Morning at the Ebenezer Baptist Church

Atlanta is renowned as a beautiful city, pride of the South and the fastest growing city on the whole continent. There is a lot to see and admire in this antebellum city. However, the most important place to visit on a Sunday morning, whatever your religious belief, is the historic Ebenezer Baptist church founded 120 years ago. Martin Luther King preached here in his younger days and prepared himself for the leadership of the Black movement for racial equality. We were in the city because Evelyn had been invited to make a presentation in a medical conference. She was very busy but had reluctantly accepted the invitation. I did not have much to do and tagged along to carry her suitcase and provide company when she was not attending the events related to the conference.

I spent Friday and Saturday roaming around the downtown, gaping at the skyscrapers, visiting the sundry museums, and tasting wonderful southern delicacies in cafes and restaurants while Evelyn basked in the admiration of her fans. On Sunday, after a leisurely breakfast of coffee and gorgeous pancakes with heaps of butter and Aunt Jemima syrup, we dressed formally as we would to go to a church at home and headed for the ten o’clock service at the famous church. We arrived there half an hour early expecting a big crowd at the door. We were not disappointed; the queue went around the whole block. People in the orderly crowd were visitors to Atlanta, largely black women and men worshippers with a sprinkling of white spectators. Members of the regular congregation, cheerful black men and women of all ages, men dressed in their best suits and heavily made up women dressed in beautiful dresses and decked in colourful hats, were allowed to enter the church as they arrived. Fifteen minutes before ten, the doors were opened to the visitors. Fortunately, every one could be accommodated in the cavernous hall although every seat was taken by the time pastor and his assistants entered the podium with appropriate ceremony from a side door.

After spirited singing of traditional spirituals by the church choir made up of at least a hundred excellent singers, the pastor welcomed the congregation, particularly the visitors and asked those present to hold the hands of persons on their either side and introduce themselves. This done he asked every one to join in singing Amazing Grace. Fortunately the building was exceptionally well built and the chorus of more than a thousand singers did not bring the roof down in spite of their best efforts. Then the announcements of church activities for the next week followed. I noticed that many of them related to what would generally be considered the domain of the schools.

Now was the time for the sermon. The pastor was a short frail looking man with thick curly hair on a large head with a big nose, full mouth and jutting out ears. He walked on the podium from one end to the other, sometimes slowly, sometimes quickly, to suit the subject matter of the sermon. He held a microphone with a very long cord in his right hand and punched the air with the left. His booming baritone voice was pleasant to the ear. I don’t remember him to have stood still for a moment except for the time he stared at his captivated audience and chastised the men among them for neglecting their families; abusing their wives and the children and abdicating the responsibilities they took upon themselves when they befriended the women and got them pregnant. He went on to talk about the unfortunate consequences of rampant alcohol and drug abuse and chastised the youths wasting their time in frivolity rather than using it to build the foundation of a fruitful life. It was at this juncture that he told the story that made his sermon so memorable.

“My friends, you all have enjoyed the fabulous amenities hotels provide these days. You arrive at your destination. You head for a hotel, by yourself or with your friends. You check in, collect the room keys, go to the room, inspect the bar. You take what you want from it, order the room service to bring food and more drinks, charge the restaurant bill to the room and enjoy every moment of your stay. Just before check out time on your last day you pack and head for the checkout desk. The clerk greets you with a smile and presents you the bill highlighting the amount you owe for all the fun you have had. You look at it, the shock waves go through your body and you stammer that there must be some mistake. The clerk goes inside the office and comes out with several pages of a computer printout. Every item that you have consumed is listed on it. You go through it with a fine tooth comb. Of course you don’t find any errors and grudgingly pay what she asked for.”

Now he stood facing the audience, raised himself to his full height, raised his voice to match that of the thousand member choir we had heard earlier, “Friends, when you go to meet your creator in the next world and challenge Him when faced with the consequences of sins you have committed, there will be a computer printout of everything you have done in this life, from the day you were born to the day you die. There will be no escape, none.” Now he bent forward almost horizontal from waist up, his voice softened to a whisper and added as if conspiratorially in each ear, “It is you, my friend, you alone who decides what goes in that printout.” He paused for a minute for it to sink in and straightened up. “And now, ladies and gentleman, boys and girls, let us pray.”

I was unusually down hearted on the way out. The thought of a printout listing every act in my life scares me to this day although it does not stop me from actions which I repent no sooner they are done.

