have different faiths. You’ll come to learn that after we die, we’re reincarnated into other circumstances.”
“I don’t think the kids in my school are going to buy that,” I said somewhat sullenly. “And I’m scared. What if they’re right? They can’t all be wrong. How can the Sisters be wrong?”
My mother pulled me close and said, “Don’t be scared, Beta. No one really knows the truth—not even Sister Mary. Religion is just a path for finding truth: Religion is not
truth
. It is just a
path
. And different people follow different paths.”
A
LTHOUGH TEMPORARILY COMFORTING, MY MOTHER’S WORDS
didn’t completely alleviate my ongoing fears. Over time, my apprehension over not conforming to the religion of my peers grew worse rather than better.
I wanted Sister Mary to tell me that I could still get to heaven even though I was Hindu, but she wouldn’t give me the assurance I was looking for. From what I’d learned at school, I understood the grim fate that awaited those who didn’t make it.
What if God decides to come for me while I’m sleeping? Sister Mary said that he’s everywhere and knows everything. That means he knows I haven’t been baptized!
So I lay awake at night, not daring to sleep in case God took that opportunity to show me the fate that awaited those who weren’t in his favor.
My parents became more concerned by my anxiety and my sleepless nights. When they realized that my fears were getting worse and not better with time, they decided to have me transferred at the age of eight to the Island School.
Just a little cluster of six buildings and surrounding grounds, this British school was nestled in the hills of Hong Kong just above Bowen Road. It was more secular, and at that time, the students were mainly the children of British expatriates who either ran the government or worked in the multinational corporations that helped to build and develop our city.
The school itself was lavish, beautiful, and state of the art for its time, with science and language labs, an experimental zoo, gymnasiums, and swimming pools. However, as an Indian child in a predominantly British environment, I continued to struggle. Most of the other kids in my class were blond with blue eyes, so I was often singled out and picked on just for being darker skinned and having thick, dark, wavy hair.
My mind was filled with thoughts such as,
I wish Billy would stop calling me names like “Sambo”!
In addition, I tended to be the last to be chosen for teams and was rarely asked to join in and play games. The other kids also took my things when I wasn’t looking, such as my books and pens.
Such behavior made me feel lonely, sad, and dejected, but I held back my tears in public and cried into my pillow when I was alone in my bedroom at home. I didn’t even want my parents to know that I was being bullied because I didn’t want them to think of me as a problem. After all, they’d already made me change schools once, so I kept pretending that I was adjusting well and was really happy.
Even so, one specific incident had a strong impact on me. I was sitting in the canteen, minding my own business and eating my lunch, when Billy, who’d just finished, got up from his seat diagonally across from me. He picked up his tray of leftovers, and as he walked past me, deliberately spilled the trash on his tray straight into my lunch.
Everyone sitting around me burst into peals of laughter. It may have been only a handful of people who noticed what Billy had just done, but it felt as though everyone in the room was laughing at me.
I felt a huge rage rise up within me. I’d reached the point where I’d had enough. I was sick of being called Sambo, being the last to be chosen for teams, being picked on, and having my belongings taken from me. I just couldn’t take it anymore.
I stood up with a jolt, picked up my cup of sweet orange soda, and turned around to face Billy, who was now also looking at me and laughing. I looked at him square in the face, and poured the drink over his head!
Now the entire room did burst out laughing, but thankfully, this time it wasn’t at me. They were looking at Billy, standing there with sticky orange soda dripping down from his hair and running all down his face and clothes. He looked a real sight, but I was too scared to laugh. I was afraid of his reaction.
Billy glared at me with so much anger in his eyes that I felt as though they were boring holes right through me, and I didn’t stick around long enough to see any more of his reaction. I ran. I bolted out of the canteen like lightning, went into the girls’ washroom, locked myself inside a toilet cubicle, and started to cry. I cried because I knew what I’d done was out of character for me. I wanted more than anything to fit in, to be accepted and liked. I couldn’t change my skin color or race, and it made me feel so helpless!
Why am I always different, wherever I go? Where do I belong? Why don’t I feel like I belong anywhere?
I desperately wanted to know as I let out deep sobs, crouched inside the small cubicle.
T
HANKFULLY, AS
I
GOT OLDER AND
entered into my teen years, the bullying eventually subsided. However, as my classmates started to gain independence, I found my parents becoming stricter, particularly when it came to going out in the evenings with my friends, and especially if boys were involved. Going out with boys was frowned upon in our culture, so I was rarely able to attend our school youth evenings or go out on the weekends with my classmates.
As a result, I never felt that I belonged. I always felt left out when my classmates talked about their weekend evenings at the youth dances, laughing and sharing stories. I watched them with envy, and so wished that I wasn’t Indian. I was left to focus on my academic studies instead and kept to myself most of the time. I spent countless hours locked inside my own world, and I had very few friends whom I was really close to.
My parents continued to try their utmost to indoctrinate me into our own culture and to have me meet other Indian people, but I pushed back against their attempts.
“I don’t want to go to
Vedanta
class,” I proclaimed to my mother one Saturday when I was about 13. Vedanta is the study of Hindu scriptures, and I used to attend weekly lessons where I met other Indian children.
“Then things will be more difficult for you as you grow up, particularly when you get married. You need to know what it means to be Hindu,” my mother told me as she fussed with my hair.
But I don’t want to be more Indian! I want to be more like my classmates!
I thought. Aloud, I told her, “But I want to go out with my other friends—my friends from school. They don’t have to attend Vedanta class!”
“Your father and I want you to attend, and that is all there is to it,” she said.
I still wasn’t convinced that I wanted to be a Hindu, but as a good Indian girl, I obeyed my parents’ wishes. Over many years, my Indian friends and I met at our classes every week to learn the ins and outs of our faith. I found the Vedic teachings in and of themselves to be interesting and stimulating to study. We had a great teacher who encouraged discussion, which I was very good at. I was a popular member of the class, which was in sharp contrast to how I felt at school, where I so desperately wanted to fit in. I felt as though I were leading two separate lives.
How I wish I could merge everything and be as popular at school as I am with my Indian friends,
I often thought.
Why can’t my schoolmates see in me what my Indian friends see?
As I got older, I became more and more interested in the intellectual aspects of the study of Hinduism. I actually enjoyed studying the Bhagavad Gita and the Vedas, learning about cause and effect, destiny versus free will, and similar topics; and I loved the discourses and debates we had on these subjects. Also, I prayed and meditated, because I felt it cleared my thoughts at that time. There was much about it that actually made sense to me, even though many of the beliefs of my culture didn’t seem rational, such as suppressing women, expecting them to be subservient to men, and arranging marriages against people’s will. Nowhere is any of this stipulated in the Vedas!
Despite my exposure to such a broad range of cultures and religions, nothing prepared me for what would transpire in the years to come. Little did I know that all my previously held beliefs, perceptions, and philosophies were going to be blown wide open and shaken to their very core. Long before that, however, I was still challenging my culture and traditions as I moved into adulthood and searched for balance in my life.