Rhinocrisy

Since my sister brought it up, I suppose I might as well cover my “achaar as prasaad” theory in big, bold letters so everyone can read it.

The first obstacle in appreciating this theory will be unfamiliarity with its components. So, let me review, briefly.

“Achaar” is simply the Hindi word for “pickle”. You’ve probably consumed an Indian pickle before - they’re usually made with fruit of some sort and are heavily spiced, quite salty, usually tart and sometimes make your tongue burn with a righteous fire. I have been a fan of savory foods my whole life and enjoy eating achaar a great deal.

“Prasaad” is the Hindi word for “oblations”, and refers to a bit of food offered as a sort of sacrifice to God during prayer. There’s many problems with this arrangement, such as:

• Why does God need to eat?

• Even if God does need to eat, why can’t he/she/it take care of him/her/itself?
• Is there really any value in symbolically offering food to an omnipotent deity, especially when you’re going to eat it anyway right afterwards?

However, these are only problems for cantankerous individuals such as myself who just can’t wrap their heads around the idea of why God needs or wants to be worshipped in the first place.^* Anyway, that’s not the point: when in Rome, do as the Romans do, and when hanging around with normal, devoted Hindus, play along, even if you don’t find yourself quite believing in everything. Social utility is something I can appreciate.

Prasaad is usually something sweet. In fact, it is nearly always something sweet. Indians are quite fond of sweets and have managed to produce a dizzying number of variations on the theme of sugar, milkfat and flour. The appeal of sweets is quite clear: our biochemistry is based on the metabolism of simple sugars such as glucose or fructose. It’s sensible, therefore, that we’ve evolved a palette that appreciates and even relishes the taste of sugar. Most people love sweets and can gorge themselves endlessly on them.

Not I. I detest sweets. I suspect my palette is a little oversensitive to sugar. I usually react by having strange sugar rushes and mini-seizures when I try to eat something sweet. Un-pleasant!^†

Follow, then, my logic:
We’ve already established that anthropomorphic concepts of God are in order. I’m not prepared to accept this premise, but it seems to be the mode, and so we will take it as given. Wisdom suggests that presenting God with sweets is worthwhile because God, like us, would enjoy eating some sweets. Why? Who knows.^‡ But if hubris is the way we’re operating, why stop at an anthropomorphic God? Surely I should consider a God even more reflective of my ego - a Saurabh-o-morphic God, as it were.^§ I don’t like sweets, I like achaar. Maybe God wants achaar as prasaad, as well.

My theory has merit. There’s almost universal agreement that the world is, generally speaking, a shitty place to live. Most theories of religion blame this on an evil genius of some sort, but it’s at least as likely that the fault is that of endless millions of worshippers, who have for thousands of generations been forcing sweets onto an unhappy and possibly lactose-intolerant God. If we merely corrected our transgression, I predict that a rain of petals would be our reward.

^* I previously described my difficulties with worship here. I’m certainly a fan of awe and humility before the vast, beautiful and unpitying Universe, but I still don’t know how to jump from there to the idea of worship as useful.

^§ Such a god would presumably refuse to be worshipped, would respond to prayer only infrequently, would often leave His stereo blaring upbeat, danceable rhythms across the heavens, and would occasionally manifest in gargantuan, terrifying forms, knocking over buildings and eating random civilians, just to show you-all what’s what.

Recently a bunch of cranks of the Save-me-Jebus variety reappeared in Central Square. I’m torn between two conflicting desires. One is to rend them mercilessly for their sheer stupidity; the other is to minister to them, like wounded deer, and coax them away from their folly. No doubt they see me the same way.

But I’m somewhat jealous of them, because I have never felt the “holy ghost” in any particular way. My parents are very religious, and I had a pretty traditional upbringing. I have a pretty good understanding of my religion and its praxis, but I’ve never, ever felt moved by it. It’s such a foreign sensation to me that I can’t imagine how anyone else is moved by it, either. When I see others in fervent prayer, singing the praises of God with their hands clasped together and their heads bowed reverently, I can only believe that they are faking it. They are pretending to be transported by the act of praying because they know this is what is expected of them.

Not that I’m particularly atheistic - I don’t reject religion, per se, and I don’t disbelieve in the existence of God, mostly because I’m not cocksure enough. But I can’t precisely believe, either. I’ve never felt the immanent presence of God, the sensation that God is real; rapture, in other words.

The closest I get is when I look at the sky. A clear blue open sky, with pure white clouds floating in it like lazy giants, pierced here and there by a ray of sunlight: that makes my breath catch in my throat and lifts my soul up to the extremities of my body, so that I feel like I might float away for sheer joy. Then I can believe that Dyaus Pitr is there, that beauty is an undeniable testament.

But that’s not the mode of worship I learned. The roof of my temple would be the vault of the sky, its idols would be jutting mountain peaks, its oblations rivers and fields of green, its lamp the orb of the sun. Not some rude chamber constructed by mere humans, with icons shaped by hands no more able than my own.

Maybe I lack the imagination necessary to translate the one into the other; maybe that is a faculty others do possess. It’s unfortunate, since apparently (as I read in the Srimad Bhagavatam) devotion is the only path left to salvation in this wicked age.