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Sad Story of a Novel

Jonathan – Jonathan please, not Jon – and Gloria have been our nodding acquaintances for quite a while. When we cross paths in the shopping plaza we exchange ‘hello, how is the family?’ and move on, often without paying attention to the answer. Jonathan is in his late sixties, a shortish, bald on top with a fringe of grey hair, a little overweight and always immaculately dressed retired business executive who helped oil magnets maintain their pull till he turned sixty five. Gloria, a stately blonde a little younger than her husband, was a school teacher before and after a long spell as the homemaker. After retiring from their professional activities a few years ago, they counted their money, thanked the Lord for their many blessings and decided to focus on gardening and their family for the rest of their days. But things have a bad habit of turning out differently than one wishes. Their only son had a stroke when in his prime and was found dead in the bathroom by his wife. They were shattered by the shock and grief at their son’s loss. It was eighteen months to the day when they recovered enough of their composure to appear in public.

Our lives have followed a similar trajectory except that our daughter survived her often fatal illness. Another difference was that we do not have a garden. What with golf and bridge, extrovert extraordinaire Monica has a busy social life and no time for gardening. Being a solitary type, I spend my spare time, which I have a lot of, reading business news and writing short stories and essays for my enjoyment. One or two of these have been glorified by the ink of the press. I am probably being more humble than many would be in my situation. The truth is that a collection of my stories was published a year ago. My occasional sensitivity is due to several unpleasant factors: the book was not deemed worthy of a review by any media outlet, only the odd bookstore stocked it and it sold only 47 copies, mainly to Monica’s friends and my ex-business associates. But most of the time I feel a certain pride in being a published author. Of course, my good wife encourages this sentiment. She regards it as a spousal duty to promote her partner’s ego and I am grateful to her for it.

Some six months ago Monica ran into Gloria in the local shopping centre. Ran into is a little bit of exaggeration since they managed to stop before colliding. Gloria beamed with delight when she recognized the face only inches away from her own, “Hello, Monica. What a pleasant surprise. How are you doing? How is the family? I have been thinking of calling you for a while.”
Monica responded to the torrent of words with her usual calm, “I am so happy to see you. It has been a long time. Every one is well at our end. Ravi is still writing. No one wants to publish his writings but he doesn’t seem to mind. Having a book published makes him content.”
“That is why I wanted to call you. My granddaughter Gale was rummaging on Marty’s computer to help Jennifer, her mother, in locating information on family’s finances when she found what she thought were the sketches of a book. Jennifer was not interested at all and told her to delete them. But Gale sent them to me before following her mother’s order. I am too old to be glued to the screen, so I printed it.”
“Did you read it?” Monica asked as Gloria stopped for breath.
“Of course I read it. It is much more than sketches, more like the first draft that needed finishing. Poor Marty was called before he could do it, much like Mahler was when composing his tenth symphony. The book needs an editor. That is why I wanted to call you. I am wondering if your husband can help me find one.”

Monica told me of the conversation when she got home. I gave her Alana’s phone number. Alana had taught me a Creative Writing course and did teaching and book editing to support her writing addiction. A month later, Gloria bypassed the middlewoman and called me directly.
“The editor you recommended did a great job, thank you so much.”
“I am glad it worked out.”
“She looked through the manuscript I printed out for her. All four hundred single-spaced pages of it. She says it has the potential of a big hit but it does need some editing.”
“Congratulations. Did she recommend you some editor?”
“She offered to do it. She said it will take three months to produce a version for the prospective publishers. I wonder if I should offer to pay her and how much”
“What did she charge for the review?”
“I did not ask. I thought she was doing it as a courtesy.”
“Gloria, this is what she does to feed and clothe her teenagers. You know how quickly they empty the fridge and wear out the clothes.”
After a long silence that disconcerted me a little, I heard “I should settle this account first before I proceed to editing. What do you think I should offer? Two hundred?”
“Editors, like plumbers and other tradesmen, have their rates. It probably took her a hundred hours. Twenty five dollars an hour will be twenty five hundred dollars, I guess. But I do not really know. I have never hired an editor.” I replied, hopefully overestimating her cost so that she was not disappointed when Alana dropped her bombshell.

