Of Shamans and Lobbyists

Trip to Washington, D.C. yesterday– and thanks to the overpriced but convenient Amtrak shuttle from NY to DC, I was in an out of the nation’s capitol in a day. I was there to attend a briefing on the state of human rights and religious freedom in South Asia… and, of course, to network with the officials there, especially in regards to the Kazakhstan situation.

Anuttama Prabhu was out of town, so I had to fly solo on this mission. That worried me a little. For some reason, I feel uncomfortable about the whole Washington D.C. vibe. It is hard to explain, but somehow I feel like all the hand-shaking, card-passing, and back-scratching is just a bit too surreal for me. Media in New York I can handle, but get me in a room full of DC lobbyists and politicians and I suddenly end up with sweaty palms and a stutter. This opportunity was too good to pass up though, so – with butterflies fluttering in my stomach – I arrived in D.C. shortly after noon.

Anuttama had instructed me to wear devotional clothes to the event, and (since I hate traveling in a dhoti) I had to change at Union Station. I remembered the last time I had to do the “Clark Kent into Superman” routine in a restroom at Union Station – not very nice. So, I decided to take a chance and went into a nearby Express store. After browsing around for a bit, I asked the young guy folding polo shirts if I could use their fitting room. He agreed, and a few minutes later, I stepped out of there in a dhoti, kurta, and my trademark Nehru vest. (Hey, just because you are dressing in devotional clothes doesn’t mean you can’t do it with some pizzazz.)

Since I still I had to freshen up my tilak, I had to visit the men’s room anyway. As I stood in front of the dirt caked mirror and attempted to draw the straight lines on my forehead, a disheveled old Black man staggered into the restroom. His eyes were a disconcerting yellow and red, and he stopped and stared at me for a few minutes before he began muttering to himself unintelligibly. I tried to ignore him and concentrate on my tilak, but he continued to stare and mutter. Finally, he came up close to me and started speaking slower and more clearly.

“Some kind of shaman… This is some kind of shaman…”

I ignored him again and tried to fix the tulasi leaf at the bridge of my nose. Now he questioned me directly.

“Are you… are you… man, are you a shaman? You’re a shaman, you’re a shaman aren’t you?”

I glanced at his reflection in the mirror standing next to me. His face seemed genuinely intrigued studying my hand’s movements as I drew the sacred U-shaped symbol on my face, and – now that I noticed it – he looked a bit awed. The other people in the restroom went about their business, either oblivious to our exchange or pretending not to notice. Faced with a direct question, I answered simply and quietly, addressing my response to the reflection.

“Something like that.”

The awe on his grizzly face seemed to intensify, almost morphing into a look of delighted terror.

“I knew it! You’re a shaman! Oh man, a shaman! A shaman! Hey, hey… hey, is that magic? Is that real magic?”

I finished up the tilak, and rinsed off my hands.

“That depends,” I said, turning towards him for the first time. My eyes locked with his and I looked deeply at him, trying to penetrate his gaze. “Do you believe in magic?”

Speechless but excited, he stepped away backwards as if a wave had just crashed into him. He kept watching me, his eyes wide, as I walked out of the restroom and out towards the metro.

Later, while on the metro to Capitol Hill, I thought about what the man in the restroom had said and how he had reacted. I couldn’t help but smile. Sure, I was goofing around and messing with his head a bit. But maybe there was more to it than that. Maybe I did possess some magic, some untapped shakti, that I could draw on. Maybe, if I could just be here on behalf of Lord Caitanya and the paramapara instead of my own ego and insecurities, I could get through this day. Suddenly, I didn’t feel quite so nervous about working that room full of politicians anymore.

The meeting went well. I made some important contacts and got into some interesting conversations. I passed out my card and stated my case with confidence and ease.

And then I took the train back, one of many harried commuters on a night shuttle back home to New York. Among the businesswomen in smart suits and attorneys with their ties loosened, clicking away on Blackberries or reading Harry Potter novels to unwind… unbeknownst to them, a sleepy shaman with his hand in a bead-bag and his eyes struggling to stay open.