Chicken poop for the soul

Chicken poop for the soul
Renuka Narayanan

A glitzy little shop in expensive Khan Market in the green heart of Delhi. Fashionable Page Three ladies are buying Feng Shui crystals to divert trouble, one from a court case and another for general luck and well-being. Thousands of rupees are spent in buying two little baubles. The shopkeeper is reincarnated as the Guru. His old father chortles quietly in the corner.

I think of what a reputed jewellery dealer told me years ago. My father's sister in Chennai had given me a beautiful pair of òf40óvaira thodu (diamond ear studs), made from a set that belonged to my great-grandmother. But my Athai was troubled. She'd been told that one of the stones had a òf40ódosham, a malefic defect. "Perhaps you ought to throw it into the Srivari Hundi at Tirupati," she fretted. This from a fiercely intelligent, Oxford-returned fan of cinema noir and Strindberg, who'd been a card carrying Commie in her youth and quit the party in fury at the Soviet rape of Hungary in 1956. But she spoke out of concern for a beloved child -- "just in case". So I promised to have the òf40óthodu checked and the faulty stone replaced.

I hiked off to an old Delhi jeweller whose shop I liked visiting to gawk at all the pretty things. He knew I was no customer but kindly humoured my curiosity about òf40óratnapariksha, the evaluation of gems. When I consulted him (rather self-consciously) he admired the ear rings and offered to buy them if I felt uneasy. "What about the òf40ódosham?" I stammered. He laughed. "Madam, do you really believe in such things? It is a useful business idea, no more, no less. In the old days, the raja-maharajas had these superstitions and we bought and sold to our profit. Now the public also has this mania. Why should we discourage them?"

Giggling, I went off to the Chinese Art Palace in Connaught Place, where the shop owners were equally indulgent. There was an exquisite jade bowl that I could never have bought in cold blood but adored looking at. I'd stand wordlessly near the cabinet and the shop owner would smile, take out a key and unlock it. I would carefully take out the bowl, admire it every which way and hand it back. I didn't need to òf40óown the bowl: it was enough to know that such a lovely thing existed and I could peep at it sometimes, in a solitary and private ritual.

The Chinese consider jade extremely lucky and will go to great lengths to get the right kind. But, a jade story my Athai once told me (from Mignon Eberhardt, I think), teaches that to understand a thing is to own it --without the bondage of ownership. A young man went to a great master to learn about jade. The master would give him a different piece to hold each day and discourse gently on theatre, music, philosophy and poetry. He never said a word about jade. This continued for a long time, until the young man's impatience got the better of him and he rudely asked the master when he would teach him about jade. The master smiled understandingly and promised he would the very next day. When the young man came, he was given a piece of jade to hold as usual. He leapt up instantly, protesting, "òf40óThis is not jade!"

It's normal to want soul support. But why must we dread bits of carbon and coal as `malefic'? Are we to believe that a loving God would stoop to such paltry tricks? So why taint a sapphire or diamond needlessly? Why not engage a good doctor or lawyer, if in trouble, and just pray directly to God for success? God's Name is the only lucky charm we need. Everything else is business.