It turned out that Alana had spent forty hours and charged her a total of twelve hundred dollars, taxes included. She also quoted a set price of three thousand for editing and preparing the final draft. Gloria was shocked with both numbers. The total sum was nowhere near what would have made a smallest dent in their budget, but spending anything more than a few dollars for a book was incomprehensible to Gloria and Jonathan. Gloria asked Monica if we could all meet to discuss her options. Monica agreed for us to join them for a drink at their residence the following Saturday afternoon. Monica warned me not to be a smart Alec as I often try to be and be helpful with anything they want to know. I caught the wind and made a list of useful contacts as well as gathered a few magazines with helpful material.

We were warmly greeted by the couple and escorted to the elegant lawn furniture in a beautiful gazebo surrounded by a symphony of colours. Jonathan popped the cork of an expensive champagne bottle wrapped in a sparkling white napkin and served it with due ceremony in Venetian flutes straight from the freezer. We toasted the welfare of both families and sat down on well padded cast iron chairs. Without further ceremony Gloria came to the point, “I checked around about Alana and her rates. She is highly esteemed by her colleagues and her quote was by far the most reasonable. I am sure that she is the best person to do it.” She looked me squarely in the face and added, “It was kind of you to recommend her. Now the question is – Do we proceed or not?”
It was a loaded question and my brain took a while longer to analyse the information than most computers would. I had not forgotten Monica’s instruction either. At last I opened my mouth, “It is a ..”
“The money is not the issue. The issue is whether the effort is worthwhile,” Jonathan felt his rejoinder was more important than my reply.
It was Monica’s turn to put her dollar worth in, “You can’t think of money when your child’s memory is involved. Only thing to consider is the best way to preserve it.”
“Of course it is. You hit the nail on the head, Monica,” Gloria chipped in.
“Do we publish the manuscript as Marty left it, or we let an editor mess about with it? The question I ask is this – Will it still be Marty’s book when Alana is done with it?” Jonathan asked looking towards me as he topped my flute.
“I don’t think …..”
I did not get very far before Gloria decided my opinion could not be of interest to any one. She had her opinion which was what mattered after all, “I am going to make sure that Alana edits, not rewrites. Every book is edited and most of the time you don’t even know who the editor is. Is that right Ravi?”
“You have…”
Monica had more important point than I could raise, “It is always a writer’s book and it will always be good for Marty’s memory. Gloria, Jonathan does have a valid concern – how much latitude do you grant Alana in editing?”
Gloria did not take the comment in the spirit it was intended, “I know what is involved. I did some writing in my teaching days and published several pieces in the community broadsheet. Jonathan does not have to worry on this score, or any other score if I may add. The most important issue to me is this – do we find an agent or do we look for a publisher ourselves? Ravi, how did you find an agent or a publisher?”
“I struck…” Again someone had better answer than I did. It was Gloria herself, “If we wanted to self-publish there would be no problem. But so-called vanity publishing puts me off. If the book is any good, finding a respectable publisher should be a piece of cake.” After a sip of champagne she repeated her previous question, “How did you do it?”
“As I was about to say…”
Now it was Monica who interrupted, “You can’t go by what Ravi did. A friend knew a publisher who was desperate for a book; novel, essays, stories anything. He had this grant coming, subject to meeting a quota. The friend sent him Ravi’s book which was the right size and did not need much editing. He rushed it to the printer, met the critical deadline and grant paid his costs and some. He had no budget for promotion, no contacts in publishing industry, no distributor, nothing. The book only sold a few copies, and those to our friends who only bought it to be kind. You need to do better than that. From what Alana says, you almost certainly will.”
I was deflated. I had nothing to say. No one wanted my opinion any more any way. I was relieved to see that the bottle was nearly finished. As if on a cue all of us got up. Gloria and Jonathan were gracious hosts. Both gave parting hugs to Monica and pumped my hands vigorously. Gloria was effusive, “Thank you for your suggestions this afternoon. They will help us a lot.” Jonathan added, “Of course they will. Now we know what to do and how.”

In the car I complimented Monica for her wise comments. I was miffed at the reception my comments received but relieved that Monica did not notice it. Neither of us was surprised that our hosts did not show any curiosity about my book.

I saw Alana in a writers’ gathering the other day. After profusely thanking me for the business she told me of the sad ending. When Gloria, bursting with justified pride, showed Jennifer the finished book, the ingrate daughter-in-law refused the permission to publish. “I suspect scenes of marital disharmony cut too close to the bone” said Alana as she turned to greet a prospective client.

