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Lord of the big bucks

I've carried the coin around with me for six months now, and every once in a while, I've stopped to think of it. It's a fairly nondescript piece of metal, a 25-paise sized silver coin with Sanskrit text on both faces, with a dash of bright kumkum pasted onto one side and an om etched on the other. I remember well the day my grandmother presented it to me, as well as her words as she did so. "It is a gift, with the blessings of Kubera, Lord of riches."

I'd heard of Kubera alright. Mostly in Amar Chitra Katha, where he was dutifully planting bags of gold and silver in the backyards of woebegone simpletons, or yanking the million-dollar rug out from under arrogant merchants. By and large, he'd left me alone, and as that thought passed through my mind, I simply shrugged my shoulders, in that universal gesture of uncomprehending acceptance that nevertheless clings to hope. Maybe now ...

I just smiled and put the coin away in my wallet. Like many others of my generation, I've learned to acquiesce in the religious habits of family members without actually participating in them. "Sure patti, if it makes you happy, I'll carry it around." Over the years, I've had cat's-eye rings, silver bracelets, simple threads of cloth, and sundry other cookies from the religious pantry. The correlation between these accessories and my personal happiness or fortune has remained unclear, possibly leading to my conviction that these things are not quite what they are made out to be.

I'm sorry to report that Kubera has wrought no noticeable change in my fortunes. The academic pursuits have never been particularly lucrative, and Kubera's contributions have not made things different by any stretch. Still, the small mercies do count, and the simple freedom to stop watching my checkbook regularly has been sufficient grace. I've languished in the moderate economic spas of Kubera's kingdom, and while I have not been privy to his many riches, I must count myself among those to whom he has been no worse than indifferent.

Perhaps this is just as well, for in his generosity I might have found myself confronting a larger dilemma, the rationalist's scepticism at the inexplicable. Equally, in his parsimony, I might have found cause to distrust him, without even knowing that he existed. The constructs of our heritage don't always fit nicely with the learning of our times, and if Kubera hasn't altered my fortunes greatly, at least I have been spared the effort to align the asynchronous worlds.

The paradoxes have remained with us as long as we have pondered the theological questions. Raised on a diet of worship and praise that paints our gods in virtuous and compassionate light, we necessarily resist the thought that misfortune might be God's will for anyone. What kind of God would strike down the blameless for no apparent reason, we ask ourselves. In our stillborn children and stricken lives, we find no place for the gods of our splendid imaginations, and yet we cling to our theories of the cosmos with conviction.

Karen Armstrong's A History of God chronicled the evolution of semitic thought about gods, one which in many respects could apply to any people. In an elaborately researched work, Armstrong recounted the evolution of human notions of god in great detail, and in the process, documented the consistent thread in all early human faith. Our gods, first and foremost, must serve our purposes.

A god that grants no wishes is doomed, for we could not recognise him by his power. A goddess for the crops, a prince for the netherworld, a treasure-trove guardian for riches, every one of these gods served the needs underlying them. Without them, they might be mere mortals. And yet, recognising this hasn't stopped any of us from marveling at the poetry in our anecdotal observations. Kubera, whatever his influence over my finances, is alluring precisely because I yearn to rejoice in his generosity, not to confront him with his parsimony!

And so the dreams and the myths remain, creating a powerful cultural medley which is alluring yet hazy. I cannot help but wonder if the power of my grandmother's prayer has been insufficient to move Kubera to grant me a better standard of living. Yet I also remember a time when I was poorer, less healthy, and worse off in many ways that a thousand prayers did not solve. And all of this while I question his very existence.

This morning, as always, I biked the few blocks to my office in the University, and passed many familiar faces along the way. At the last stop light on my way, as I waited for the light to turn green, I sighted the homeless man lounging against the pole at the corner. I've seen him often in recent days, and occasionally pass him a quarter to help him along. He smiled at me and uttered the familiar words he always uses -- "Spare change?"

I started to say no, but then the most beautiful thing happened; I remembered the coin. Had its miracles in my life ended even without a noticeable beginning, or should I wait for them? Would Kubera mind if I parted with it? Caught between the fear of tarnishing the reverent and the mischievous hope that Kubera would understand, I simply looked at the man a long time as he hailed with his familiar greeting.

Deciding on an impulse, I dug my hand into my jeans and brought out the coin. Carefully, and even a little reluctantly, I pressed it into the palm of his hand, and wished him a nice day, feeling both sorry and silly at the same time. The lights turned green, and I started to move on, and as I did, the man looked at the shiny metal in his hand and called after me, "Hey, this ain't American". "Sure it isn't", I agreed, "but give it a few weeks, and you won't care. It is a gift from Kubera, Lord of the big bucks"

Perhaps the coin was little more than a dream I hoped for, and attributing anything it might achieve to the mythical prowess of an unseen hero reflects only my own flirtation with irrationality. But while it lasted, the questions it raised in my mind, and the answers I never reached, were a delight. Without understanding my visitor's extraordinary charm, I still reveled in its possibilities. So long, Kubera, thanks for stopping by.

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