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Swami Dharyananda’s Nastic Ashram

Muslims all over the world make their way to the mosque every Friday afternoon, listen to the Imam and pray. Christians do the same on Sunday and Hindus on Tuesday. Atheism, the fastest growing belief system if you can call it that, has no holy day. In fact the word holy does not find place in their book. May be it would have if they had a book. Let me call a spade a spade, there is no room for holy in their lives. I do have some sympathy for them. They have no place to go where a preacher strengthens their wavering faith, no guide book to help them through the vicissitudes of their humdrum life. They have to survive by their own wits, no divine guidance for them.

Atheist of the world, stand up and take note. Help is now available. No more of stewing in your own juice. Swami Dharyanand has seen the misery of his fellow atheists and devised a solution. It is so simple, so elegant; you would wonder why no one else thought of it. Could it be divine inspiration? Of course Swami does not credit divinity but inspiration it was, and he has spared no effort in making its realization possible.

Swami has set up an ashram in one of the most picturesque places in the world. An ashram you say! Is not an ashram where Hindu devotees of a saint go to seek peace and tranquility in his august presence? Well, it is. Only Swami Dharyananda calls his abode a Nastic Ashram; sanctuary for atheists if you insist on English equivalent. His idea is that the atheists who need support in any form, except financial of course, can visit him, spend time at the ashram, resolve the issues bothering them under his guidance and return rejuvenated to their normal lives enriched by Swami’s blessings bestowed after a donation appropriate for the severity of their problem with scant regard for what they can afford.

What took so long for such a crying need to be attended? Atheists are generally self-assured individualistic persons who hate to seek help however much they may need it. Dharyanand was no different till six calamities struck his immediate family. He could have borne them if they had struck simultaneously; with a lot of suffering but nothing he could not endure. But the statistical improbability though it was, they struck him sequentially, and without a break! Each suffering weakened his resistance and by the time last one struck he had reached the end of his tether. Fortunately for all other atheists he was able to garner new internal resources and survive what would have been a fatal stroke to most ordinary humans. It did lay him low though. He spent several months recuperating in the psyche ward and in the padded cell of a mental hospital. But Dharyanand was made of different stuff than most of us. He spent this time not in feeling sorry for himself as most of us would have but on considering what to do with the rest of his life now that all he valued had been snatched away. The enlightenment came with the last bump of his head on the wall over the patch where the padding had worn off a little. As he is fond of saying, its source was from within, not from above. There was no invisible finger pointing towards him sending a spark. It was an idea crashing into his sore head and causing a rather ugly bump. Being a man of action as well as of ideas, he jumped at the opportunity to put the idea into practice as soon as it presented itself.

On his release a few days later Dharyanand was greeted by his trusty accountant in the lobby of the asylum. For once, the old bean counter was the bearer of good news: the investments his late wife had left to him had grown substantially. Of course the news came with the suggestions on what he should do with his life now that he was free. But he waved these aside without hiding his contempt. After thanking the kind gentleman profusely he took a cab home. He was pleased that everything there was undisturbed except for a thin cover of dust.

He phoned a realtor he had known since they worked for the sanitation department. The ex-colleague had just what he needed; a section of farmland nestled in the foothills with marvelous view and no restriction on building. He sold all his possessions and acquired the farm. Within a few months the site boasted a building with modest private quarters for Dharyanand, a meeting room to accommodate fifty people, men and women dormitories with washrooms, a row of small rooms to serve as meditation rooms, a suitably equipped kitchen and a dining area. A small unassuming sign went up at the entrance “Swami Dharyananda’s Nastic Ashram”. Not many people passed the rustic road and there were no curious visitors. Of course no one questioned the origin of Swami or what the ashram was about.

The road was not destined to remain quiet for long. A quarter page ad appeared in a northern California spiritual magazine announcing the opening of the Nastic Ashram in remote foothills in Western Canada. “A sanctuary for those who feel uncomfortable in religious gathering places because of their personal beliefs but are in need to commune with like-minded individuals. For info www.nasticashram.com.” The hits of the website over next two days set new records. Before the magazine bearing the ad had dropped in the newly minted Swami’s mail box, flights due to arrive at nearby airports for several months were booked in advance and all rented cars had been claimed.

Swami is thrilled at the reception of his idea. He would have liked more local colour among his disciples but that can wait. However, he does find smiling all day while listening to Californian twang taxing and answering conflicting spiritual queries in a soothing voice vexatious. I wouldn’t be surprised if there are times he wishes to return to his former abode for the next inspiration.


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